Desperate…

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I was desperate to make him see that everything that he could be, everything that he had taught me to be, was everything he had forgotten.

But each time I pointed to the heights from which he’d fallen, he called me blind.

Each time I sang the songs we used to call our anthems, he declared them out of tune.

Anger flared in my eyes as I surveyed the injustice; as I watched a good man being torn down by shadows. I was angry for him.

But anger made him feel attacked, tears made him feel superiour, silence made him feel self-conscious and ignored, words made him draw out his rusty sword and fight a battle of needless defence.

Each word of love was rebuked as charity. Each smile fed his self-pity. And soon enough he deemed himself cured and standing tall. He declared himself surrounded with friends and support.

And I watched him, as he swept his problems under the carpet and stood tall in pride and low in wisdom. I watched as he surrounded himself with words that glorified a person he hated; himself. I watched as all his lies turned to hard iron, like his face, like his eyes. He stood like a Victor on a battlefield where his own purpose lay dead.

And I cried and pleaded for him to see it. And I hurt more than he did at his own heart’s demise. But can a being force another to love themselves? Can I push truth into a mind that thinks it is full, or offer help to a man who thinks he is not drowning, but surfing the waves?

In return for my love of him I recieved mockery, hardness and twisted words. My motives were doubted, my advice ignored, my love not receieved.

I am not Saint, nor do I stand innocent in anything, but for the grace of he who is Perfect. But I do know this: I grieve terribly over this loss. And if I could I would forget every wound he created for the sake of saving him. But I cannot. And he will not.

I mourn over a lost friend. And more so now then ever before, for not only is he lost to me, but to himself as well.

And all I can hope for is that one day he shall turn desperate.

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