The following text has a slightly different touch to it than I'd usually take. It's an experiment, one with many flaws, but I'm happy sharing this with you to get your thoughts on it, the text below. What works, what doesn't? Let me know!
The golden walls of optimism
I am an optimist. Trusting, not blind. The kind of optimism that explores the far-away with open eyes, that doesn't stop at the borders of imagination.
I am optimistic about the little things, like the one time I was lost in kindergarten, not finding back to my peers that were playing behind the blue walls, not the others. This, I knew from that day on.
I am optimistic about the bigger things, like when writing to my desired place of education, well knowing that I will be heading there when the time has come.
I am welcoming the growing seeds each new sun is guiding out of the soil we have been walking on. Intrigued by the change of wealth and wisdom the world has yet to experience, though it's not long until the fourth turning of the technological change, the one that once again will not be welcomed, be understood, for many turnings to come.
I am trusting that we will face the challenges, inevitable to come, with eyes reflecting the golden light, so bright, and a tongue so loud, the stars would mourn over their lost silence. And although their light has yet to travel the path of frozen emptiness, it will arrive, we will arrive.
. . .
I can trust because of the work that has been done, can think because I have the space to do, can speak because I am allowed to. I am from the place of the philosophers and the others, walking on the seeds of what was once the birthplace of the Greeks and is now the western law. I am a European, a free man, living in the world of so many that are not. I am allowed to be optimistic, protected by the good, that is protected by the walls.
It is those walls that protect from fear, barely visible from the inside, unbearable from the outside. It is the wall that allows for optimism, a future as bright as the golden mirror covering the innings of the caring shield. It is caring for all the things to be worried about, fighting all the things to be scared about. It is the mother that makes a happy childhood, so happy, that nothing but food (and the inevitable) would lower enthusiasm about life.
. . .
Standing close to it, one can only see themselves, reflected in gold that would put jealousy on the faces of every king ever throned. So much gold, at your disposal a slave for every act you can imagine, have no desire of fulfilling. So little poor and ugly, the kind of folk they, the kings, have had to deal with.
Standing there, looking at the painted picture of my world, what choice do I have but to be optimistic? It shines so bright that I sometimes wonder if I were dreaming that dream in which money would start falling from those skies, so rich and vibrant. Maybe, when we all have lost our jobs after the fourth turning, maybe then, the money would fall. And they would fall in red and blue and green and purple, reflecting the gold, the walls, that allow for my optimism.
. . .
I can trust because of the work that has been done, can think because I have the space to do, can speak because I am allowed to. I am from the place of the philosophers and the others, walking on the seeds of what was once the birthplace of the Greeks and is now the western law. I am a European, a free man, living in the world of so many that are not. I am allowed to be optimistic, protected by the good, that is protected by the walls.
It is those walls that protect from fear, barely visible from the inside, unbearable from the outside. It is the wall that allows for optimism, a future as bright as the golden mirror covering the innings of the caring shield. It is caring for all the things to be worried about, fighting all the things to be scared about. It is the mother that makes a happy childhood, so happy, that nothing but food (and the inevitable) would lower enthusiasm about life.
. . .
Standing close to it, one can only see themselves, reflected in gold that would put jealousy on the faces of every king ever throned. So much gold, at your disposal a slave for every act you can imagine, have no desire of fulfilling. So little poor and ugly, the kind of folk they, the kings, have had to deal with.
Standing there, looking at the painted picture of my world, what choice do I have but to be optimistic? It shines so bright that I sometimes wonder if I were dreaming that dream in which money would start falling from those skies, so rich and vibrant. Maybe, when we all have lost our jobs after the fourth turning, maybe then, the money would fall. And they would fall in red and blue and green and purple, reflecting the gold, the walls, that allow for my optimism.