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Currently listening to:
The Wall
Pink Floyd

I have devoted myself to banging my heart on walls for Hope until bricks are loosed. But in banging, hands have divided. I have fallen, comfortably numb, into my foxhole. The bleeding hearts and artists become the worms of decay. “Is there anybody out there?” I ask, not because I care for the Truth but as denial of its’ existence.

There must be some mistake. I didn’t mean to let them take away my soul. Am I too old? is it too late? Where has the feeling gone? Will I remember the songs? The show must go on.

Touch.

From the pulpits and hierarchies, so unlikely a source, echoes one whisper of a notion forgotten. From behind her Judgment Bench, she pronounces Truth and sentence.

Since, my friend, you have revealed your deepest fear, I sentence you to be exposed before your peers.

Must the process of building always begin with demolition? Must growth always initiate from captivity? Life only ever follows death.

All alone, or in two’s, the ones who really love you walk up and down outside the wall. Some hand in hand and some gathered together in bands, the bleeding hearts and artists make their stand.

And when they’ve given you their all, some stagger and fall. After all it’s not easy banging your heart against some mad bugger’s wall.

Begs the question, “Why did hands slip apart?”

I offer thanks to those who bang bleeding hearts on my wall.

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