Weight

It falls hard, through the incessant reminder of where I am. Like many before me I am in a familiar place. It is a gift to be able to see beauty in the grayest of circumstances. A gift I often wish someone would give me. The lights of the city are heavy. I try to run from them but escape is futile. I learn to bear the weight. I position myself in a way of optimal "comfort". As I sweat bearing the weight of the incandescent rays of the city I realize I am not alone. Somewhere out there, there must be another fighting against the urge to buckle. His knees shaky, sweat dripping down her face, a tear of both sadness and pain passes his cheek. We are a multitude of armies of one.

Snapshots of those discharged flash past my eyes. I am torn between want of one or the other. I fear that it is probably like a lot of other things. When in one location all you can think of is what it is like in an opposing one. God must cry when He see's that. He must long to scream and just point out the obvious that He see's. However He is wise, therefore He says nothing. For a child does not learn to walk by having their father move their legs. No, he lets go of the seat of the bike, and never has a pocket vacant of band-aids.