THE BLOG
07/31/2013 01:45 pm ET Updated Sep 29, 2013

If Walls Could Talk: Tears From Birmingham Jail

Martin Luther King trembles with tears in his eyes, heart heavy and pounding, blood rushing through veins that stand out on his forehead, lips go dry as the river of sadness flows deep into the well of disappointment... this is the moment when a person feels most alone. When you can hear the pounding of your own heart echo through the walls, but you dare not let out a sound, lest the walls give way under the pressure of your reverberating wails, and so the reverberating walls of your throat holds steady.

It is as clear to me as the deep sounds that echo today from patched lips licked dry by retreating tongues that long for a reprieve that lives only in the mirage of water in a desert.

There comes a time when one hits rock bottom and perhaps finds some solace in the dispassionate embrace of time and silence and the knowing... the knowing.

The clarity that perhaps comes only from knowing; we reach within. Fingers frayed desperately grasping. From the depths of your darkness, your black hole sucks until it can suck no more, and only then can one thing and one thing only. The burst of light so bright even gravity dares not hold still. What IS this thread that we follow?

Perhaps it is the cell of the mind...

As he struggles to break free from his lover's embrace, she lures him with reassurances 'WAIT.' It rings in the ears with piercing familiarity as she lures into NEVERLAND with promises of relieve. Thoughts run through the mind, as the mind alone can contain in moments of despair... when time is both a punisher and a redeemer.

I am coming to feel that people of ill will have used time much more effectively than the people of good will.

We must use time creatively and forever realize that the time is always ripe to do right; for we must come to see that human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability. Now is the time to transform our pending national elegy into a creative psalm of brotherhood and lift our national policy from the quicksand to the solid rock of human dignity.

How is it that tears from the walls of Birmingham City Jail still flow into a river that longs to run dry?