The Adventures Of John B : The Sacred Stone

Part 30 - Never Meant To Be.

am i a good character?

maybe.

but that doesn't necessarily mean i'm a good person.  i don't believe in that sort of thing anyways.  because you can't truly be good without some bad in you, it's the only thought that distinguishes the villain from the hero.

the fact that you are flawed, that i am imperfect, makes us perfect characters.  it makes us humane and personable.  humanity at its finest.  for us, there is always the potential to grow.

the fact that we are like everyone else, mundane and basic in this systematic society, is the very thing that makes us different.   you are not special, and so in that- you find your own speciality. because everyone is different, but to be all different is to be all the same.

we are all just people aimlessly wandering, frantically struggling in a world that cares little of our fate, of our life, of our cares.  a cruel world that either accepts us into a brightened, exclusive group of luck, or tosses us to the unknown that waits beyond- waiting for us to be ripped apart by hopeless tragedy and the feral reality of our existence.

someday, when we look up to the sky, perhaps we will find a wonderful canvas of blue that lacks clouds.  someday, when we look down to the earth, we will find mirth in seeds that have been planted carefully, waiting so patiently for the chance to spring from their dark prison and cry out for the salvation that has awakened them from their caged slumber.  one that has not yet been stained by the greedy blood of our ancestors.  someday we will look to the shrubs and bushes and trees, and watch them twirl and sing and dance without a care for the world.  someday we will see the beautiful winds wipe away our tears, taking any trace of this sadness with their colorful swirls, like a paintbrush stroking light across luscious greens.  we will find ordinary people, young and old, black and white and tan, rich and poor, pretty and ugly.  steps will be taken as last breaths will be inhaled, the cycle of life's precious joys being gifted to one and lost to another.

or not.

perhaps some day the world will be a barren wasteland, devoid of life or joy or happiness. devoid of the humanity that had so desperately tried to shape it, the meticulous curves of man losing shape in the process.  the world will be rid of green, trees and shrubs weeping their tears from high above, hoping to revive what has already been lost so long ago.  to revitalize seeds that have been dug up and tossed away, drifting with the weak, dull winds.  colorless winds that carry the tears, not wipe away.  stroke after stroke of gray hitting the canvas until there is no color at all.   there will be no feet imprinted upon the land that humankind had once greedily claimed and pridefully controlled.  breath is gone with the blazing sun.  it still rains.  losing one thing has only created more of another.

what do you see in a world where there is no sight? what do you hear in a world where there is nothing to hear? what do you touch in a world that doesn't feel?

is the world really better in any of these places?

or is that what you've been taught to believe?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the minuscule turtle lousily scampered over my hand, the gentle taps of his webbed feet - a source of reassurance in a troubled existence.  

i slowly turned to john, giving him a somber smile before kneeling to one of the murky puddles that i had created.  it was finally my turn to clean up the mess i had made, no matter how small.