Every breath we take as imperfect humans should be dedicated to a higher power, so some will tell you. What matters though is that you believe in something, no matter what it is.
Your Creed; your Canon; your Tenets: is not anywhere that you will ever go, or anything that you will ever do. It should be a part of you; something inside. That is what faith is: believing in a power you can’t explain and trusting it’s right.
The people or ‘followers’ of a creed are its foundation in many ways. Without such people, creed exists, but only in hollow, clipped phrases that have essentially been over-used, and an idea or principle that should be felt. Without humans, there is no feeling. Hence there is no emotion- only reason; leaving what was once faith, blind philosophy.
Perfection has never been a part of humanity. It never helped in the individual decisions of this world. Having not fallen under that absolutely charming verity; many have lost all possible fortitude for deceit and idiocy. Yet how can they direct shortcoming’s bitter, frosty finger toward someone else when they are, in essence, one and the same
I refuse to be labeled with any color, least of all RED.
This world is chock-full of regrets, mistakes, and a fallible reminder of our invisible components. In a way, all humans possess a selective invisibility, able to shield one’s self, not to mention everyone else, from that familiar list of failures and humiliating indiscretions.
Invisibility is a helping hand in a cruel, unforgiving existence. Imperfection is a hindrance; the ability to see color in a colorless world, or taking one’s life without regret. Or better yet, imperfection is the absence of guilt.
At times, trust is let in, though it is rare. All that it touches is somehow invisible. If one at least tries, then their mistakes can easily be overlooked. Yet sadly, few have true empathy, and every day it seems to fail them further.
Really though, their recovery is entirely possible, lying solely in the sight of their error: that pointing fingers will only give you a sore arm, and holding some petty difference against a person, especially when they’re unaware of it, is completely futile.
Not a soul has yet to discover a word that truly articulates the pain one endures from iniquitous treatment. In all likelihood no one ever will. But it’s bearing is slight, for the survivors of this verve of smog, starvation, and hand guns have a responsibility. One of life’s contracts is to search for the lost. Happiness has become lost. With the exception of few, humans are not TRULY content.
Somewhere there is a thin red line; acting ever so lightly in movement. I’ve just accepted its veracity; only to cross it.