I’m good and I’m ashamed with myself. I’m glad, thus my joy is covered in guilt. I wish I were better than this and feel sorry, and compassion, and sorrow. But I can’t, it’s the fallen human in me that prevails this time. The saint is dormant and can’t beg you to stop before getting hurt.
I wish I could show you how this ends up badly, the mess you’re in and the lack of perspective. I wish I could stop you from all the wrong turns and twists. Still I can’t, not yet, not now. I don’t know how to overcome the irony and amusement, and really pray for your landing on your feet. How do I ask God to mess up your plans before they mess you up for good? I know I’ll regret it later, I know I’ll wonder if I don’t partly bear the blame.
I heard someone say you were in a hurry. And I suddenly imagined you running barefoot on the rails, towards the speeding steam-liner. And I can’t yell at you to step aside, I don’t even want to be there to pick up the pieces and put them back together. I so wish I were better.
There’s an angel on my shoulder with a good piece of advice: stop! And there’s a devil on the other with something really cool: push! I guess the only decent thing I could do is not think about it. Ignore, not pray at all. At least I wouldn’t go subhuman.
I wish I were bigger than me. I wish I were better… But I’m not.
(02 mar 2018)