It's been a long, winding, and twisted road
though I've been sure of every step I've taken.
My heart still bleeds when I look back,
and sometimes I fear I will be, again, mistaken.
The closer you get towards the people
and things you love and bring you hope
(or simply make life more or less ok)
the higher will be the risk for pain, loss,
or disappointment (or surprise, or elation).
Yet somehow I still feel as if, somewhere
along the way I learned all the wrong lessons
at the wrong places at the wrong times; as if
I have made all the wrong choices
at the wrong moments and for the wrong reasons.
But isn't that how it always is?
Life, the hardest riddle to decipher;
you never know if you're doing it right.
Is this what makes us human?
Uncertainty (And a guarantee
of continuous failure) (and surviving
through the merciful forces of luck,
and most importantly, coincidence)?
Or is it the exhausting persistence
of desperate hope that we build and
decorate with expectations only even
remotely measured by our own emotions?
Or the ability of putting ourselves
through all of it time and time again,
in spite of how much it kills us.
never giving up hope?
Is it possible, then, that stumbling
upon happiness as you would
(coincidentally) with a flower,
or danger, or a four leafed clover,
the only way of finding it?
F.M.
though I've been sure of every step I've taken.
My heart still bleeds when I look back,
and sometimes I fear I will be, again, mistaken.
The closer you get towards the people
and things you love and bring you hope
(or simply make life more or less ok)
the higher will be the risk for pain, loss,
or disappointment (or surprise, or elation).
Yet somehow I still feel as if, somewhere
along the way I learned all the wrong lessons
at the wrong places at the wrong times; as if
I have made all the wrong choices
at the wrong moments and for the wrong reasons.
But isn't that how it always is?
Life, the hardest riddle to decipher;
you never know if you're doing it right.
Is this what makes us human?
Uncertainty (And a guarantee
of continuous failure) (and surviving
through the merciful forces of luck,
and most importantly, coincidence)?
Or is it the exhausting persistence
of desperate hope that we build and
decorate with expectations only even
remotely measured by our own emotions?
Or the ability of putting ourselves
through all of it time and time again,
in spite of how much it kills us.
never giving up hope?
Is it possible, then, that stumbling
upon happiness as you would
(coincidentally) with a flower,
or danger, or a four leafed clover,
the only way of finding it?
F.M.