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I must believe.
There is a type of longing that is equivalent to deep suffering.
It pulls intently on your heart and spirit while equally bearing down heavily on your being—every day.
Deep, weighty inhale.
You carry these longings quietly. You’re told you’re impatient if you express the longing.
You’re told you’re not fervent enough if you shut them up within you. It’s enough to make anyone go mad.
I now understand the old passage that says, “When hope is differed, it dries up the bones.”
The waiting crushes you.
When does it end?
How many dreams must be buried before one is accomplished?
Tears swelling. Slow, steady, trembling breath.
Some days are far worse than others. I realize this is not permissible to admit outwardly.
How does one make space for the strength that is hope, with all these naysayers creeping in at every corner?
I open the front door without thinking, and these demons come funneling in like old familiar voices. It is maddening.
Enough to make even the strongest mind snap—roaring into the silencing wind.
Panting, frustrated anger.
Fury fills me. I can feel the rope of hope that I cling to unraveling.
Temperance, you demanding beast.
Patience, you impertinent master.
When will you have finished with me? Am I a lost cause? Will I be mocked by these spectators forever?
On my knees. Bowed head.
Still, I know, even amidst the madness, I must surrender. I must believe.
There is no reasoning with profound suffering. It demands all of you—even those hidden weaknesses attached to your deepest desires.
Fists unclenching. Looking up slowly. Standing up firmly.
Measured, deep breaths.
Crush me. Refine me. Make me new.
Let the fire of my teachers clear the dross so that I may walk wholly into the beauty that awaits me. Whenever. Wherever that may be.
Eyes closed. Tears flow.
Deep inhale—slow exhale.
Longing is the price of deep desires.
Crushing is the price of patience.
Surrender is the price of receiving.
Every path an artist or creative has known will know and repeat this treacherous yet fulfilling journey of being a conduit of dreams and visions again.
For there is no beauty without ashes first.
There is no soothing joy without pain.
There is no life without adversity.
With open eyes, a tender heart, and a solemn being.
My breath is both in me, out of me, and beyond me.
I am aware of the winter’s night breaking away from my soul.
I am within the flow of new beginnings.
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