Fire in the Thunderstorm

Strike one matchstick, and you may fail.

Try to uplift yourself in the pouring rain, and a sense of absurd humiliation may weigh you down.

That does not make it do forever.

I see people each day speak adamantly of having no hope, and I hear in my work people who feel they have no choice, no recourse. My calling is to lift whatever little drive I can. Because we are all struggling. We are all threatened by a black sky promising no hope, no shelter in this life. But a few of us, of an aggressive vein like myself see it as an unfortunate, but eventually empowering call to action.

Misery and distain are the scythe, but so long as a single hopeful man holds a sword in his heart, so long as a woman bears the shield of fidelity and defiance in her heart; there will always be battle and strife before the worst of life wins.

Sometimes, there is a perfume cloud of vices, of drink and powder and the listless rambling of the idle and confused. Sometimes the screen attempts to beat others down, and all is confusion, misery and anger.

But we are all people, we are all what we could BE, and the works which reflect what we want to make better than ourselves. I have seen people long gone, who made things that will stay in the mind, and outlast me.

Because we are smarter than the worst impulses of the group. We are not crowds, and mobs, and the terror and the hate of the lowest impulse. We can be more, we should be more.

No matter how the storm howls, the heart does not succumb to the cold and the dark even after it dies.