I call it harsh, may be hard life if you can see. Nothing’s permanent I know but I ought not to stop. The huge trees tossing in the storm make me want to go dreaming again. The winds will transport me back to my land I assume. And why the heck should I not assume? It’s all in my fists- tiny delicate fists, enclosing my whole self, enclosing each and every soul in the universe.
What would it be to unfurl yourself at the pinnacle of a mountain, cold and deathly? This would be it. This is what driving me to run. Knock to the winds, ask them for the passage and start! Who am I stop myself? Who can stop me anyways? It’s all in the fists. Nobody is my master, nobody is my slave.
I do fear the summit, being a lone ranger, looking for a companion. I suppose everybody fears. But what cannot be mine now will never be mine. I open my wings at last, to soar.
Much out there to be tasted.
“The greatest achievement was at first, and for a time, but a dream.” -- Napoleon Hill