Great is the sorrow, deep is the wound. Not only have I failed, I have continuingly failed month after month for way too long. Not only have I failed, I have failed some of the best people out there. People I am truly honoured to represent. Not only have I failed, but I have let these people down. How could it go this far you ask. How could we go from being the scandal of the forum to be the forgotten? Before we go deeper into this, let me just clarify how great the difference is between those I have let down, and the one who's to blame.
I have tried to explain earlier, how great these people are. So this time, rather than failing at honouring them as much as they deserve individually, I will fail to do so, as a group. They are indeed people who stand out from the crowd. People who have proven themselves over and over, people who should, and will be, in the history books. Role-models for the future population, any mother-in-law's dream. I have spent decades scouring through the dictionaries to find a word will would suffice, or at least come close, but sadly it's nowhere to be found. These people are beyond words, they are an experience; an immediate sense of awe.
I am like a flower bathing in their sunshine every day, nurturing, leeching, surviving on their forgiveness. When I failed, they were there to pick me up. When I didn't suffice, they were abundant. When I was me, they were them. The elite; the few who naturally stand out. The ones who are humble enough to walk among us, when they should be spitting on us. Who am I to mention them? Forgive me my arrogance, that I should have mentioned your names.
I feel the sting in my heart every morning. It pierces it way through my forehead, slowly crawling through my skull, relentlessly pushing all my thoughts aside to remind me of my constant failure. To fill my head with guilt. A guilt I have rightfully deserved. Then, when it's done overshadowing my thought spectrum, it descends and clutches my throat. When it's satisfied with my gasps for breath it descends further to it's destination. It brings out a small needle and punctuates my heart. Then it sits on my shoulder for the rest of the day, watching my tears fall down my chin as my heart's bleeding rhythm.
Even though the pain is more than I can handle, I can't die, I have brought this upon myself. This is a curse I have cast on myself, and the remedy is a part of the past. It's too late to undo my acts of selfishness. I feel so ashamed. I should just leave you all, let you down for the last time. But no, your arms are open wide still, your shoulders are always available. But where was I when you needed me?!? Who did you trust over and over, who let you down over and over. That was me.
Once upon a time there was a king. He was a kind and generous ruler who listened to his people, although he usually kept to himself. He lived in a small cottage near the sea, and he always took pride in living a quiet life, greatly distinguished from his flamboyant predecessors. He had dedicated his life to art and spent most of his days painting the nearby sea and enjoying the surrounding nature. Once a year he always met up with the nearby rulers, talking about how things are going, and trying to prevent wars and the likes. This year, the meeting took longer than he had expected though, and the atmosphere was far from the cosy and friendly one he had expected.
It was a tense verbal fight taking place week after week. Several times it was deemed necessary to take breaks for up to 2-3 days though, to assure people didn't act too soon or went too far on personal feelings. The king decided to take some time to recollect his thoughts and took the long walk home. One day while going through one in a million speeches from his neighbouring king, he decided to take a break from the academic words and take some time to hear how the ordinary man was doing. He could recognize the field and the people, he was in his own country now. Eased up by the discovery, he increased the pace, only to find himself part of a conversation he hadn't imagined in his wildest of dreams. The peasants were talking about the arrival of a new king.
After a whole day on my shoulder, telling anecdotes, not only reminding me of my failure, but also of how I should have been as a leader, the pain gets ready for a long sleep, and finds a comfy spot in my dreams. It's a never-ending cycle I must accept as a part of my incompetence.
So how did it get this far, how could someone go as far as to say that the era is over? Was it because it was or are we talking about a misunderstanding here. I wish I could support the first, but sadly the latter is the winner. Not because the rest haven't been there, not because I wished for it, but because I did nothing to stop it. Because I watched as it all went down the drain. The responsibility that was handled to me, the honour my friends had won in battle; I let all slide right through my hands. All I had to do was close the gap, act, move my fingers, but no.
I had the choice, but all I did was decorate my own imaginary throne of acts meaning nothing. I am unworthy and horrible. Put simply I failed the rest of the scbr and stood by as people completely forgot just how great the scbr is. Honoured be their names, long be their memoirs told, great their funerals, greater the memory of them. I failed them, the pinnacle of man; Kalmarunionen, I beg of you, once again, forgiveness. I gave you up, but now, now the time has come to rise. The new era has begun.
Från tusen sjöars land
Till Danmarks väldiga åkrar
Oden, krigets Gud
Vad har du gjort med ditt spjut
Giv oss hopp
Dessa mörka tider...
Originally Posted by Yonathen
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