Keep the Faith

The brave may not live forever but the weak do not live at all.

I watch him everynight. And it is only in his presence do I understand, the line between brave and weak does not exist. It is falsely drawn by those who love too much or too little; too much or too little of themselves. The egotists and the under-achievers- the self-proclaimed saviors and the self-proclaimed sold.

I watch him everynight and this night, our night; everything was going to change for us both.

His clumsy head of hair shone, black as their putrid hearts. It is true the eyes are a window to the soul for his glittering hazel orbs were a clear indication of how broken he was behind them. His broad but well-proportioned shoulders sagged slightly, clearly giving off the impression that he was not at all content. A simple black trench coat protected him from the boltic winds; as I stared at his seemingly (and hopefully) warm body, I grew envious, and not for the first time. I was only wearing a hooded sweater and a paper-thin tank top underneath. The cold air nipped at my skin like a thousand tiny daggers but I wouldn't move.

I never move.

As always, he lowered himself to his knees and unknowingly gave me an even better view. I could see his pale oval face dead on, illuminated only by the stars and the naked moon, and never before have I felt such a surge of overwhelming longing. To reach out and comfort him, as I could reluctantly accept he desperately needed it. But alas, the blindfolding trickery that is fear and anxiousness catapulted itself into my brain. I could not move, I could not save. I could not help him if I damn well tried.

He reached out a hand to stroke the mossy stone and he left his fingertips there, caressing the harsh memory of it all. His eyes grew wide as he remembered, black-hole pupils dialating and darting back then forth across the old worn stone.

Those punctured hazel zones of his were dangerous, so dangerous; I felt every element of terror as he stared around the deserted yet somehow overflowing graves. He stood up, probably with the intention of feeling more pronounced and much more fearless, but he just looked so small. So much smaller than anyone ever should.

And then it happened... something that had never happened before, and something that I could never have predicted.

He started crying.

Right in front of me.

Clear as day.

But it wasn't day.

It was the dead of night and the darkness seemed to magnify the fact that I could not just stand there. I had to do something, anything.

But what?

His sobs- choked, strangled, tortured- they began to echo in the loneliest of ways around the otherwise deserted cemetery. His colored orbs were glued shut, crinkled into a starburst of loss and atonement; his pleading cries were loud now, so much louder, and broken and helpless and scared. Human nature got the better of me. Consequences aside, I stepped forwards from the shadows and blinked in the noxiousness of the new light.

He didn't notice me at first. In the time it took between me revealing myself and him realizing I was actually there, I managed to think up a million and one reasons why I should run away. Thankfully his eyes met mine before I could follow any of them through.

He stepped backwards immediately, understandably wary of my sudden presence. I opened my mouth and waited for some excuse or apology to fall out, but it goes without saying- literally- that it never did.

Before either of us could even think about pulling ourselves together, he turned and began stumbling clumsily away from me.

High up above or down below.
When you're too in love to let it go.

"WAIT!"

His body and my heart froze in icy unison. I walked forwards, not considering my actions for a second. I couldn't waste this. I couldn't shove this chance away just because I was scared, I couldn't do that, it simply wasn't an option. Scared is what everyone says.

I don't know who everyone is but that's always their excuse. Scared. Well it's not fucking good enough, not now.

When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

I brought my quivering form to a less than steady halt right in front of him, gasping and panting to no end. Our eyes met for the second time, so much closer this time, and though there were a million things I needed to say I knew what had to come first. I knew the reason he came to this cemetery every night. I knew the reason he left feeling lower every single time.

But I also knew I had to tell him what he never had the courage to tell himself.

When you sit on the grave of someone you love it is so easy to let words spill out of your mouth. It is so easy to cry and it is so easy to hurt, but it is not easy to stop. To cease crying, to cease hurting, it's the hardest thing of all. You can open up the floodgates and you can open up old wounds, but as soon as you press your bleeding palms against the iron bars, the gates become too heavy and you cannot shift them, back or forth. The wounds are set in stone on the skin of your being, and no band aid or sticky plaster is enough to cover them up.

Cry it out, I told him. Bleed it out. Let it out. The words that fall from your flaking lips never get past me-

"What do I do?"

"What can I do?"

"Is it really all my fault?"

And after every question I mouth my answer. I told him this, right there, I babbled my way through the explanation I thought would always stay in my head. But there comes a time when what you say is not simply for your own benefit, it is for others to take and to piece together and to eventually understand.

"What's your answer?"

His voice is so quiet and so cautious. We are strangers but our words needn't know.

"The hardest part about a broken heart is pretending you know how to fix it."

And he blinked, his golden brown orbs all for taking.

But I wasn't the one to take them, no, he was. He was taking them back. To light up the face that had remained colorless for so long.

And he smiled at me, awkward and clumsy, but he smiled. And it was not instant and it was not fearless but it was a smile.

Trust me when I say, that is all I'll ever need.

There is only so much you can do to save someone. In the end, they must really save themselves.

He doesn't visit the grave so often now. But when he does, he doesn't ask her for answers, and he doesn't ask me either. He finds them inside himself and I think, sooner or later, that is what we all must do. We must not cut out what is bad and what is wrong, but embrace it.

Love.

Love is what makes us hurt, but hurt is what makes us human.

Love is the closest thing we have to magic.

And the time will come when you realize, at the end of the day, all you have to do is cast the right spells.