viernes, 22 de febrero de 2013

We humans can be wretched creatures, but not without hope.

More than anything, there's filth. Filthy words, filthy stares, filthy scents and filth, filth, filth. It's all rotten to the very core, so much so that anyone wanting to save it would find himself wanting. Short of cutting off the roots and planting a new seed, there's naught to be done. It smells like stale air and stale promises, moldy like bread under the rain. And there's so much that was promised. Life, love, changes for the better, security, a family maybe, a home. All gone, all broken by a windy gust.

I used to believe we'd share the world, but now we try to rip it from each other's mouth -that is, when we don't try and rip each other's throat-, and soon there will be nothing left but ashes to share. And yet, I, ever the believer, want to create a space of peace in all this whirlwind that surrounds us, because still there are reasons why my heart skips a beat, there are things that make me swoon, even in the backseat of an old bus, even alone. I planted my roses and hoped against hope that they would grow roots strong. Am I mistaken for thinking there's still a chance we can be happy? Am I foolish?

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