How often have you succumbed to that clinging feeling of defeat? To the heavy weight of hopelessness? Ideas unrealized, goals unmet, and shattered plans can be the shepherds that lead us into that field.
But there’s hope. I beat a dead horse with this topic, because it’s critical that we realize it within ourselves and grow it within others. The moment that you lose hope is the moment that you kill those dreams. Don’t lose hope, and don’t let others trample what you’ve created.
Hope is real, even when you don’t feel its warmth. It’s all in the belief that anything is possible. Let’s not give up on ourselves, our goals, and our hope. Be well, and thanks for reading.
With the events in Manchester unfolding, my thoughts drifted to a piece that I’d written previously. Times like these make you think; I believe that the key is to not lose faith in humanity. To not lose faith in the belief that we can be better…and in turn, do better. We can’t give up on hope. Just a thought. Peace and blessings to all.
Originally posted on 10-8-12, this poem is a little reminder that there is hope at the end of every dark tunnel, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem. The key is to keep moving forward; pushing, clawing, grinding…whatever it takes, until your eyes can see clearly once more. Always reach out to those going through troubles; lend a helping hand, and make a point to uplift rather than put down. Make an effort to find your peace…and help others discover theirs. And remember to never fear the journey.
Twenty years imbalanced.
Twenty years spent roaming the stillness and
bedding down in a locked room.
Twenty years imbalanced-
a steaming brew boiled within those walls,
bubbling over and staining the pot with its
Bubbles rose to the surface and exploded
spirits rose and fell like ocean tides,
and emotions rode those waves like daring
surfers in search of that unattainable thrill.
Thoughts and hopes and dreams appeared and
dissipated like gobs of rain under a hot sun-
twenty years imbalanced-
parched and afloat, drifting along choppy seas,
surrounded by irony, and unable to take a sip-
the know how just wasn’t yet there,
so he treated himself like a book,
and became an encyclopedia-
and yet dusty and unread,
his pages stained with longing and mystery.
He learned to read himself, word for word,
until a detailed silhouette materialized.
A volume was left open on a table one
close to an open window-
a ripe plum purple morning, threaded
with the orange mists of dawn, and streaked
with whispering winds-
winds that meandered through the window and stirred
the sediments of dust and waste…
an eager gust crept along the table and
managed to turn a page…
Twenty years imbalanced.
Twenty years unsteady, unguided, unheard-
twenty years locked behind silent, mirrored walls,
examining and learning the words of himself-
the opening of that window flipped a page,
just a random page,
with a new one resting calmly beside it-
a new chapter-
waiting eagerly under
the brilliance of the rising sun*