The Adventures Of John B : The Sacred Stone

Part 20 - This Feels Like We're Just Starting Over.

Do you ever wonder why.

Why the sun shines so valiantly across the land, lighting up the world, not by obligation, but by design?

Why the flowing winds whistle so vibrant a tune, washing over the silent plains of grass to form a vivacious ripple until all that is left is the harsh tranquility of our raging thoughts, the gentle torment of our sullen minds?

Why the affluent rivers, a kind gift of nature's wilderness,  refrain from the battle of opposition and give way to the equilibrium of a single, flowing, gallant beauty of all the water in the world?

Why we all have the instilled instinct of selfish survival, and yet, when digging deeper, the given duty to lift others above ourselves?

Why I'm so afraid of beauty, of the possibility of its sudden disappearance?  How it can leave so quickly, only to show the ugliness that's been hiding beneath all along?  To see the truth, the miserable truth; that beauty is only supported by the undefined ugliness of the world.   

Does that mean I'm afraid of ugliness?  No.  I'm afraid of how beauty configures and determines my definition of ugliness.  Because, what is ugliness anyway?

Is it the sin of war, the way people rival with the pettiest, most self-centered motivations in mind?  Is it the truth of a falsehood, how we shun what is right and just, to see what we want to see, to regulate how we shape the world?  Is it the pouring of blood, the way it so effortlessly seeps through the cracks of our mind, engraving the smell in our nose, the feeling in our fingers, the rich red in our minds?  

We'll never know.  That's the fear.  There's no way to know at all.

Why feelings can be so old and so freshly vile at the same time?  How I can be so incredibly happy as tears stream down my blemished cheeks, how I smile so perfectly in the face of affliction?

Why we look so deep into someone that we overthink what has been simplified for us all along, situated and confirmed by battered appearance, or an unnaturally divine beauty?

Why we give way to the invading, uninvited doubts of the human mind, a cluster of pestering, meddlesome thoughts attempting to lead us astray?

Why we all have an inner designated purpose, our fatal appointment, the numerous limits and boundaries of providence?

Why you, so pretty and glorious in all your delight, a gift from the gods, were created with destiny in mind?

Why I couldn't be your felicitous destiny, your precious purpose?

Why you, the epitome of heaven, couldn't be mine?

Why there was never enough time, why we couldn't take the time, why we couldn't start over?

Why, if I saw you standing there, lonely as you'll ever be, I would do it all over again, knowing the tragic end?

Why I have no girl in my head except the one that wanders so effortlessly around my dreams and disappears so easily?

Why you're so beautiful?

Why this infectious disease has spread through every limb of my sick body, and yet the ailment fails to keep me from smiling, happy as can be?

Why they gave you to me, such malevolent intentions pushing them to the edge until they had no choice to lash out at the one they created?

Why they hurt us?

Or was it just me?

Why I love you? So simply and so beautifully that it hurts to overcomplicate the three words that I fear most?