The Beauty of the Stained Glass

Its greatness overshadows its heartbreak; its beauty hides its inner being. We stand and stare saying pretty things about it. We comment that we have never seen such beauty. We ask our neighbor why their glass isn’t as intricate and beautiful as this stained window. Why can’t they just be more like this stained glass? If it can achieve this level of perfection then what is stopping them from doing the same? Behind the stained glass, hidden from view, roams an ugly beast. Foam runs from its mouth – its cracked and bleeding claws rip at its cage, its very existence. Its deafening screams permeate the air, yet we do not hear. Its very existence is a mystery to us for we have failed to see through the stained glass. We venture further into this prison of death. The darkness moans in pain as the demons slice through its mind. There is no escape from its evil, no running from its cold, morbid grip. We find our way out of the dungeon and make our way to the door. The screeching of a thousand demons pierces our ears, our minds numb in pain. We leave through the big, hellish door. But from the outside it is a masterpiece. Silence fills our souls as we consider our experience. We look at each other, and we appear transparent. I see right through your crystal clear windows and into the room where your demons reside. You appear imperfect, ugly, and bruised. But you are no mystery. I know your struggles; I feel your pain. I hold you up, I support you, and you thrive. The stained glass, on the other hand, appears perfect. No one touches it for fear of the consequences. It seems so holy, so upright. Every day it keeps up its appearance; every day it falls further into hell. Its outer beauty is its demise. Its pride tells it to be perfect, to be the token of splendor. It has none to lift up its sunken beams. It fights an uphill battle; a single unarmed warrior against a multitude of powerful killers. It is doomed for eternity. It struggles through the years, yet no one knows. They continue to marvel at its beauty; only you and I know its true story. As pride grows old with time the stained glass begins to fade. It is a shade darker now, with devilish undertones. People refuse to recognize the demons so ever lightly imprinted on its panes. Another year passes and it becomes another shade darker. The glass rattles. The stain has taken another color. A screaming face presses to the glass, its eyes bulging and bloody, its chip fingernails scratching franticly, yearning for an escape. The door, so magnificent and grand, now shakes on its hinges. The noise of the tens of thousands of demons filters through its cracks. A heavy fog seeps under the door and through the cracks now present in the walls. Screams for help are blocked by the thickness of the veil of glass. The cries go unanswered. The torturer’s deep, chilling laugh fills the halls as cries of anguish flow through the corridors. Another year and the glass breaks. The walls crumble down, leaving the insides open, vulnerable. Countless rats race around, their stench saturates the air. Morbid darkness is ever present, and from it there is no escape. This is the beauty of the Stained glass.