Borrowed Truths

Reaching Down

Picture of Borrowed Truths

Reaching Down

People drift, at least those who have something to cling onto do, sometimes they kick their feet when they see something they want, or they’re trying to get away from something, but for the most part they just drift.

Some of the lost have found a piece of flotsam or jetsam, holding on to it for dear life, searching the horizon constantly for a glimpse of a purpose, a reason to kick their feet, riches, fame, perhaps a larger item to grab onto to make the journey a little easier. They pass by those who have nothing to keep themselves buoyant, and watch as they reach out their hands for assistance, but their own small piece of life is barely enough to keep them afloat, and so they pass by, watching as these go under to surface again no more. Some of these pieces of floating debris are large enough for entire families, but they are as pitiful looking as the singular individuals trying to find their way thru the vast rolling’s of the sea of life. These cling to each other, one plots their course, seeking anything that will make the rough waves of life seem a little easier, while the others cling onto him in quiet desperation.

The horizon for all, whether alone or together on this vast sea filled with humanity, looks the same, distant and unreachable, their only goal is to find something that will keep them afloat, for they have seen numerous times what happens to those who have nothing left to hold on to. They see one in a small boat, not room for many, but room enough for more than one, but as they reach up to draw themselves into it, their hands come back bloodied, bruised and broken, “I’ve got mine, you get yours” are the words they hear, and they hear them each time that one such as this passes by them. Little do they know that these individuals small crafts are also sinking, a little slower perhaps, but the hole in it cannot be patched, and all the worldly possessions within it are not helping the matter any.

Some will lash their makeshift pieces of debris together however they can, hoping that the larger area that it covers will help to assist them in their journey across the vast expanse of life. They use the things at hand, the things of the world, others, the traditions of their religious upbringings, status, or assumed power, any and all things that are available to them, and in their small, organized groups they continue towards the horizon, yet it never seems to draw any closer. Those who are not of their kind, those who try to hold onto their floating pieces are shunned, cast away to fend for themselves, to search on their own for the group that they belong to. Many try to make it on their own, bartering occasionally with others for the needs they have so that they can remain afloat, sometimes taking, caring little as the one who had but now has not slips silently beneath the waves. These on the larger flotational pieces of hope who can no longer assist are allowed to slip away, sometimes small efforts are extended to them, but they are either weak, aged, or of no use any longer to those who still have enough energy to kick their feet towards the horizon which never seems to draw any closer.

It is the expected end, all know this, but none speak of it, the countless ones who are drifting on the surface cannot be compared in size to those who rest below its constant waves. When these thoughts enter their minds, they kick harder and faster, both hands grasping firmly onto the things of this world that keep them afloat. Over time, they watch as these pieces of their only hope begin to diminish, begin to crumble and rot and they find less to hold onto, less to keep them afloat. They no longer have the strength to reach for something else, and they begin to sink, yelling for any that will listen to come and help them, but no one can do anything for them, this they knew a long time ago, did they not watched as those they knew, those who had lashed parts of their own meager pieces of the world to theirs, slipped away under the pounding and continuous waves of life? The small who had next to nothing, those who had bonded themselves to each other, even those who rode in seemingly unsinkable crafts, all had gone under, one by one, never to return.

Their cries will go unheard, and those that do pay attention to them can do nothing, nothing but hope that a small piece of what the one who is going under once owned will float towards them, so that perhaps they will have something else to hold onto, something to grasp tightly as they continue to kick fervently toward the horizon that they will never reach.

Those who look up though, those rare few who stop looking for more to lash to their worldly pieces of debris, those who take their eyes off the horizon will see a hand reaching down to them. Most will see this offering of hope, this offering of something better as ridiculous, the world and all that is in it is all that matters, all will sink in the end, no one can escape the waves of this life. But some do reach up and grab hold onto that hand, in faith leaving behind all, and they find that grip strong and firm. He lifts them up and places them securely by His side, safe from the struggles of the search forevermore, free from the battle to reach the horizon that never comes, never to sink beneath the waves of despair and longing. He cries for those who are still kicking to reach up and grab hold of the hand that has freed him from the deception of self-reliance, of dependency on his fellow man for the truth. But even though they have watched as all others who came before them have been sucked beneath the waves, they continue to search for the treasures that will keep them afloat, their eyes fixed constantly on a horizon that they will never reach. Some do look up, but they are so few and far between, and there are so many that do not, but His hand does not waver, it waits patiently for any and all that will grab it, and those who do, He never lets go of.

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