Sometimes the ugliness gets to me. I'm drowning in the pain. I feel the righteous anger for someone else's story, hurt at another's great injustice, so I write. I write and rant and writhe but do not publish. For the story isn't mine. My rantings bring no healing, just catharsis for my own small soul. The world is not moved. They say fight fire with more fire, but wouldn't water be more effective? Sooth, wash, wear away not with more sandpaper, but with rushing streams.
So I look for my own story, what I own among the glories, what is common to us all if only we would look. Try to leave the world a little lovelier despite of all the ugly, all the controversy, all the clever arguments I so would love to win. I already know that I am smart. Does that mean I must be angry? Does the dwelling on the injustice make it somehow dissappear? So I write, and do not publish, should the wrath grow to consume me. Write and rip (or press delete), and make peace with another day.
Linking up again with Lisa-jo Baker et. all for another Five Minute Friday.