I’m not a thief, nor have I been bestowed with powers special or exclusive. Never will I get your full attention. Never will I shine, sparkle or glitter. I am not likely to appear before you as anything else than what I am. I have no talent to disguise the raw, perhaps uncomfortable parts. I am no thief to steal the colourful feathers of others. I won’t make an impression, my face, you will not find imprinted in your mind. I won’t impress with mere words, looks or thought. You won’t catch yourself wondering how it was possible I had not come your way sooner. I am a ghost. I am a humble being, accepting and peace loving. I try not to manipulate or dictate. I appear bear before everyone. I hide nothing and I distort nothing.
I try.
I try not to hide or distort anything. I try to appear bear. I try to be a humble being. I try to be a ghost. I try to impress with thoughts, with love, with ideas about sincerity. I try to stay upright, straight, fair, just. I try to fight spinelessness in everyone. I try to learn the talents of covering the raw and uncomfortable parts. I try to sometimes show more love than I feel. I try to sparkle, shine. I try always to get your full attention. I try to imagine powers of an exclusive kind.
Now is the time for actions: to wake from paralysing slumber, to stir after the many years of stillness. To try and find the waterfall in the middle of the peaceful lake. These times are hopeful and crushing at the same time. I have befriended hope many a year ago. My faithful companion, I lean on the mature advice of the heavy hearted hope. Mostly it is a liberating ally, but at times it is a wretched being, tormenting my poor soul because it can. Yet, I wake each morning with a freshness and fullness that only hope can make me own. I praise it then, I hang ornament like compliments on its already over decorated garment. Until the end of the day when invisibly it begins to torment me anew. At night, hope is most wretched at night. In sweet dreams I wrestle with its angels, I fight a bloody battle with its white covered agents. Hope sends its army to win me over from reason and better judgement. For the whole night I fight ceaselessly and wake to defeat. Still, in the morning, again, it is hope who dictates the terms, who makes the streets appear kinder, the river cleaner, the sun brighter and love much, much closer. I am helpless in the face of such an adversary.
I cannot deny the darkness and in no way do I wish to do so. It is part of the life that I am choosing to live, that I have been given to make the most of. The dark sometimes lingers for days, weeks. It knows no time and never appears considerate of others around. Dark is dark, a lord in the soul for uncontrollable periods of time. I never grow angry at its presence, never fully wish it away. Just like hope in its wretched form, the dark can propel the soul to find ways towards the light much faster. Then it escapes and realises that it is still in love with the world. In love with every moment, with every human, with every flower, with every street and tree, bridge and building, hill and cave and river and cloud. Somehow, at times, the dark learns to smile.
I feel I’m moving towards something with the same speed that I am moving away from something else. This makes me still, but humble and patient. I wait for another year.
