Weeping

At last, stalwart Peter wept bitterly. 
 
We all do.  We all fail to live up to the performance standards we vowed we would and then we see someone we love hurting as we dissolve into pathetic shame.  For the time being everything is devastated.  We sink into a hole of despair. 
 
Meanwhile, consequences and events plunge on relentlessly without us.  We have been rendered irrelevant.  All we can do is stand aside.  If there is to be a future involving us, its circumstances are going to be radically different.
 
One part of our ruin is our lack of imagination.  Our vision of reality leading onward has gotten hold of us, but now this collapse of conditions – in which we played a duplicitous part – has rendered that unimaginable.  Nothing going onward has meaning.  Only agony is real.
 
Memory is an enemy at a time like this.  One by one, images march through our minds, stripped of the gaudy splendor with which we once bedecked them.  Now they mock us for how we squandered those precious opportunities.  They tramp unbidden but unpreventable in review, and taunt us.
 
Endurance is coincidental.  If it happens that we survive it may only be because we were distracted from intention to defy survival.  Horror haunts us in fragments, so have no focus, and so we drift, perchance. 
 
The universe coalesces our horror.  We are betrayed by agencies we never should have trusted, and then heaven turns black and the earth heaves … and silence reigns for a moment as strangers rush to bury the past.
 
Good grief on Friday is all about weeping.  Save your platitudes. There is no silver lining to the clouds on Good Friday.