On the Stand

“Silence.” At once the room fell still. “Are you so sure in your conviction of this man that he is a criminal without just cause? Do we not owe it to him to hear him out and grant him a fair and just trial, just as our Lord and Savior has done for us?”

More mutters grew from the crowd—-mutters of shame and piety as all but a few hands moved in the shape of the Cross. -- excerpt, personal writings

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Many times in the life of an individual are things done that he immediately regrets; yet nothing can be said for the past. It is what it is, and it defines who we are. What he can do, however, is take what he has left in his hand of that crumbling dream and piece it together into something more bearable.

I am quickly approaching that age where the person I have become will no longer be able to change. I've seen it already. I've experienced things that I would to God I had not, and I've said and done things which I've wished with all my being, some even while they were happening, that they had and were not. What a pitiful soul I've become! What a wretch of existence, I tell myself. And all the same, is it not a self-curse? Has it not been one broken dream after another that has lead me to such a poor existence? What can I say for myself, except that I hate it all. I hate me, and what I stand for, and what I don't stand for, even.

I hate the who I've become, and the who I've not ever had a chance to be. I hate the lies I've told, and the loves I've sold. I hate the people who've broken me, and the me who's broken people.

I detest to the core of me, and yet there is not one way into that shining city; there is not one small crack in its silver walls that will let that hatred consume me wholly. And I hate that even more.

I hate that I have to say I'm sorry, and I hate that I can't bring myself to it. I hate that anyone could forgive me so easily, and I hate more that I can't forgive myself.

I hate that I lost you, so long ago, that I didn't say anything, and that I don't know still if anything would have saved you. I hate that I never tried, in the least, and I hate that, even now, I'm still losing. I hate that: losing. I can't stand what it does to a person. I can't stand what it tears from the very soul, those shards of innocence that even my own self-hate can't glean victoriously.

So all in all, I hate myself for not being the person I could be, and also for failing to rise to the occasion.

Give me another chance, and forgive me my misgivings. I'll try again for the love that I lost so carelessly years before, and I'll try again to laugh. You whom I know now are a new caretaker. You are a new friend, a new chance, a new beginning; so water me with love and understanding, and I will grow to the tree that shades you, and others, in the desert sun.