Hope

I am tired.

Tired from the blog-addiction-waiting-for-172-photos-to-load.
Tired from the 6 hours sleep. The expected knock at 1am fading into a deeper sleep.

Tired from the phasing-in, oh so gracious alarm at 6.55am.
The alarm to hearken a new, cloudy, winter's day ridged with pink tinged clouds that shake me to pine furthermore.

I reached for my phone; I wanted so badly to do it.
But closeted it into a recess; to pine at it in retrospect later.

I am tired from the sitting at the bus stop. The realization that the last months have been so lit that I have forgotten the anxiety late buses bring. The remnants of black cloud that hang thickly in your nostrils. The feeling that brings one word to my mind; repulsive.

The defeat so early in the day.
The surly shadow of a black kind of hope.


I am tired of the un-creative surrounds of an 'old' postmodernist building; tacked together to be the centre of the Salvation Army. First a worship place, then a classroom; then a shoddy classroom that wreaks coldness in winter, and emanates primary school projects of the circulation system, Alzheimers. And death.


I am tired of my elitism. That when sitting down my bourgeois ideas sank my true appreciation of new people; the smiles, the welcomes. The very reason I was sitting in that hall of better days.


I am tired of talk. The fatal mistake of collapsed cervixes. The pharmaceutical machine that brings more pain, than relief. The talk of everybody around me who had, at one time or another, been on a form of prozac.


The talk of endless pregnancies; endless lovers. Endless abusers.


I was tired of the film that presented procreation as our only incentive to live; that once done, the body inevitably degraded itself. The belief that there is no beauty in life, that once a hard deed was done, no matter what, no matter your food intake, no matter your belief in beauty and hope, no matter the 'better' life you strove for. 


Procreation and death was the crux of life.


I am sad that I meekly rage against a well oiled machine that feeds off in-equality; for every 100 people who are lost, who are 'disappeared, one person gets to grin to the theme song of cash tills opening. The cash till spilling his fortunes at his feet; bowing down to he who stands on a 100 crushed corpses. 


Shattered; hopeless. Tired.


I am tired from the few hours of dance; from the depths of Espana, and Europe; so alive in movement; as ruptured as the lands they descend from. For they too stand on crushed corpses waving the banner of survival.


I am tired.


But here I am. I sit writing, alleviated. Listening to the bird-like cacophony of Mongolian throat singing.
And it is in this moment that I see beauty.


Hope shines through again.


I remember that I am not tired of new birth. For today, as much sadness a tired mind may float, that same mind can remember moments of ever widening pools of colour.


For the documentary of death brought in its own wake the recalling of my family to the humble presence of a new birth. A cousin's first. Little Neive. Esperanza.


As the day comes to a close, and the lonely bird resettles in me, the chiaroscuro, burnt-sienna Himalayas return. The honorable rising above. The hope that love of fascination can bring.


The hope that sharing all, baring all; brings happiness.
The euphoria of knowing one is loved, not by anybody;
but with one who rises, like the lonely bird, to the mountain story.

And that is where we settle for the night.