I am still here. Again, I open my eyes onto a world that remains in place. The night has only brought dreams; no resolutions.
There is a chill in the air. It is summer and yet it wants to be something else. I wrap myself in the promise of tea and descend the stairs.
Mornings have become this. They have become times of acceptance and resignation. This is how it will be for each of my days in which I wake. There is no world out there that offers sunshine. Only slate grey skies await.
Still, I rise.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
In evangelical mode, I rose from sleep this morning. The dream that had played upon my sleeping self had been about betrayal. One person after another person turned their backs upon me even though they saw what the world had done. I wasn’t begging nor pleading, I was only continuing with my grey dawns. And yet somehow they had me down as a charlatan and a fraud. Face after face, friend after friend, family after family, all turned away.
Shunned. I was being shunned.
Somebody had been planting the seeds of doubt around my home. Somebody had been turning the earth, refreshing the soil for another plague of locusts. And they were coming, as true as the slate grey skies would come. But this time, the skies would be grey and clamorous with the multitudinous beating of their wings. And when the blighted crops would raise themselves, deformed and devoid of hope, the plague would descend and devour them.
In my dreaming self, I walked towards the sower who was turned against me. My arrival brought him to slow his activities. He would not turn, but I knew it to be my father.
My father is long dead now. I believe that he wouldn’t betray me, but something has. Each day when my eyes open to greet a new world, the old one smirks back at me. Each time I allow the seeds of hope to fill my palms, they shrivel and die.
When slowly (and nobody comes with a light)
Its heart sinks lower under the sod.
But something has to be left to God.
Yet, still I rise. I rise every morning because that Is what I have always done. I rise to the promise of sunshine even when only the grey of the world awaits. I will rise, not for my mug of tea, but for the chance of something better. I will not bother God or any other deity with my concerns, but I will rise.
And there I go, all preachy and full of promise. The world awaits to knock the shine out of my hope. Yet, still I sit here at my desk and write the words I now cannot say. In a darkened room, all alone, I may whisper them so as not to be overheard. I may be cursed with bad luck, the worst kind, but still I rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Whoever that cloaked character was, it was not my father. It was doubt dressed as man. Me dressed as doubt. When it has all betrayed me, I will rise. I will rise every mother fucking grey day and I will go about my business of keeping the flame alive.
I need to rise each morning and feel that, for that day, there will be some sunshine, some rain, some life-affirming pain.
And whatever curse I may have dreamt about was just that…a dream.