The Critic

It was a sad day for one cold, rain soaked man as he sat in the confessional.  His feeble words came out of his mouth as he tried to hold back the tears.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.  I have wrongly judged someone and ruined his reputation.  His music was beautiful, mature, and sensitive.  I said it was terrible.  People rely on my critique for their livelihood.  I’m so sorry.  I let my inferior understanding of music influence my judgment.  I am like the cripple who hates dancers, or the one that stammers in speech who hate orators.”
Some words are forgotten like the wind aloft that dies alone unless it swoops down and brushes against our souls.  Some are soothing, some are harsh, and some are alienated from the truth.  The severity of them determine the length of our convalescence.
Criticism with its pretentious smirk, lives in the shadow of itself.  With its back to the sun, it leans on only what it’s capable of understanding.  It sees only images of reality, distorted to cater to its own appeal.  Criticism with its roots firmly entrenched in truth and wisdom, has the authority to judge.  It sits at the crossroads of destiny and its fragile outcome.  It can be either righteous or immoral; exalting or degrading.  The beauty of truth is truth itself.
After his confession, the man walked home in the rain wishing only if he could retract what he said.  If only it were a bad dream; that he could wake up and it would be all over with.  Words are like the pollen that rides with the wind to random fields, far far away; too scattered to bring back.   I’m so sorry.