About the 26’s truth: funerals.

par Jullian Angel

« I’ll have a fragmented life, I won’t belong all I can feel.

In there, my friend you’re alive, and whatever happens you will »


You can’t hurt the pain… You can’t get the grief to suffer the way you do. And you can’t harm a lifeless branch on a weak familiar tree, although you’re still under its shade so wide.

You can’t kill what’s already dead. You can’t seem to wish you could do it, anyway. And you can’t hate what’s gone or vanished, what no more shines, even when that old flame should gravely near you.

You can’t heal, but you can’t grow a deadly wound. You just won’t decay enough, the ground still raising you back to where you experience grace, greatness, as deeply as the ugliness in human things.

Sometimes, you badly wish you’d turn the stroke of fate into a strong avenging blow. And then you point the fist against your own soul, your own flesh.  So you play the target, for the ones that won’t bare their chests, for a decent balancing between beauty and dirt. Not between right or wrong, justice and crimes…

You’re not the lawyer. They may believe that you dare judge, but you feel, more than you judge. You know, more than you deem. And in the final sentence, if you’re quoted as one of the witnesses, your greatest deed will be to let the sinner’s hand cure what itself once had branded… You’ll know the touch, you’ll know the pain, but then also the prints of a major human link, never put to death.

Lend your hand so, over all bitterness and sadness you had gathered through years. Lend your hand to the one, not to a memory, not to a dying rest of life. Lend your hand, from above or from below, whether you drown or rise up.

For you can’t hurt the pain. She’ll lift you anyway.

And you shall forgive.

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