During my time here, I must hold on to the mystery held in the twilight, caught on silhouettes of leafy branches in the warm, humid breeze of Midwestern nights. I must hold onto the grandeur of a hike into the morning mist of Long's Peak, where my strength of mind carried the weakness of my body.
On these days, I must remember the passion-filled, painful runs during that summer where I almost lost all. I must remember the strength that I've carried into the heel hook and gaston when the stronger climber's mind failed and I was forced to do what I only thought of as impossible. (I can still feel my veins rushing from the thrill of life and conquered fear.)
In essence, I must remember the essence of my soul is stronger than what I now believe. My spirit awaits a word for its revival. With these hopeful remembrances, I lift up my now encumbered mind with how in the midst of such a glorious and poetic past that such a great future may await. In any regard, hope exists whether buried or flickering and will alight again in the presence of better days.