
Pretty Words
“Honor, integrity and respect.”
What pretty words. Each a poem in and of itself. Together... a talisman of hope and a promise; a wonderful idea and a sweet dream of the goodness in others.
But such is not so.
Pretty words, yes, but hollow and without substance. They are an idea, and no more. Some cling to the idea and try to live their lives according to the dream. But the dream is like a dark cloud that holds no rain... it promises to sprinkle small drops of life but never actually waters the earth.
I see the ghosts of these words stalk among the people I care for and adore. I marvel at the fluidity of the ghost's movement and the unwavering attention they give to the living creatures they attend. I watch in awe as the ghosts try to make solid impact on a world that they are not a part of.
Then comes the inevitable. The living creatures attended to so freely by these ghosts fall prey to the true mortal world and in doing so exorcize the ghosts back to the dream world from which they were spawned. Only then do the mortals realize that the pretty words are merely that... words; Guttural sounds without meaning... pneumonics worth little more than the ink used to scribble them down.
Honor - a scent on the breeze... a fleeting hint of something with no discernable origin or destination, and most certainly not something that could be captured and kept.
Integrity - a fragile snowflake... a thing that no two people have ever seen in the same design and that cannot survive the heat of a single breath.
Respect - a shadow cast on darkness... a thing that should be there, that one wants to be there, and yet cannot be discerned but in the imagination.
Pretty words from a funny thought that provokes no laughter. Dream your dream. Dance with your ghosts. I would dream such a dream myself, were I able to sleep... were I able to dream. I would sleep away my whole life should I be able to dream myself into a company of these ghost players. But I lay awake, tossing in my bed, wanting the dream and unable to find it with open eyes.
Tend your ghosts as they tend you, and I pray you not to wake.
“Honor, integrity and respect.”
What pretty words. Each a poem in and of itself. Together... a talisman of hope and a promise; a wonderful idea and a sweet dream of the goodness in others.
But such is not so.
Pretty words, yes, but hollow and without substance. They are an idea, and no more. Some cling to the idea and try to live their lives according to the dream. But the dream is like a dark cloud that holds no rain... it promises to sprinkle small drops of life but never actually waters the earth.
I see the ghosts of these words stalk among the people I care for and adore. I marvel at the fluidity of the ghost's movement and the unwavering attention they give to the living creatures they attend. I watch in awe as the ghosts try to make solid impact on a world that they are not a part of.
Then comes the inevitable. The living creatures attended to so freely by these ghosts fall prey to the true mortal world and in doing so exorcize the ghosts back to the dream world from which they were spawned. Only then do the mortals realize that the pretty words are merely that... words; Guttural sounds without meaning... pneumonics worth little more than the ink used to scribble them down.
Honor - a scent on the breeze... a fleeting hint of something with no discernable origin or destination, and most certainly not something that could be captured and kept.
Integrity - a fragile snowflake... a thing that no two people have ever seen in the same design and that cannot survive the heat of a single breath.
Respect - a shadow cast on darkness... a thing that should be there, that one wants to be there, and yet cannot be discerned but in the imagination.
Pretty words from a funny thought that provokes no laughter. Dream your dream. Dance with your ghosts. I would dream such a dream myself, were I able to sleep... were I able to dream. I would sleep away my whole life should I be able to dream myself into a company of these ghost players. But I lay awake, tossing in my bed, wanting the dream and unable to find it with open eyes.
Tend your ghosts as they tend you, and I pray you not to wake.