The insects drawn to the light, hover precariously over the fire. They seem unaware of the possibility that in an instant, the dancing flames could turn into flickering tongues and devour the insect whole.
Some of us are similar to those insects. We seem to possess a strong affinity to those damaged by time. We envelop them in a tight embrace in an attempt to mend their soul and make them feel whole again, while their shards cut through what’s left of our worn out being.
What is this strange obsession with all that’s sad? Do we unconsciously romanticize the melancholy of it? It probably gives us a purpose to strive for in this meaningless existence of ours. Is it just a selfish act to boost our egos? Or are we just being cynical in refusing to accept that we are just trying to help?
Numerous possible reasons, but the fact remains that some of us always seem to try to fix broken people, as if they were things that need to be repaired. We fail to see that they are people, imperfect compositions of a million oddities, multitudes of emotions and thoughts that has undergone years of conditioning and experiences. It would be nothing less than conceit to think that we could somehow magically understand every fiber of their being and stitch every tear in their soul.
Maybe we should just humbly admit to our own conscience that compassion is not in trying to restore people into who they were before the tragedy hit them. It is pure arrogance to think that it is your business to work on bettering someone else. And pause for a minute and think, is your life in line? We are all broken and destroyed by life. Just in different magnitudes and ways.
True compassion is not in forcefully trying to put back their life together, rather it’s gently standing by them as they fall apart and silently helping them pick up piece by piece. It is in letting them be the horribly wrecked being that they are.
It might be a hard pill to swallow, but not everybody needs your help. People as damaged as they might be, are capable of taking care of themselves. What you smother, you kill. Don’t empty a zillion buckets and ask why the plants aren’t nourished by it. Instead, take a step back and just let them grow of their own accord.
Let them be whatever the storm has made them into. Notice the awkward grace of their dilapidated body. Look at the way their shattered soul glints in the sunlight. Appreciate the beautiful ruins of their being. This isn’t about romanticizing tragedy. It is about realizing that honesty is the purest form of beauty. And what could possibly be more honest and beautiful than the imperfections of a naked soul, that bares the bruises and scars that went into its making, like a glorious history of battles and victories..