I was young and Golden as a child,
like so many of us are.
But this mad world
can be a constant barrage—
a beating
(Into your mind and body,
but never your soul.)
A rhythmic, pulsating beating
that grows in intensity
as one realizes—
their kindness,
their compassion,
their consciousness,
their unique perception of the world,
their idealism…
These earnest intentions
and beautiful traits
are alienating them here.
Causing a loneliness
that is unexplainable
and often unbearable.
It’s difficult to awaken
in a sleeping world.
In fact—
as one awakens more and more,
the sleeping world tries harder and harder
to lull them back into unconsciousness.
Ironically,
attacking them for being dreamers…
in a sleeping world.
It.
Is.
Madness.
And if we are lucky,
we learn to live with this.
To accept
that this mad world
cannot be made sense of.
And if you’re lucky,
you develop a healthy cynicism
out of your disappointed idealism.
Perhaps you learn
to break out of the programming
that tells you
to measure your well-being
by your ability to “function as normal”—
instead of measuring your life
by your inner peace
and your experience of joy.
If you are very lucky,
you develop a broad—
often “sick”—sense of humor.
One that makes the world
feel more tolerable.
One that connects you,
through laughter and openness,
to other kindred souls—
struggling to awaken
against the current
of this wacky, sleeping world.
It is a blessing—
a grace—
to find these rusty, dusty
Golden companions.
There is nothing like
the nurturance to the soul
that comes with laughter
and shamelessness—
that only arrives
after living long past
your failures,
your collapses,
your traumas,
your humiliations,
your heartbreaks.
Life is unbearable
until we can accept
our own humanity.
Until we learn
to live authentically.
And if you are very, very lucky—
you let truth to self
take precedence
over the disappointment
and judgment of others.
Because something inside says:
this is an emergency.
Something inside is screaming
that you would rather die
than go on living
as someone you are not.
And you don’t call that feeling ridiculous.
You don’t call yourself weak.
You don’t call yourself crazy.
You abide by your heart.
You take refuge there.
But this kind of luck
is coming to too few.
And I use the word luck
for a reason.
Because it feels arbitrary
that I am even alive.
Because I simply didn’t die
when I tried.
I developed a fear of suicide
after attempting twice.
And I lost the feeling
that my life was even
in my hands at all.
Still—
I felt suicidal
for a very long time after.
Just too afraid
to try again.
The kind of permission it took
to live like that—
barely breathing,
patting myself on the back
for surviving another day—
is something I can’t fully explain.
It is extremely hard
to live with yourself
when you reach that point.
It feels
as if you are nothing
when you do nothing.
Each day like that
welled up shame and sickness
so deeply
it felt physical.
Like I was dying.
Which, at times,
I secretly, guiltily
hoped was true.
Life felt like
I had awakened into a nightmare
I could not escape.
And no matter how I tried—
I could not return
to pleasant dreams.
I could not feel peace.
Not until
I began to shed
every idea
of who I thought I was—
or should be.
And in that shedding,
in that letting go
of needing to understand anything—
I discovered something:
Every space I released judgment,
I created space for love
to enter.
It had been easy
not to judge others.
Life had shown me, early,
how quickly I could become
what I once judged.
And I saw the beauty
of nonjudgment—
how people soften,
how they open,
how they become real.
What took me so long
was turning that same grace
toward myself.
It felt outrageous.
Impossible.
I was certain
something was terribly wrong with me.
And I was always trying to fix it—
or escape it.
I thought the world had broken me.
I thought I had lost my innocence.
I thought I was weak.
But I am—
and have always been—
Golden.
A Golden person
is pure in heart
and intends harm to no one.
You know them.
They are irreplaceable.
They refuse to kick you
when you are down—
or even when you are up.
They refuse to burden others—
often to their own detriment.
And that is what too many do not see.
Because the Golden
hide it well.
Even from themselves.
But the Golden
are struggling.
They are dying.
They don’t want to burden us
with their humanity.
They don’t want to let us down.
They are trying to be angels
in a world
we came to experience
as human.
But this world’s madness,
its insensitivity,
its impossible demands—
are alienating
its kindest and brightest.
Shaming them into hiding.
Convincing them
they are unworthy
of healing—
of life itself.
The Golden are dying
left and right.
And we call it a choice.
We say:
“They killed themselves.”
There is no one to blame
and everyone to blame.
But blame
is a waste of time.
Because it keeps us
from creating spaces
where the Golden can live—
where they feel safe,
free,
able to be
who they are.
We can keep going like this—
letting our Golden ones slip away.
Leaving the world
unknowing.
Until everything
turns gray.
Or we can recognize
what we are being shown:
Something is
far from right.
When we live in a world
that continues
to extinguish
its kindest
and brightest
lights.
Truth & Poetry 