Honor and pride, for which many have died

It is an interesting morality to ponder on that which you would die for, and that which you would live for. They say that to give one’s life is the ultimate sacrifice, but I find there to be many fates worse than death, which is not to mention the heartache your death would inflict on those who either cared about you, personally, or also followed the cause for which you died. Far better, they would say, to live for such a thing than to die for it.

Honor, of course, would demand that you die for what you believe in, for as illustrated above, it is the common understanding that to give one’s life is the ultimate sacrifice, and what nobler, albeit tragic, death could one achieve if not to die for what one believes in? But if given the choice, would you shirk such honor so that you might live to serve that ideal another day? Or, by compromising such integrity, do you forsake that which you believe? Honor and pride are complex devotions; those of honor and pride strive to live well, but they also wish to die well. Many of that ilk would prefer to die for something they believe than rather than old age, but such romanticized behavior inevitably destroys the lives of those left in the wake of their parting. Could you die so honorably knowing that, by doing so, you would break the hearts of those who cared about you? Is protecting them from that sorrow worth your honor?

I wager that is where integrity comes in, and I confess that such a dilemma is of genuine concern, for how does one weigh such things? In the above example, it almost makes such integrity seem selfish. Perhaps it is.

At the end of the day, it is entertaining enough to speculate, but such conjecture means little when faced with such an opportunity. When the time comes for you to have such a choice, I imagine time will be a factor and you will act on instinct. Where that instinct is born from, however, will be a curious thing to discover. Is your integrity so deeply rooted that your initial reaction to such a situation will be to give your life for what you believe in, or are you the selfless sort who would compromise your own integrity for the sake of living for the cause, and perhaps more importantly, for the ones you love, instead?

Honestly, I hope you never have to find out.

A perfect place

No anecdote today; instead, a work of pure fiction.

The hill wasn’t high, but it crested the beaches of the lake in such a fashion as to make you feel larger than life for standing at its back. The valley walls standing their silent granite vigils added to the enormity with the sheer rock barriers hundreds of feet high, crags and cracks home to nesting hawks whose caws were the only thing brave enough to clash the reverent silence of this place. Aromas of the clear blue lake danced a wild tango with the peaches of a nearby tree; out of place in the kind of way that only a dream can be.

“It’s perfect,” she said lazily. I glanced down to see her resting, her back against the peach tree as the stainless grass cradled her weary form, her eyes closed until they sensed my own tumbling into her. As they opened, her lips bound for her brilliant emerald pools in such a graceful sprint that I could not help but smile in turn. A warmth nestled deep inside me, and I kept her gaze for a moment before turning back to look idly upon the calm water.

“Do you hate it?” I asked, my voice noticeably devoid of emotion. She stood in an effortless motion, and moved to my side, stopping with her shoulder just inches from touching mine. She followed my eyes to the middle of nowhere. “It’s boundless,” she started, “pure as when the world was new.”

I nodded. “Do you hate it?” I asked again.

She hesitated for a long moment before she whispered, “Yes.”

“Why?” I breathed, my voice barely audible.

She turned to look at me, and with impossibly honest eyes, she said “It’s missing flaws.”

A smirk I could not contain crept its way across my face, and I shot her an approving look. “If you could put a scar anywhere here, where would you put it?”

“Right here,” she poked at her left breast, “so that the waves and the peaches and the moon and the sky can look into me and weep, for I am beautiful not in spite of my flaws, but because of them.”

I kissed her, then, on top of the hill which smelled of peaches and lake water. It was such an ugly place, this perfect world, but our broken hearts made it beautiful, if only for a little while...