From the first snippet The Script released from their new album No Sound Without Silence, Flares has been my absolute favourite. Listening to it, you won’t be surprised. It has that sad melancholy that’s so characteristic of me but it also gives that sense of hope that keeps me out of the dark dip.
It really is amazing how much it means to know I am not alone. I have my own battles and own joys but I can share them. There are people out there (and this surprises me every time) who want to be there for me. Sometimes they are people from social media (#TheScriptFamily is the loveliest bunch of people I’ve ever seen), sometimes they’re people I’ve already met (you know who you are), sometimes it’s a song and sometimes they’re those faceless giants behind books.
Just as I was contemplating the question of whether I’m using my time here on Earth for good or just wasting it, I find this passage in Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451:
“When I was a boy my grandfather died, and he was a sculptor. He was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give the world, and he helped clean up the slum in our town; and he made toys for us and he did a million things in his lifetime; he was always busy with his hands. And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn’t crying for him at all, but for all the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the back yard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes the way he did. He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man. I’ve never gotten over his death. Often I think, what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died. How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by his hands. He shaped the world. He did things to the world. The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.”
Montag walked in silence. “Millie, Millie,” he whispered. “Millie.”
“My wife, my wife. Poor Millie, poor, poor Millie. I can’t remember anything. I think of her hands but I don’t see them doing anything at all. They just hang there at her sides or they lie there on her lap or there’s a cigarette in them, but that’s all.”
Montag turned and glanced back.
“What did you give to the city, Montag?
What did the others give to each other?
Granger stood looking back with Montag. “Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”
Will there be someone saying this when I’m gone?
“He shaped the world. He did things to the world. The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.“
What have I done to earn that? What can I do to deserve it? Where is my garden, where is my place in it and how to find it?
I don’t have the answers. But the point is that these questions don’t scare me any more.
Because there’s “someone out there, sending out flares”. For me.
Wish the same to you all.