05 October 2008
I Feel For You
They keep telling me not to pick the scabs. Not to slowly pry those oozing, dried-blood bits from my shoulder, wincing at the final rip-off point. Not to welcome the scars. But I don't listen. Because I think, once in a while, everyone needs to be reminded of pain. I'm not a masochist; I'm really not. But I have a healthy appreciation for feeling. In this same way, I do stupid things to remind me to feel, that I can feel, how exactly I do feel. Because pretty often, the way we really and truly feel gets trampled on by self-preservation or egged on by dramatic circumstance. But if you look back on the things you've lost, and peel the metaphorical wounds just a little bit, you can tell which scabs are still raw, and which have transformed into practically faded scars. You can call someone on the telephone just to hear their voice, and that sound can send you nearly to tears. Or, conversely, you can remember all of the good times you had with someone, and suddenly realize just how meaningless and empty they all were. I think it's healthy to measure, sometimes, just how much certain things hurt, if they still do. Just to know the status of your weak spots. Just to know you're still alive. In other news, isn't this both hilarious and sad at the same time? What in the world is our nation coming to? I feel like people are progressively getting more and more complacent, and less and less likely to question what politicians hold out in front of them. In yet other news, I'd like to recommend the song "Babylon" by David Gray and the song "The One I Love" by David Gray, since those are the two songs I've been listening to pretty much nonstop since last night. I think that second video is really rather cute. Last piece of news for the early afternoon is some self-reflection: Have you ever seen anyone stare at food with a complete and total hunger in their eyes because they haven't eaten for at least a full day? Have you seen someone sit with their hands wrapped around their knees, a little bit wired up on caffeine, refuse to go ask for that food because of pride? And then have you seen that proud exterior crack, and shatter shard by shard? Have you seen the despair of someone who has come back from a failed attempt at begging for food? I think it would break your heart, because it broke mine. (And I hate the people who try to call this pity, because it's not pity. It's a form of empathy, where you immerse yourself with their feeling. You don't look at the person and go "Aw, poor dog, he has no food." You look at the person and go, "I am trying to imagine what this must feel like. I am trying to put myself in your place. I want to help you, because I can see how difficult this must be." There's a fine line of difference, and don't try to tell me which one I feel. I know which one you feel, and you should be ashamed if it's the first one. Because these are people we're talking about. And yeah, I have no respect for the bums who sit and scream out drunken soliloquies in front of McDonalds, and have no plans to try and become better. But I do have respect for the ones who have some sort of a plan, are making some sort of effort, or just have some sort of non-materialistic philosophy, because it's something I wish I could have.) So next time you see someone really, honestly working for that money (and who says musical talent, real talent, isn't a form of work? Would you want to sit out there all day, wearing out your fingers, getting rejected by person after person?) give them some change. Even if it's only a few pennies. Because you know that, deep down, you can afford it. You can give up that candy bar. You can fill up that unused water bottle. You can help people. You can help yourself. You can pick your scabs, and you can survive the resulting tumult of emotion. You can spare a minute to feel.