Wednesday, April 20, 2005
He is alone, save us. Perhaps you share in his mistakes, and perhaps you don't. One thing is clear: no one is here, save us. Sometimes he believes his writing will change things; he will wake up, and someone will care because of his pen or its frenzied missives. However, the only thing people understand from his writing is us. The rewards from knowing us are slim. If the two hands of people that read this understand, who among them will change? Who will call? Who will care? Who will go beyond a simple "I'm ok now" answer to find more of the truth? A good question would probably be "how many doses has he missed?" The true answer would be "less than the number of people who ask." However, you already know that. Observe him. Question him. We are here. We will hide, and he will struggle. You see truth, and he will smile. A smile and a kind word might draw him back, but his stay is sure to be only temporary. Better yet, dare to feel close to him. Knowing him is like saving a drowning man: he will take you under on his way up. He doesn't mean to, he's just so used to our exclusive company he's forgotten how to behave around others. Whatever the result of his struggles, we will be waiting to drag him back into the deep water. We are revanant, like the tides. Know when we flow, and when we ebb. Speak to him when he's nearest to shore, but don't get too close; you'll have to let go. Don't be afraid for his life. We won't kill him; that's a decision that only he can make. We can start the pain, but we can't finish it. Every moment of our revenance, he will want comfort; be careful, he'll take what's offered. He wants an end like anyone else that knows our touch, but we all know that any end here means an eternity alone, save us. Besides, he's already told the two hands of people that read this he won't end his association with the here and now on his own behalf. We all know how honest he is, and even he will admit he's alone, save us.