The Living

For a while, I found myself incapable of writing. During the last couple of years, I focused much on the dead, the ghosts, the broken bones and putrefied corpses of my early years. It had to be done. It was the only way to move forward. But for a while, I needed time away. I needed to find my place amongst the living.

A while ago, I asked a friend if we always come out stronger of tragedy. Although I suspect he was himself facing his own tragedies at the time, as he usually adorns his answers with more faith than the plain – no - he delivered that day. According to him, strength comes from hard work and most are unwilling to commit. Much time had gone by between the question and the answer. Distance had further convinced my friend of my readiness to give up, to discourage, to resent the injustice, the pain, the loss. Yet, he was wrong. I survived. No matter what happened to me, I survived. I made it through. And from there, I could only move forward. Whatever I experienced, I rise above it a little more each day. It turned out that I may have been much stronger than I ever considered.

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars - Kahlil Gibran