Sunrise peers over the lip of the land like a long lost
friend, When dark of night haunts us, we always revert, seeking those who
touched us closest first for comfort and warmth – and remains true all these
years later with all these sad days between back then and now, those hopeful
times when we all assumed we could change the world, when time teaches us it
the other way around. A few manage to keep their pledge, fewer manage to tread
water and keep from being changed too much, still fewer manage to stay the same
and only a handful, a desperate few, do what they set out to do.
Those are the great ones, evil or good, the killers and the
Christs, who leave their mark so firmly on this planet we cannot forget them,
those who cut off their ears or drink the poison, to live on through their art
or their philosophy, the people who grasp the world in their claws to elevate
it or break it to pieces, who are so consumed by what they need to do they have
no room for anything else and can only do that one thing before they climb onto
the cross and move on to the next task the universe assigns them.
Few can be so consumed and not think of other part of life,
we need or want, that art itself becomes a sole existence, worked for every
waking movement of every living day, not bothering to wonder if anyone will
recognize or remember them later.
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