There are no words, only particles of faith that slip between my fingers as the wind blows against my window. There are no giddy heights to fall from. No sentiments that can ease a bruised soul. There is, however, a sense of beauty that few these days seem to be in possession of. How easy it is to overlook these precious beings; to pass them by because they choose not to whore themselves like the rest. To be humble and gracious is a gift that can’t be bought or received, it’s earned by being kind; by accepting nothingness and embracing selflessness. As the nights pass with regularity, I write to save myself. I write to give myself meaning, and every so often, I stumble across a memory from my past that leaves me numb. One lived, twice known. So many things I didn’t see the first time around. So many acts of wonder that somehow escaped me. How it tears me apart to realise things so long after they’ve occurred, but when I do, I’m forced to stop what I’m doing. Perfectly still, I remember the smallest of details, and when the love of each act overcomes me, it’s not long before tears form in the corner of my tired eyes. I’m a relic. A mess of what should be human, but when someone shows an ounce of tenderness- when they show some sense of pity- there’s nothing more to do other than be thankful. It’s a cruel world, but it’s not lost.