I build up these momentary victories...
idealize them in my mind.
Then tear them down for being what they are: momentary.
I wish for something lasting, longer than a breath or a passing day.
What hope is there in something to be born… only to die so soon?
To put forth time and force upon a thing so frail and needy...
Do I act for glory upon the act?
Do I yearn for the attention it gathers?
For a moment, a bright shining sun!
… but the next, darker than before.
Perhaps instead I do wish for a slow simmering.
A thing that lasts and lasts.
I would breathe its familiar scent and know it like my own soul.
Not to boil.
Neither to be stagnant.
Yet… I cannot quiet the eager expectation of more.
To think, to settle, to have the comfort of consistent…
It is a greater loss.
For even though the pain of falling from the highest height surely inflicts wounds,
Might I smile and tell the story of a scar that changed my eyesight,
And find hearts that reach for a knowing look of shared pain.
If climbing for a momentary victory means falling…
And losing that which I strive for...
(which is a deeper pain than not having it at all)
Let me lose all then and gain the heart of another friend.
For a heart will grow and live beyond these momentary days.