Lost At The Peak
I heard truth in the enraged words, and I bowed to the beauty hidden in the desperate screams. And the guttural singing of a tormented soul talked to me in bursts of pain. And I heard it. And the heaviness of it all talked to me in the untouched depths of my broken heart, shattered onto itself by the gravity of being.
It is with grave pain that I saw no one else hearing the truth. “It’s fine,” I said, “for they have their own truths, and they listen to the voices that sing in the perfect pitch of a painless life lived at the peak of the bell curve, and their words — the ones that sound empty to me — resonate with the lives of most — the ones that sound empty to me.”
And who am I to judge the emptiness or lack thereof of any life, and who am I to cry and pity others for their cry, and who are they to pity me for my pain and confusion?
I thank the tormented voices for their peaceful hate, for the message that otherwise would go unsung, for the voice to make so much noise in the tail of the curve, for screaming loud so I could hear, for a passion stronger than my legs, for unbroken pride of broken souls, for the courage they inspire. It can be done, is what they showed. These voices can be heard, is what they said.
The pain that persists is that the beauty of their acts is lost at the peak. But it’s not in me. It’s not in me.
