I write these words, hoping to have a therapeutic transaction between us. Them and me. Them—the words—to go away, and me: to move a step closer to more steps ahead. I tell myself, “I write for myself.” Yet these steps are a never-ending stretch of fatigue and the thought of you reading this, quickens my pace. So is the work of those enthralled with words…or so I hope.
-Toto
what is it about moments lost.
sought our own demise but
we are riders of the league of
hopers. no more can be said
of the lost in their shells,
thinking they are riding to battle
but moments ago we too were
a league of the demised.
You sigh as the clocks tick by.
here, there; where are you now?
All was lost when you would not be found
We are the outcomes of those hopeful tales
Hope was lost when you could not be around.
here, there; where will I go now?
Looming atop our heads are things so many, so different: subjective worries. The constant poke to your brain. Reminder that to battle a time of incoming trouble, you must stop your current state of peace. Willingly rid yourself of happiness so not to have it snatched away from you.
Sometimes we do not wait for things to work out, to make sense. The fear of happiness being killed has killed happiness more times than any other trouble ever could.
Realize this:
Needle in hand, pop a balloon on will.
Or have it unknowingly popped behind your back.
What’s different?
The method, sure.
Yet both reach the same conclusion:
A burst balloon.
Because, to have hope despite how ever bleak the world may seem, is perhaps one of the hardest feat to conquer.
For it might not always prevent the ballon from bursting,
but at least it will stop you from being the one to do so.
-Toto
P.S. Shifted to a new city, new house. Thus a new post so late. 😦 I will try to write more about this whole change as soon as I get internet that doesn’t most of the time vanish into thin air! 🙂
tinkerer of words 