Carried on a breeze

I don't think I've used my coat for a pillow in about twenty-five years now. And sure, I know it's going to be uncomfortable, but I don't mind that. What worries me is what comes next. Sleep. I haven't done it since everything changed, since I took this job. I know what's inside my head, and if anything scares me? I do.

So it's not necessary, but I've thought about it while I was out here, about Gericault, what he made and why. It was a tool of retribution, and I don't think he intended it to do everything it does. It was colored by him, by his thoughts and desires, his pain. And maybe I can't avoid that. I've dragged my trauma with me for years and years, there's no way I'd suddenly escape it. And I'm not looking to.

It's not going to go away, it's not going to fix itself. I may not ever be free of it, even. But if I can stare it in the eye, see it for what it is, then maybe it won't poison what I hope to do some good with. So I'm going to sleep, and let whatever it is that's ugly and damning in me take the chance to stretch its' legs again.

Before I do, I'll let this page go on the wind. Whoever you are that finds it, you wouldn't believe me if I explained what everything I said in here meant. But what I'm doing now? It's for you, for all of you. For every person you love, every person you hate. Every day of tragedy is worth it, because it's another day you get to affect. Every smile, every touch, each and every time you pass someone on the street and see a face you could wake up to for the rest of your life if they weren't already gone? This is so that can keep happening.

Sweet dreams.