Missed Opportunities
There are so many of them. I figure we'd drown in them if we had to face them all at once. It does feel like drowning, like some inexplicable weight at my throat and not enough water all at once. I suppose I should fix that.
There is always hope. Sometimes we miss our chance and that's it, nothing ever comes of it, ever cam come of it again. People change, age, become trapped or grow apart. The walls become the foundations of who they are and what they can do, what they're capable of or willing to be. It's unfair and ugly in all the meanings we mean around the words, but it's the truth. A truth. Hideous and ugly and unloved for the pain it brings. What a horrible reputation. No one--well, almost no one deserves that. Double danger in action. It's undeserved, but it necessarily happens. What are we fighting against if it isn't, anyway?
And yet, somehow, there's hope. Maybe not for what could have been, but what could come to be from now on? It sounds like I should be laughed at for thinking that, that the words together should be mocked and denied and I should suffer with and for them. And I suppose I do, if it is only done by me. Nothing and no one can shatter our hopes and dreams as unrelentingly and thoroughly as we can. Perhaps maybe all that we need is something to place in their stead, something new to work towards or strive to be. How we know for sure what that is is beyond me, and yet it seems as though it can only grow from or be realized internally, given to oneself.
Where is our hope?
There is always hope. Sometimes we miss our chance and that's it, nothing ever comes of it, ever cam come of it again. People change, age, become trapped or grow apart. The walls become the foundations of who they are and what they can do, what they're capable of or willing to be. It's unfair and ugly in all the meanings we mean around the words, but it's the truth. A truth. Hideous and ugly and unloved for the pain it brings. What a horrible reputation. No one--well, almost no one deserves that. Double danger in action. It's undeserved, but it necessarily happens. What are we fighting against if it isn't, anyway?
And yet, somehow, there's hope. Maybe not for what could have been, but what could come to be from now on? It sounds like I should be laughed at for thinking that, that the words together should be mocked and denied and I should suffer with and for them. And I suppose I do, if it is only done by me. Nothing and no one can shatter our hopes and dreams as unrelentingly and thoroughly as we can. Perhaps maybe all that we need is something to place in their stead, something new to work towards or strive to be. How we know for sure what that is is beyond me, and yet it seems as though it can only grow from or be realized internally, given to oneself.
Where is our hope?