For each breath in, take two breaths out
And slowly fade away.
Your burdens will get heavier
Day by painful day.
You give your food to others who
would have you starve as well
Gray gets only grayer in
the very depths of hell.
Search, contemplate your dark abyss
You'll find no sure way out.
Life lived in colorless expanse
Is worse than death or drought.
Though leave you can't, you'll comfort find
In echos or the hand
That reaches in and hold your heart.
And maybe then you can
At least exist. At least go on.
At least for one more day.
You're stronger than you were before
So [slowly] wend your way.
Light ahoy? Perhaps it's still
too early to be told.
But light I'll find, I'm sure I will.
At least I can grow old.
There's something about not only knowing where you are, but having the comfort that others know as well. It makes the ignorance we suffer feel less catastrophic. It makes us feel we are valid WITH trials we face. The moment we allow ourselves to have problems is the moment we can remove the weighty label of guilt on our already heavy, mortal baggage. It's the moment we stop looking for a non-existent exit, all the while cursing the pieces of us that get in the way, and turn instead towards accepting what we have and doing what we can: moving, however slowly it may be.
After all, when looking back on someone's life or even while they're still alive, we rarely define them by what they have failed to accomplish. When asked "Who is she?" we never say "Well, she's not a pianist, she's never hiked Mt. Kilimanjaro, and her name isn't and never will be Suzie." With a few exceptions, we define people by what they are accomplishing or have accomplished. "Well, she's this awesome girl who's studying English Teaching. She speaks Chinese and has the coolest family ever and the most awesome friends. She's an artist, musician, writer, runner, and super nerdy. Although she's vain enough to write paragraphs about how great she is, she's pretty cool."
