White snow blankets the ground, covering the earth in its purity. Innocence. It drains all passion and warmth from everything it touches. People reduced to huddling bundles of fabric. Trees reduced to skeletons. The world to outline and shadow. Only the innocent themselves can enjoy the snow. Small children shape their imaginations into white crystal, as pure as the snow they stand in.
Innocence is a sin. Pure snow hides the worlds true colors, disguising and disfiguring the truth. Ice crusts onto the things that are most important, distorting their shape, making it impossible to see reality. Innocence must be scraped away, chipped like icicles from off the truth, melted by the heat of life's sun. Innocence, like snow, causes nothing but heartache, is nothing but lies. Though the colors are hidden, they are not changed. Truth cannot just be forgotten. Reality can not be ignored. Not without a heavy price. And that price is your innocence.
Innocence is a sin. Pure snow hides the worlds true colors, disguising and disfiguring the truth. Ice crusts onto the things that are most important, distorting their shape, making it impossible to see reality. Innocence must be scraped away, chipped like icicles from off the truth, melted by the heat of life's sun. Innocence, like snow, causes nothing but heartache, is nothing but lies. Though the colors are hidden, they are not changed. Truth cannot just be forgotten. Reality can not be ignored. Not without a heavy price. And that price is your innocence.
You've beautifully described the distance that comes when we ignore the details; When we blissfully gloss over the sharp or dark or colorful edges of mortality. When we numb our feelings, flake by flake, and insulate our minds and hearts to experience that is life. With words you've painted our self-rationalized barrier. The glass wall created by cognitive dissonance that Festinger described as decreasing propinquity. We instinctively wrap ourselves in layers of mental insulation, desperately clutching at every distraction for our eyes and minds. We grasp any protection from the cold, uncomfortable, razored edges of reality. Eventually we build walls and stand firm in fortress of our deluded convictions. But still we hurt. Silent and alone we ache for something, anything that will chip away at the ice surrounding our hearts ... my heart. I've mistaken my protector, my champion, my solitude. In doing it I've locked myself in a prison built with my own hands. There is no sin in the clearest water, no sin in the heart of the pure. True innocence nurtures purity and from purity grows joy. I've mistaken ignorance for innocence.
ReplyDeleteYour comment was really lovely, as lovely as any poem. Thank you for the insight and the experience.
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