Contrary States of the Human Soul

Whoo! Happy New Year!

Now that that's over with, I need to talk about good and decent. I was called decent today (as in "actually a decent person" not "eh, she's decent"). Which is pretty cool. But is it true? Or is it a skewed perception by someone who doesn't know me that well? How easily is that perception changed? How far can I go before I lose that status? Which brings me to mistakes.

"I know it's a mistake, but there are certain things in life where you know it's a mistake but you don't really know it's a mistake because the only way to really know it's a mistake is to make the mistake and look back and say 'yep, that was a mistake.' So really, the bigger mistake would be to not make the mistake, because then you'd go your whole life not knowing if something is a mistake or not (Lily Aldrin, How I Met Your Mother)."

If I think something is a mistake, that I'll regret it, that it might tarnish me somehow, what changes if it still doesn't feel like a mistake? I know this doesn't make sense without a particular instance, but I don't want to give it to you yet. I want to know first if I went too far. If I'm less decent now. I don't feel like it. I feel I've done worse, less forgivable things. Honestly, though I thought maybe it wasn't something God wanted me to do, I don't feel I've done anything wrong. I wonder if that should scare me. Maybe that means I have passed the line, and I need to find a way back over it.

Maybe I've just gotten really good at justifying making mistakes that I know are mistakes.

(Okay, I tried, but I couldn't find a good video of someone reading these poems. So you'll have to.)

The Tiger                                                                The Lamb
William Blake                                                         William Blake

 

Tiger Tiger. burning bright,                                    Little Lamb who made thee
In the forests of the night;                                       Dost thou know who made thee
What immortal hand or eye.                                    Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?                        By the stream & o'er the mead;
                                                                                 Gave thee clothing of delight,
In what distant deeps or skies.                                 Softest clothing wooly bright;
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?                                    Gave thee such a tender voice,
On what wings dare he aspire?                                Making all the vales rejoice:
What the hand, dare seize the fire?                          Little Lamb who made thee
                                                                                 Dost thou know who made thee
And what shoulder, & what art,                               Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?                       Little Lamb I'll tell thee:
And when thy heart began to beat.                          For he calls himself a Lamb:
What dread hand? & what dread feet?                    He is meek & he is mild,
                                                                                 He became a little child:
What the hammer? what the chain,                         He became a little child:
In what furnace was thy brain?                                I a child & thou a lamb,
What the anvil? what dread grasp.                          We are called by his name.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?                                  We are called by his name.
                                                                                 Little Lamb God bless thee.

 When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears:
Did he smile His work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger Tiger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?