𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴,
𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘷𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦;
𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯
𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘯.
𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘴,
𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘭 – 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥
𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘺𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘴,
𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵.
𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴.
𝘗𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴,
𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩.
𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘯,
𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦?
𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧
𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥
𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘺𝘦𝘴,
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘦𝘶𝘷𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 – 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.
𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴,
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘥𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵
𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘰,
𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴,
𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.
𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯,
𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦,
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭,
𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴,
𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦… 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.
If only for myself I write these thoughts, I’ll write yet more, to satisfy my own yearn for expression, my own desire to be heard, to matter, to be greater than the some of my parts. I know that my mirror reflects a man greater than it’s shown, a man with potential untapped and projections uncapped. I see a man of honour, I see a man of trust and wisdom. A man who’s allowed experience to guide him but knowledge to shape him. I see him stand, I see him speak, compassionate and firm, a glaring light.
Yet still most days I wonder. Most days I’m aware of who I am, who I was and who I would like to be – and I wonder, had my previous self been a little more free, free to think free to read, free to learn, free to be; and he had stood before that mirror would he see what I now see? And if that be true, then had time been wasted? Maybe. Or maybe it’s the experience that allows context to be applied to new knowledge. Maybe it’s the pain, maybe it’s the memories, maybe it’s the thoughts that only I can access, in the darkest corners of pneuma that even allow such a reflection to be possible.
These moments lead me to think that my vision isn’t in-spite of experience, but tethered to memory of all ilk. What I mean is that hope is a result of understanding ones experience and supplementing that with knowledge. I’m saying that growth in and of itself is doomed vanity hunt. For I could educate myself one thousand times over, make all the right decisions on paper and still not be a better Asya.
Hope is my wonder and I’ll be forever busy…
All the times I told myself I’ll be fine,
I probably meant it.
When the stars in your sky won’t align,
you’ll change perspectives.
When your season just remains for a change,
then you’ll accept it.
Reason indicates there’s more pain,
no happy endings.