Friday, March 4, 2011

The House of Strangers

And I don't know where we're going, I can't even say where we started, but we can hope that it's better than here. We'll take all that we can carry, everything that we hold dear, and we'll forge something better for ourselves. We'll take the music that plays in our minds and transcribe it in the sky, then we'll float to the heavens and dance in the clouds. And the words that drift through memory will be scrawled onto bits of paper; the poems of our hearts.

And should there be things that we need forgiveness for, we shall see that we have found our redemption in the smiles that we give to passing strangers. Everyone who meets our eye takes away some small part of ourselves in those smiles, so we know that should we die, a part of us lives on the memories of those moments, in those people whose faces we shall forget. For the eyes are the doors of the soul, and while something of ourselves leaves through them, it enters into the other person who catches our glance, and nestles into their heart, if but for a moment. And we'll find that wherever we may go, we are not alone. The world is full of people carrying around minute parts of others. We are all houses for the kindness of strangers.