One of Us

"So in the Libyan fable it is told
That once an eagle, stricken with a dart,
Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft,
'With our own feathers, not by others' hands
Are we now smitten"
(Wisdom of the Ages - Aeschylus)

Haven't we caressed those scars left within and without and wondered of the hands that smote, the words that marred. How we tried to fend them off, but unkind words cut the deepest. Awash in shame and loss, we realised what a lonely business life is turning out to be. Not that help was not at hand, it was just out of grasp. Too proud to seek, we rolled with them punches. Now as dawn breaks, and we caress our bluish jowls, we realise what we should have always known.
It's the swipe from the one you knew, the closest, that has cleaved the deepest.

Then there are the ones amongst us, soaked in self-righteousness, offering to lead us, the astray. Advice not reckoned for, or solicited. As smearing a burn with scent, the foulness lost for the injury to worsen. The same act plays out in various garbs all round. The woman violated, is offered neither solace nor justice, but the antipathy otherwise reserved for the suicidal. As if, unbenknownst to her, she tempted woe upon herself. Or the commoner, wronged by the mighty, served nothing more than a pious dose extolling the 'hand of fate'. We wonder for a moment whether it is the perpetrator or the placebo that has caused the most harm.

What we'd give for us to be with nobody but ourselves, none to confer with, none to intrude. The vast expanses within that would sponge up all that's thrown at us.

For deep within ourselves lies a well-spring of content. Of hope. Virtues that have healed us many a time before. As they would this time too.

We wash our souls with it, and live, to fight another day.

Chin up.