I’ve forged lives and too walked from them, with a seeming frequency I freely admit renders me surprised; though I swore to take the long road, I was in truth ignorant of its’ scope.
The lure of sweet sentiment, its’ warm depth and comfort; set against the oppressive fear and cold doubt that inherently accompany the unknown, that I march toward; surmise a paradoxical conflict I find mirrored in a thousand other aspects of myself, and this frame of instance.
I remind myself perpetually that I must look to my courage, to instinct and too hope; no matter how mired I become in the unique brand of cynicism that seeks to shape me in the throes of this crusade.
Could well be argued and oft is wondered at; the state of mine sanity.
Regardless subjectivity, or likelihood of despair; it’s conviction that shall deliver, it’s all I’m ever left.
I perceive incandescence though I speak so much of darkness, I’d have you know if nothing else, how brightly I regard you; all.
‘I may be late.’