S m a l l. w o r d s

you thought it was just your mind.

thoughts and illusions peeping out like naive children out of tall windows.

you thought leaving the desperation of needing to be somebody would leave the world still in tact.

what does one voice matter? this you whisper over an arbitrary crowd, masses falling like mindless heaps of sugar.

you wonder about the art hanging silently in the back of some foreigner’s wall, a quote someone scrawled in an alleyway, the truths we live by —

Because somebody chose to be somebody.

Because one human realized that one human is not enough. And yet all there is. To engender any change.

you wonder about those people who did make a difference. Who did badger themselves with the restless temptation. to be. Nothing other than themselves. To let go of the obsessive walls clotting merely their own breath. To stop wondering, to start being.

This you see, through a shuttered window. It seems the world must wait to hear the fastening of your song, what untying must be arranged, what gathering must be strung upon each note —

How long must they wait?

No, to be yourself might not be serving up your heart in the limelight of this unforgiving world. Yet — in the depths, you sense you have something to say.

And isn’t it just the small worlds of small men that have stood behind small crowds. Uttering the smallest of things? Wasn’t it them, who changed one man, and in so he changed the next.

perhaps even bringing life to those craving death. by merely knowing intimately what that craving is. so upon one life, nobody is then small. upon the insignificance of all that is not, we call, a bird song —

In the roots of morning, upon the listlessness of features we know too well, to plead just one man’s case against humanity. To share something strangely nourishing to the masses, waiting hungrily.

And if each of those men had chosen not to share, chosen not to be the glory of all that is created within the confines of their mind —

What indeed would the world be?

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