Day 5

At times, hope is a double edged sword, consistently being parried and pushed back into you. Its finely honed edge deftly ripping you apart where you stand.

At times, hope becomes a dark sphere of bitterness, so full of resentment over its failure to come to fruition that you must crush it down into a tiny black ball of nothingness and hurl it out into the depths of the ocean that is life.

Yet somehow, even as you stand there, gazing out into the surf, pondering what you’ve thrown away, that little black ball of hope gradually makes it’s way back to you, rising and falling with each wave until it once again rests at your feet.

You can try once again to rid yourself of it by grasping this sphere of hope with both hands and smashing it upon the jagged rocks, ignoring your bloodied knuckles, endlessly dashing your hope into ever smaller pieces as the freezing water swirls around you.

Its simply something you must do. knowing its not healthy to hold onto these desires, knowing in your heart of hearts such dreams aren’t likely to become reality.

Yet, when you finally collapse into the sand, exhausted, certain you are rid of it, you’ll notice it’s all still there, intermingled with the sand, the seaweed, the rocks, and the surf are little pieces of that hope you once held dear.

You can never fully rid yourself of it.

Hope may change in form, you may even turn your back on it and deny it’s existence, you may trick yourself into believing that the clouds have parted and sun now shines upon you after so long spent in the darkness.

Yet, deep within you, hope still remains.


The Untitled

June 19, 2014.

Its 2:55 in the morning. As I spend another sleepless night blankly staring at the ceiling, contemplating on life and happenings and of wishes not fulfilled and of words misunderstood, waves of emotion jostle the boulders of rationality, and I suddenly find myself overpowered. I feel vulnerable, pushed to my very limits, a test of patience I cannot further withstand. I feel uncomfortable, almost choked at suppressing the obvious any longer, and an urge to write enthralls me, to give a voice to the unsaid, to put abstractions to words. I look out at the clear night sky one last time before my hands take on to punching keys at its will. I write on :

I stare at the skyline
Spread ahead, then disappearing
Lights blinking in and out
Writing stories in the sky
And telling tales I can’t hear
And I think of the ripples of water
In the inky sea, too dark for me
To see anything but wavering
Reflections in; distorted stories
And trembling tales I’ll never know
And all I can think of is the fact
That I’m thankful for the skyline
And the lights
And the stories
And all I don’t know
Because if it was only the sea
Stretching without a break
In front of me, I’d think of things
Like forevers and promises and
You. I’d think of things I can’t have
And I’d think of words that mean
Everything, and nothing
And I’d be a wreck because all I
Know is that infinities scare me.