Thursday, July 30, 2009


I wish I had the words to make everything go away for you.
The heartbreak, the constant obsessions, all of it.
I love you, even though I don't know you.

There are times when I have this bonding with people, sometimes just strangers walking by. It's not like I can see everything they've been through. . . I can just feel it.

Maybe it's because I've been through crap too. Or maybe it's something God put in me. Maybe it's a gift.

If it is, it hurts.

When I was younger, I'd sit in the backseat of our car and watch the houses roll by as we drove. There were feelings I'd get, not about certain houses, always, but just feelings about neighborhoods or whatever. There was a sense of something that went on there. Someone crying. Someone beaten. Someone starving, cutting, hoping, praying, dying.

Maybe it's because I've felt that. Maybe it's because I wondered if anyone saw it in me that I learned to see it in others.

This is to them:

You are a masterpiece. You are broken, beaten, bruised but still a masterpiece. I wish I could say something, anything that would make it go away. That would make it at least better. Listen, you are loved. If not by them, then by me.
I'm sorry the church at the corner meets every Sunday and talks about "reaching the world with the gospel" and then drive right past your house. They don't know you're looking through the shades at them in their pretty little Lexus bubbles. They have no way of knowing you're holding on to the bottle with the pills that will end your life. I wish they would take a chance and try to find out though. I wish they'd step out of that church and stop being oblivious. I don't know. I'm sorry.
We haven't done a good job. I haven't done a good job. We pass you by because you're too broken, too abused, too alcoholic, too anorexic. You are not. No one can be too much of anything. Especially loved which you have none of.

I still don't know what to say.

We've failed and you're still without hope.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes 'Aww!' " -Jack Kerouac


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