Lindsay’s Scribblings

Recurring
Always
Recurring
Because the
Prompt
Is always there
Redundant
And obtuse
And I can’t
Make it
Leave

Go die.
Go die in a hole somewhere
All alone.
I don’t mean that.
But I do
Wish
You would leave me alone-
Leave me alone and
Free from your company.
Go die.
No.
Don’t.
But please stop
Killing
Me.

 

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All the things I cannot say
Forbidden
There is little tolerance for
My need to shout
To scream to you my whims
My knowledge
Intuition
I am always right
And you tried to muffle me
I was right
And now I know
But I cannot say what
Forbidden
For fear of repercussions
For even the most outlandish
And outspoken
Must know
Tact

How long has it been?
Drowning in the millennia
Of a few terse hours
It hasn’t been lengthy
Just time-consuming

How rational is it
To remember and
Forget?
To feel right-side up
After so much vertigo?

How did the time
Pass?
Black and somber
A year of mourning
But only a fraction
Of a sunny afternoon

I am stormy

And blue

And turbulently

Missing you

 

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Bury me
I am replaceable
Bury me
I had no investment
Bury me
I wasn’t committed
Bury me
And then choose
Your excuse
And see if
When heard
It rings true

 

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My words slur together
Unusually
And instantly I want
To bite them back
I, the constant critic,
But they are flamboyantly
Inefficient and misplaced
And I cannot
Swallow them
Clumsy words
Trip instead
Choking me
And they fumble
And they tumble
Over the acceptable
Limits of my
Perfectionist speech
Chastening my
Tongue for its
Impropriety

I thought there would be more
I thought there would be more to say
But there isn’t
Time passes
It has past
And there isn’t more

I am
Your very pillars
Your very walls
Without me
You might fall
But
You might not
Your ancillary support
Isn’t primary
After all
And
Replaceability
Is becoming
On one such as myself.

 

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Throughout life, there is but one true goal: to develop static morals. To ascertain absolute “rights” and “wrongs”. To make black-and-white the fuzzy gray of universal beliefs. Other aspirations exist, but none with such urgency as this.
In his quest to belatedly uphold morality, Arthur Miller’s John Proctor sacrifices his life. The choice is not easy, nor will it be in our own lives. His reaction to injustice is not immediate, but unlike most, he does react.
Though the good citizens of Salem are being slaughtered by a ruthless, blind theocracy, he does not step out. Though the harbinger of disaster is his own affair with Abigail, he does not step forward. Though his servant, Mercy, admits to the fallaciousness of the witch-hunting scandal, he does not act.
He erred, and his later actions are repentance for this lethargy. In stark contrast with most tragic heroes, he recognizes the cowardice and contentment that had pinned him to inaction and is redeemed through pride instead of being destroyed by hubris. Instead of denying morality for life, he foregos life for morality – sinless, at last, in his noose.
While John Proctor proved that retaining individuality and being faithful to morality are causes worth death, few others can claim such dedication. Escalating complacency is deterring moral commitment and rendering the world honor-less. As Schlesinger argues, we are becoming too similar – unwilling to change and incapable of standing out. There is no longer space for heroes: they are called dissidents or vigilantes and are abhorred as different, or worse, politically incorrect.
In a rapidly homogenizing society, it is Proctor who is the voice of sanity. It is Proctor, who knew that to retain his panache and reinforce the bulwark of his morality he had to oppose Salem’s corrupt authorities. It is Proctor, who, like the Transcendentalists, knew that a man is measured through adherence to his beliefs.
Only if, in America, we stand like Proctor and condemn the moral discrepancies of our time will we be able to rest at peace with our consciences. Only if, as individuals, we choose to follow our hearts regardless of legal consequences will we have honor. And only if, as a people, we defend that which is “right” will we ever be able to die with our panache still fluttering a stainless white.