The Line Between

the mystique held once in this thing that still is desired, fades--- be it a career wanted, dreamed of, sought after with such energy & glory when one was younger, be it an individual whose then-shocking beauty, whose then-chiseled handsome hunkness, whose then-passion seemed to stir, be it a mission that one secretly felt that they held inside (one that might place them on the map with those already defined as “delusional”), be it a romantic ideal of a future, a utopia, a brother/sisterhood, a place where all the violence would finally stop, be whatever one likes, be it whatever one can muster, like the candle going down to its last blob of wax, now spilling hot across the surface of the table on which it sits, it all fizzles, it all turns cold & leaves a hardened stain when the flame extinguishes. the line between those who do not relight & those that pour on the gas, the line between those who walk out into the riot street with their exhausted hands up (believing that the shots will stop & that they’ll be spared) & those that grip a Molotov in their hands & cast out that first vital punch into a wondrous walk of newness again, this may be a line that extends higher than the Great Wall itself, build by one human for the sake of one human’s demise, but it is a line drawn by that very same hand & if one cannot be forced to draw it then…