I'm bipolar. I blog about it. I also blog about sex, theology and atheology, funny shit and sad shit, books, music, feminism, and love. Mostly love.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Along the lines of forgiveness

is a parallel line of hatred. They both extend forth, seemingly endlessly. On, on, on... until a rather ominous wall stops both of them. The wall is hard to see for some until he's right in front of it. I think it depends on how fast you're moving. If he were to go slowly, he could see these things better. Both lines, like roads, begin with wildflowers on either side, and a sunny breath of air whipping them around at the stems. There is a sweet smell, perhaps from the flowers, and perhaps from joy. One can smell joy on the line.

If one were to move quickly, that person would not notice that ahead, one line remains clean, with only a few potholes and dark clouds. The same person would not notice that the falling clouds erased the road behind them with each step--a fog then nothing. Not blackness, but white. A bright light that blinds. Looking back, then forward, would leave blue dots on his vision for the next few steps.

And if another person, on the other road, were moving quickly she would not notice that there was a great deal of gradual darkness ahead of her. She would be moving so quickly that she would be struck by the darkness, bewildered, and disoriented. She would find it hard to see. Although the darkness was gradual, one who is moving so quickly would not feel the creep of night down their spine until the night was completely upon them.

She may stop a moment, the fog hovering directly behind her. There would no longer flowers on the sides of the line. The comfortable, country dirt road would have turned to muck, a deep pool of brown sludge that pulled one's foot down with insistent hands. She could see, only a few yards off, that the other line would be hovering also, as if waiting for her to leap over there. It is so much brighter, yet none of that light would shine on the line of hatred. It is a spotlight on a distant stage. She would try to sprint across to the other side, but her feet would be stuck in the mud, and she would trip into a scratchy bed of weeds. There would be a snake in the grass, and she would scramble back onto the road from whence she had come. Covered in mud, she would cry... but no one can hear you in the dark when you are on the line. You have to scream loud enough, you have to fight hard enough... but she had lost the will. She crawled on.

She became accustomed to the mud--to the darkness. It was part of her. She found happiness in small things, but she could not deny she was shrouded in black. If both the man and woman reached the end of their lines at the same time they would come to a wall. They would have slowed down after a while, as is customary of human-nature.

And looking directly up from the very definite and serious brick wall the very old man and woman would see brightness. It would blind the woman, but the man would feel it's warmth and smile at it. It was a brightness the woman had forgotten about--she hadn't seen it since the beginning of the road. This brightness would lift them both up. White waters would wash away the mud from the woman's body. She would lose sight of the man, but he had moved farther than she. In the water she could see thousands of men and women's bodies being cleaned by the ethereal waves. It was peaceful, in a way. But disconcerting. Care was a foreign concept.

*Photograph: "Picaso" by Cory Smith

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