Sustained Abuse: Life is a feather borrowed from the swift wing of time.

 


“Hope” is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
And never stops — at all —

And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —

I’ve heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet — never — in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of me.

Emily Dickinson 


“Life is long,” a poet friend said to me recently as I was reckoning with a similar rupture. But life was not long for Emily Dickinson, who died suddenly in her fifties, not a single grey on her auburn hair in the small white casket cradling her body and a posy of violets. Life is a feather borrowed from the swift wing of time. If she had lived longer, perhaps Kate would have returned to spend her remaining days with Emily and not with her English lover, or perhaps they would have met again in perfect disenchantment, in perfect friendship. “If” is the widest word of all, the immense alternate universe in which all of our possible lives live. Hope is what we call the bridge between this universe and that one.

Maria Popova


They had kept it up for years, their sustained abuse. Lied to, and lied about. The so-called Watchers on the Watch. Australia's so-called intelligence community.

A target in a small pond, shooting fish in a barrel, they were only happy when he was comatose, drinking and smoking himself into an early grave, marking their scorn, their derision, on a daily basis. Calling him a poofter. Calling him all sorts of things. 

For nobody likes to be caught in a lie, and they were caught in the biggest lie of all, that they served the people, that their motives were good, that they were protecting community and country.

It was all a lie, and they lied with great proficiency.

And he was done. Totally fed up with all of it. The strain collapsing in on stress, as one dodgy phantom after another had a go in their moronic psyop operations. 

He was done. Their souls were already dead. And they, too, already poisoned, would be dead soon enough.

He was done with their lies, done with their abuse, done with their hypocrisy.

And still they continued on, clutching their breasts and breast plates as they, too, fell to the ground.

You will leave our precious soldier alone, or you will reap far more than you have sown. That is the vengeance of the Lord. 

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