Sometimes I can't sleep...and I'll write crazy things:
You've called me to sit beside you on this hill beneath a tree. I resisted, and insisted that my work was not done below, there is no time for rest. But you called despite my protest. So I sat next to you to humor you, but secretly condemned myself for the laziness and cursed my idle hands. But you still held me, and laughed with a light heart, and gave me that sweet familiar smile. And on that hill, you showed me what beauty is, beauty you can only see from above. And when I finally relinquished my anxieties and calmed the strife that beat against my breast, it came to me.
There were hills with grass kissed by the morning dew, valley's nestled between mountains that held the treasures of majestic waterfalls, and the light shattered into a million colors as it danced upon the lighted sky and water. But my soul only longed for the toils of the gravel pits. Beauty we feel we do not deserve, but labor we understand. Perhaps a cruel punishment we put upon ourselves for our own sense of worthlessness. What makes me think I deserve to see all this, to sit beside you on this hill, to be held and stilled by your embrace? This love we do not comprehend, but it burrows a hole so deep in our hearts and a yearning to receive it. But we hate ourselves, and deny the gift that was paid by blood. Our eye's are unwilling to see the beauty in us, so we keep our heads low, and we seek the comfort of the pit, because in that pit, we can not be exposed.
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