We are but raindrops in the cosmic order of things.
Blink and we are gone.
No less beautiful or valuable for all that.
But fleeting. Very fleeting.
And yet... In that moment we are fire!
We are the salty sea and everything within it.
We are passion and power and purpose.
We are the voice that ignores the cry of the crowd and listens to the still, quiet voice in us that says to hold on. To persist. To carry on. To walk another step when our juice has drained away and the light of our spirit is all that we have left.
As Dylan Thomas said....
Do not go gentle into that good night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The world may seem grey at times.
It may seem like an ever turning wheel or a fighting force that punches us in the face for eternity.
There are 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 planets in our observable Universe.
Given that fact it is unlikely that humanity is a rare and special snowflake.
And yet... Is the Dawn any less magnificent because we expect the Sun to rise tomorrow?
So, hold on.
Grip on to life like you have a dozen tentacles and that whatever lies beneath is not a portent of a grey tomorrow. But merely the febrile scratchings of another glimpse at the fabric of forever.
