Ordinary experiences will soon absorb the marrow inside the bone. It is enough that we carry the mind, the blood, the eyes that lose strength with the passing of time. Shed it all. Pull back each layer to reveal the nucleus. An imperfect, pulsating circle of purpose. Rise above the prosaic and the archaic.
It is not enough to know we are weapons. It is not enough to identify the enemy. It is not enough to be a brilliant strategist.
Martin is dead. He had an inviting smile, honest eyes, and olive skin that was marked with light scars. Something about him made it impossible not to want to fall into his arms. There is little else I can say, that would be considered flattering. During these moments, that is most appropriate.
It is that my sister counted him among her closest friends, that made it difficult for us to ever develop a rapport with one another. Both met through a gang they were initiated into, some time during early adolescence. There, they developed a love affair with meth, and briefly, with each other.
Recently, Martin voiced his frustrations with a life centered on crime. He desperately wanted out of that gang, and was determined to see his way into a more promising future. His decision was met with approbation and encouragement from everyone. The man had one foot out the figurative door, when he was shot multiple times, by a rival gang member.
One voice alone, cannot fill up the silence. A candle cannot light up the sky. Weathered hands cannot move a building.
Sister is a mirror, or a test, or an ugly amalgam of the worst traits every member of my family has ever possessed. When all that can be learned from her has been taken in, she will cease to exist. At this moment, maybe more often than I am willing to admit, I want so much to protect her from the void.