2002.01.01 Hopeful Melancholy

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Time rolls inexorably forward. By wit or by fortune, I think that my vision can pierce ever so slightly into the gloom before me. My cynical soul, ever tensed for possible hardships, is somewhat blind to any looming potential that is not a threat. While my gaze is fixed on the reefs of grief that I forsee raking across the keel of my being, it is hard to see the wonderous beauty that is now.

I must try harder. The now is so quickly evaporating into a barely tangible mist of then. It curls from me in intricate, delicate, fleeting whisps of moments that are scattered on the breeze of my hopeless wishes.

The wishes are my own ragged breath, uttered while foolishly inspired by images I imagine being reflected in the diminishing now. I try to convince myself that the reflections are only shapes that I want to see, not what would have been possible, but my heart is adamant. I feel the loss of my hopes as keenly as if they had been real - and it drags my thoughts defensively away from the now, and flings them on the reefs ahead.

Please, let me find the strength to endure my own hope - so that I can savour it's loveliness while it is still visible, even if it isn't real.

Time rolls inexorably forward, crushing beneath it years and hopes with equal ease.

I know there will be another now, waiting for me beyond the reefs.

I know that if it is even half as perfect as this now seems, it won't be real either.

I cling to the comfort that my humour, my honour, my cynicism, and my love are always real.

May they always keep me afloat, no matter how tempestuous the now.