up against the wall [Penguin]
Aug 11, 2018 8:42:43 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Aug 11, 2018 8:42:43 GMT -5
∴∴∴
don't ask what you are not doing
'cause your voice cannot command
in time you will move mountains
and it will come through your hands
∵∵∵
don't ask what you are not doing
'cause your voice cannot command
in time you will move mountains
and it will come through your hands
∵∵∵
I think about how I could have reached out.
Neela's desk sits empty in the front of the room, and it reminds me of all the times I'd walk past her in the hallway, or we'd sit next to each other in class. There were entire days she'd hang her head down, and she'd tell me she was fine when I asked her if she felt okay, even if I could tell she wasn't -
and that's where it stopped, wasn't it?
It's okay to be upset. That doesn't mean you're being a burden, I'd said to her before, but words were easy to utter and hard to believe, and - I suppose it's natural to wonder, just when it's too late, whether I could have done anything more; whether she thought herself to be all alone in the world, when she died.
The last time we talked, she'd asked - what I thought it took, to be heroic. A hero's gotta have something worth sacrificing, she told me. All the stories are about people who could've had power or money or stuff, deciding to do what's right instead of taking it. But most of us never get that sort of choice.
I think we do get these choices, so many little ones that most of the time we don't even see 'em there, and - maybe we try and grab the ones we see, but it's not enough. Not enough for the times you know you ought to say something, but you don't know what to say, and when you've finally found the right words time's fluttered past you already. And it's easier to think you can't change things than to think of every time you could've but you failed.
Choices, of what I could've said to her but didn't. I wish she'd known - that she didn't need to make sacrifices, or to put others above herself, to be worthy of being a person. That she deserved to live, too. And I don't think she can hear me, whereever she is now - but I still end up staring into that distant sunset, long after the workers have gone home from the factories, too many thoughts running through my head.
We watch those moments on television, the moments when the story of each tribute ends - but what of the ones who carry on, in the districts? I pull at a spool of thread from the lace machine; as it unwinds its gradient shifts, from red to orange to yellow.
And people have their weak spots, too, just like the fabric we weave. We always try to shift the spots around on important clothing like Peacekeeper uniforms, so that the Capitol doesn't complain about them wearing out in the same places all the time. Even then -
I examine another one, green fading into a violet-speckled blue. We're all just thread, aren't we? Scraps and bits all pieces together, and you figure out that if you spin the plies tightly enough together maybe you won't pill or come apart -
"Hey. Sorry. Were you using this?" I set it down and turn to the girl. "Didn't expect anyone to still be here, this late."
lyrics: through your hands - joan baez
