Hope is a silent prayer, the notes of which are born in the breath and die at the lips.
Hope is the silence between two beeps of a heartbeat monitor, and the expectant wait for the next.
Hope is the cold floor when you pull yourself out of bed and wipe away the dried up tears and snot off your face, and get going, day after day after day.
Hope is the pink dawn and the cool morning breeze, the soft promise of a new beginning.
Pain comes in all colours and shades,
It is always there, looming around the corner;
Turn around and you might catch a glimpse before it fades.
It is a black whirlpool that sucks all joy away;
It is the blood and saliva exploding across the world as she screams;
It is the silent grey of deserted cities and decay,
It is the iridescent colour of shattered glass and broken dreams.
It is the oozing red and the silent tears after a fall,
It is the orange and yellow of a pyre burning bright,
It is the white silence of betrayal, when, for help you call,
It is the dark blue of the long tunnel of struggles you walk, no end in sight.
It is the flash of silver and the blood that follows,
It is the deep purple that consumes you and leaves you hollow
It is a roar, an eclipse – O! Will you ever be whole again?
Self-destruction isn’t just slits on arms and poison and jumping off rooftops, is it? It is in the tear stains on your pillow each morning. It is the faraway look in your eyes. It is the loud music that drowns away your screaming and sobbing. It is lying awake night after night, staring at the ceiling.
You lock away the pain and the guilt in some far corner of your soul, where no one can see it. You are glass shattered into diamonds. You flash sugary smiles. You’ll carry graveyards on your spine till you can’t handle it anymore and you’ll fall. And the dark circles underneath your eyes will slowly suck your soul in like a black hole.
Life will toss you around like you’re a rag doll and wound you all over. Life will push you around and knock you down over and over again. But knocking the wind out of you is the only way to remind yourself how much you love the taste of air. You’ll feel like you’re caught in a storm, surrounded by destruction and rain. But I’ll tell you, my dear, that a storm’s just excited rain. It’ll soon drain itself out and leave a rainbow in its wake. So stick out your tongue and taste Life’s bittersweet flavour while you still can.
Look up at the sky, at the twinkling stars, so many of them that you’ll run out of numbers before you can finish counting them all. Look at them. Look at the big, vast Universe around us, engulfing us in a dark blue blanket. There is just one of you out there. And you have no right to deprive the universe of the breath taking beauty that is you. You have no right to make the Earth miss the feel of your weight, to make the wind long for the feeling of ruffling through your hair, to snatch away our privilege of hearing your melodious laugh.
The moon sneaks beside you every night and dances upon your face, praying that you’ll still breathe tomorrow, wishing that you’ll outshine his glow the next day. And the day after.
You are precious.
You are loved beyond words.
You are important, because the universe will collapse without you.
So breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Life will be magical again.
Fight, my dear;
For you have fire inside you,
The fire that once burned in a star.
Heads up, my dear;
For you have strenght inside you,
The strength of the mountain standing tall.
Fly, my dear;
For you have dreams inside you
Your dreams – the wind beneath your wings.
Laugh, my dear;
For you have mirth inside you,
The mirth of a river skipping towards the sea.
Dance, my dear;
For you have rhythm inside you
The rhythm of the rain falling on the ground.
Believe, my dear;
For you have light inside you
The light of the stars that burned up to become you.
My soul is a library that screams out me.
Within its caring, loving shelves,
It holds the story that is me.
There are books old and yellowing;
There are books unwritten, waiting to be opened;
There are books I read over for old time’s sake.
These hold stories unspoken,
The things they make me.
Would you read through me
Or would you leave the pages half read?
Oh, but hold these books with tender hands,
For they hold treasures within;
These books hold memories,
They hold people in them.
Some people are simply sentences,
Others own complete books.
They all make me, shape me;
Their inky marks adore my soul.
Would you roam into the darkest corners of my library?
Would you blow the dust off and read?
I sure am writing you down, my friend,
But my dear, would you write down me?