The hour is early but I am awake anyway. I get out of bed, knowing that
sleep will not return until that night. I find myself awake before the
others. I saunter outside for a calming smoke. I take a seat on a small
wooden step facing the street. The sun has risen and the morning dew is
scattered on the ground. So much beauty is facing me and I don't know how
to react. I become part of the scene, and a part of nature. I am a part of
God's world, I feel included. This place is common. I come here everyday
and it is only now, after ten years, that I realize its beauty. I must have
overlooked it before, but now I feel the love that the community thrives
on. That day, I found God when I found beauty in a small, common place. I
never knew how beautiful the city could be, how quaint and awe-inspiring.
If I wanted to speak I couldn't have, no words could convey my feelings. My
heart felt full of love, and I knew God was near. I was included in God's
world, the scene was there and it was only I who saw. I was one with the
nature surrounding me. I was one with God. Even now, when I close my eyes I
can see the beauty, and feel the emotion in my heart. I found a rare
splendor that day, and knew then that God's presence was to be felt. I woke
early that morning to see that scene, and my belief in God was justified.
I felt God that morning in a place I never thought I could find him, and in a place I wasn't looking.
It wasn't until later that night that my freshly found revelation became pure folly. I was walking through Manhattan and admiring all in front of me. It wasn't until I looked around that I noticed the loneliness that exists in New York at night. A beggar woman, depressed and filthy, holding a bottle containing sugar and water to a screaming child. A factory worker walking home, hands tucked in his pockets, and bare feet drenched in fatigue. A bloody wreck of a boy, with emaciated limbs and a tarnished form. A boy trapped in a world of repetition and agony, a boy with a motto that things can only get better from here, a boy who wouldn't know how to react if they didn't, get better that is. The city streets hold a boy who is trapped and alone. I am reminded of that beauty I found earlier, that serene and calming beauty, but then I see him crying on the stairs. Shy and defeated, Blink brings his knife to his wrist. I run towards him with hopes of his future, but he knows as well as I do that he is trapped, we all are. We was beat when we was born. That beauty dissipates as I hold his dying body in my arms, as I feel his blood soak through my shirt. I clench his body with all the power I have left. The sobs coming out in between loud chokes and mumbled words. His bright smile cluttering my mind, as my eyes see only the anguish. He breathes one more stroke of air, and his body, along with my faith, falls limp in my arms.
The beauty is alive for him. He sees it now in all its splendor, and it can never be destroyed by the disturbing reality. He is wise to it, as I once was. But now he is no longer trapped. No. Now he is free.
I felt God that morning in a place I never thought I could find him, and in a place I wasn't looking.
It wasn't until later that night that my freshly found revelation became pure folly. I was walking through Manhattan and admiring all in front of me. It wasn't until I looked around that I noticed the loneliness that exists in New York at night. A beggar woman, depressed and filthy, holding a bottle containing sugar and water to a screaming child. A factory worker walking home, hands tucked in his pockets, and bare feet drenched in fatigue. A bloody wreck of a boy, with emaciated limbs and a tarnished form. A boy trapped in a world of repetition and agony, a boy with a motto that things can only get better from here, a boy who wouldn't know how to react if they didn't, get better that is. The city streets hold a boy who is trapped and alone. I am reminded of that beauty I found earlier, that serene and calming beauty, but then I see him crying on the stairs. Shy and defeated, Blink brings his knife to his wrist. I run towards him with hopes of his future, but he knows as well as I do that he is trapped, we all are. We was beat when we was born. That beauty dissipates as I hold his dying body in my arms, as I feel his blood soak through my shirt. I clench his body with all the power I have left. The sobs coming out in between loud chokes and mumbled words. His bright smile cluttering my mind, as my eyes see only the anguish. He breathes one more stroke of air, and his body, along with my faith, falls limp in my arms.
The beauty is alive for him. He sees it now in all its splendor, and it can never be destroyed by the disturbing reality. He is wise to it, as I once was. But now he is no longer trapped. No. Now he is free.