ⓘ altruistic self sacrifice
Im not going to write about myself now.
Red Cross – I, Resilient [Rotes Kreutz – Ich, Unverwüstlich]
It bleeds from it's neck, and uses the spilled and by now rotten blood and tries to create something beautiful from something ugly on the verges of despair. Something from the scenes of a war, a teenage soldier or a young death.
There is something beyond the scene. There is color within it. Despite absolute downfall, the illusion of optimism glows in them, and it creates the birth of beauty.
The tragedy figuratively bleeds into hope like watercolor and turns into something beautiful.
If only the mind could heal the scars.
But in the cold, you still freeze, even when a god calms your mind. And in the fire, you still burn, even when you can imagine survival.
In this case, the iron in its blood still oxidates on itself. It still lays still in place and withers. Even when its mind drifts slowly away in dreamlike anticipation of bliss, the reality doesn’t change. What’s valuable though, regardless of the circumstances is how much more the experience of death becomes natural. And through that gains value.
Death is release — is resolution. However bloody the scene, whatever comes after or doesn’t come after, is resolution.
In some world, it’s peaceful for him. It wouldn’t hurt, it wouldn’t sting. It wouldn’t even have happened. But in this world, it did happen, it did hurt and it did sting.
You can try to imagine yourself out of it. But you know no amount of pills, dreams or books can cover it up. He likes to think he can stand above it some day, like that would make a difference, like that means he would’ve never been below it.
He’s still so young, and already so so dead.
(N:"Det gjemmer seg i pusten, når det blir synlig gjennom kulden. Er det ingen andre som ser det? Sårbarheten i kald hud, i skjelvende hender?")
The sound of armor falling from your skin.
The traces of oxidization, nakedness unfolding (you bloom)
You survived your own nature, you transcended (your past) it. Welcome anew, to your new world. You don’t need to starve anymore.
The sun has risen in all her fury/glory again.
It’s warmth and violence, only today you recognize the beauty.
You lived your lifetime in a motherless womb (in the cocoon of your withdrawal)
What will you make of this opportunity.
You are reborn.
So fragile in this state. Wind is so beautiful in your hair, but at such a young skin you see fit of no other touch than the one of your own hands. So that even the wind becomes violence. And the sun, and the moon.
Don’t go yet, they (we) have so many beautiful things to show you.
You don’t have to need nothing anymore.
You don’t need to be so vigilant.
You don’t need to live in war.
The war is over, and we want you to come back.
____________
“The war is not over, its far from over”
You return to me, a desolated spell.
All the suffocation you endured crammed in the metal armor you just return to. Sweat and iron, so sharp it cut you to pieces, you suffocate.
The only war being fought is the one against yourself.
The sound of skin getting cut.
The sound of a flower withering.
In abundance, you choose death. A new winter. You will die never having lived, or loved, or lost
You think not trying means you win.
“I can survive this”
Survival alone isn’t the achievement you need.
Sun and moon and wind, and people and hearts and books, know now, they will never know you and you will never know them.
Is this the selfishness you proclaim?
Is this your only pride in life/death?
Dying. Acting dead?
“I can survive.”
Indeed you can, but what you can’t. You can’t sacrifice yourself in order to live. You can’t sacrifice in order to achieve anything meaningful.
Still You’re right.
You’ve been so cold for so long, you’d bring blisters to anyone you choose to touch.
You’d curse with your fingers,
Your delicate mess belongs to you, so please, in truth for the sake of everything else, die in your armor, pride yourself in eternal survival as the only meaningful achievement.
