To give up on anything,
it's a terrible crime and punishment.
A death of its own kind, you could say.
I wonder about those "things" we
hold so very dear
a part of us in some way or another,
that in being so,
become our fibers, the parts we grow along the way.
To decide, to make conscious effort, to give up
Taking your own hands and digging out that part of yourself, whatever it may be,
the clawing of flesh.
A painful process that leaves one to wonder at the kind of deaths
we do live in one life.
By choice. By circumstance. By forces outside our control.
Take Hemingway as an example,
not necessarily an example that will level with any of our own deaths, but still ...
There was a moment in his life
where all was lost,
where every word he'd ever written taken in a suitcase brought with good intention.
Every copy too, gone.
He must have stood there under that realization and just felt emptied out,
gone himself to some extent,
but eventually what lived in him, what indeed was him resurfaced,
and whilst some of his heart died in that moment,
there was too something left to take over.
And so he did,
and so we have him forever as a result.
What is in our hearts,
is our hearts.
Clawed, or not.
That which is us,remains.