Dear lonely isle,
Sometimes, when we feel really brave, we take out matches and play with fire.
Maybe we feel like we have something to prove, or just call it folly.
Maybe, sometimes just maybe, you have to ask yourself, do you want to get hurt that badly?
Children who play with matches get burned, children who play with stoves burn down the house.
Children who play with fire crackers lose an arm.
So, if we did want to hurt ourselves, why do we stop at matches?
Might as well take out the building while we're at it, and who needs two arms anyway?
Some people like to cut themselves just to watch themselves bleed.
But they are not to be confused with those who slit their wrists and go have a lie-down in the running tub.
So why?
When you've lighted all the matches in your hand, and are trying very carefully, to not burn your fingers, feeling perhaps a bit invincible, you often find you end up burning your skirt.
Which you then try to put out with your hands, and upon failing to do so, jumped into a pool of mud.
And at the end of the day....really, why did you put yourself through all that?
It hurt, didn't it?
Even when you expected it, it still hurts, somehow.
And like the foolish general in a losing war, you throw your remaining troops against the unstoppable tide of the opposing force, thinking it would somehow, when you got to the bottom of it, in a deep hole somewhere, it would matter.
But does it?
A little chicken once thought it was the end of the world.
But the sky never fell.
Possibly, long after it dies and even when its bones become bleached by the ground, the sky still wouldn't have fallen. Yet.
Sometimes, it feels like everything will somehow always be alright.
When in fact, it isn't alright.
Its only alright, because you've accepted what will be, and that...is alright for you.
Sometimes, when we feel really brave, we take out matches and play with fire.
Maybe we feel like we have something to prove, or just call it folly.
Maybe, sometimes just maybe, you have to ask yourself, do you want to get hurt that badly?
Children who play with matches get burned, children who play with stoves burn down the house.
Children who play with fire crackers lose an arm.
So, if we did want to hurt ourselves, why do we stop at matches?
Might as well take out the building while we're at it, and who needs two arms anyway?
Some people like to cut themselves just to watch themselves bleed.
But they are not to be confused with those who slit their wrists and go have a lie-down in the running tub.
So why?
When you've lighted all the matches in your hand, and are trying very carefully, to not burn your fingers, feeling perhaps a bit invincible, you often find you end up burning your skirt.
Which you then try to put out with your hands, and upon failing to do so, jumped into a pool of mud.
And at the end of the day....really, why did you put yourself through all that?
It hurt, didn't it?
Even when you expected it, it still hurts, somehow.
And like the foolish general in a losing war, you throw your remaining troops against the unstoppable tide of the opposing force, thinking it would somehow, when you got to the bottom of it, in a deep hole somewhere, it would matter.
But does it?
A little chicken once thought it was the end of the world.
But the sky never fell.
Possibly, long after it dies and even when its bones become bleached by the ground, the sky still wouldn't have fallen. Yet.
Sometimes, it feels like everything will somehow always be alright.
When in fact, it isn't alright.
Its only alright, because you've accepted what will be, and that...is alright for you.
Someday, when I die, they will write on my tombstone;
Here lies a person who did things just to be proven wrong,
for rest she could not, be satisfied she could not, till she was proven wrong.
Here she lies, for at last, she felt it was not possible that she was mortal,
and stood in front of a moving bus,
just to be proven wrong.
for rest she could not, be satisfied she could not, till she was proven wrong.
Here she lies, for at last, she felt it was not possible that she was mortal,
and stood in front of a moving bus,
just to be proven wrong.
Incidentally, maybe she played with matches, thinking she couldn't get burned.
love, Joyce.
love, Joyce.
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