This writer guy, he says that it's easy.
You just sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.
But what if you're running out of veins?
Sometimes people suck. Not all the time. For the most part I think people try to be good people and love, and give, and hope and dream without hurting others. But sometimes they don't.
Sometimes poeple hurt other people. Sometimes they take words or actions and sharpen them, grinding them down to a glistening, glinting, angry point that slides straight through your heart, leaving the splintering wood of the handle to callus and corrupt the place where you once dared to hope there was love in the world. Sometimes they create excruciating, unnessary pain and confusion. Sometimes they do this without even realising it.
Sometimes - and we are all at fault in this to some degree - sometimes people take something they've learnt, or know or simply believe, and hold it so much higher than anything else. Sometimes it gets in the way of their view of everything else possible, or plausible, or real. When everything else is shrouded by this overarching 'thing' they hold so impossibly high, there's no hope at all for them to care a thought for the damage they might do by whispering a half-formed thought filled with ignorance and spite. And that's when their poisonous barb jabs deep thorn into the soft skin of some other someone, who's done and knows nothing of the so-called crime they've commited.
Sometimes, in believing too hard or protecting too strongly, people become exactly that evil which they are trying to guard against.
And then what?
Someone else suffers the consequences of their blind accusations and angry assumptions.
And for what?
So they can feel self-righteous in the belief that they've been stronger through the storm than the petty mortals surrounding them.
Sometimes my strength of faith in people is shattered by blind negligence, and the inevitable destruction it spreads because of the thoughtless actions of a person (or persons).
Sometimes I think faith in the good of others is something akin to trusting in my ability to write. Both require the decanting of some deeper part of you without knowing for sure what will be received in return. Both require the alltogether stupid belief that what you are giving is perfect enough to be not just accepted, but respected. Both risk utter destruction from the very moment of conception.
So how many times do you tap another vein of faith and love for one's fellow man before you run dry? And how sullied or weakened is that love from all the times before?