Has it ever happened to you
seemingly out of the blue
where you wake up one morning
and silently scream, "I am in a low, low funk,"
and you don't even know how it happened
or when it started?
You scroll back through your thoughts to recent happenings
and see many "little" things, but
none of them seem to be the root cause
of this nothingness - this slump,
this low, low, depressive state.
You had it all, so you thought.
You had life figured out, finally.
You were living in joy and shooting for the stars,
and your dream was very real in front of you.
Levity was your new norm, and in fact you even lifted others.
But there you are, now, refusing life, as if life has refused YOU.
You wonder which caused which?
What started what?
The proverbial chicken or egg question drives you mad
as it hangs in the air around you, freshly unanswered.
That which you swore you would not allow to happen happened,
and you don't want to face it.
You recall past inspirations from self and...
It’s nothing new, really. It has been stated a thousand times before, in a hundred different ways, and yet we still ask, and we wonder.
We doubt and fear, and often we just don’t believe in love.
Love, to some, is a far away ship that never comes in, or a star too far to dream of.
It is “the dream afraid of waking” and “the heart afraid of breaking.”
So we don’t take the chance, or we keep our guard up when we do.
Will my heart be broken? Will my soul be crushed?
Will someone take and not give back?
Will I be a fool for love? Will I lose the love … or lose myself in it?
Will I love too much, or too little? Will I know how to receive it?
Will I even know HOW to love?
Will someone leave once they see my shadows? Will they stay?
Will I be able to live with THEIR shadow?
Will I be committed enough, independent enough, lovable enough, dependent enough, brilliant enough,...
The elderly traveler sits by the roadway, sipping a cup of tea from water boiled over
an open fire. His cup is oddly shaped and hand-made out of clay from the river bank.
Long, silvery hair and leathery feet. The lines on his face bear a lifetime of defiant peace, and his eyes radiate a stalwart joy.
He's lived a life apart from the crowd - beneath them, some might say, but wiser souls reckon his place has always been in the realms of higher consciousness.
Resting whenever his body commands, his stamina lasts beyond norms.
The young, weary traveler is making
his way home. He is tired, but he must
keep moving. When his job is done, on
some elusive future date, then he can
rest, but for now there is no break. Tomorrow he will start all over again.
The sleep he will get tonight will have to
be enough to carry him through
another busy day. He hides his frustration like an obedient soldier.
Hungry mouths need food. His life and happiness can wait.