In which our hero reflects on a week, a Wednesday, and weeping....
There are no words to express certain frustrations. My peers attempt, through vain repetition of powerful and vulgar words, to express that which their vocabulary cannot grasp. I pride myself, perhaps foolishly, on being able to exhibit frustrations with eloquent verbiage. I am usually successful, having a wide and varied enough base of verbose vestiges to vanquish vile vehemency.
But in some situations my words fail. Syllables trip and fall out of my mouth forming incoherent babble as I grasp at straws, searching for the words. Anger and grief, clouding my thoughts in a morass of anguish and wrathful hatred. I try to think, speak, reason, but I can't, and so I cry.
And in the end, that is all that can be done. You can prevent, or forestall, greater evils, but in the end the infection festers through humankind. In this world that would not know its God, evil prevails, men harm the weak and defenseless, people don't tell the Police, the bad guy gets away, and Entropy drags everything to its inevitable doom.
The world is breaking, broken, lost in Adam's original fall, filled with the descendants of Cain, who in wrath and jealousy murder their brothers.
To cry, that is all that I can do.
I, however, am not the hero of the story. If I were it would be a Greek tragedy, meant to forewarn future heroes from inevitable failure. The Hero comes, not like a knight, in shining armor, but as a servant, wearing the robes of a servant and a crown of thorns. Through Him, I more than conquer.
I said it was a rant didn't I?
Thank you for reading.
