A story, A poem

Above the trees, beyond the clouds, in a place I only dream of, there lies a lovely bubble of glassy wonder, so small and fragile that a simple wisp of wind can crack it, scattering its millions of shards, spilling them down onto earth where they fall onto unsuspecting people. The bit lands softly onto their unsuspecting victims and dissolves, spreading through their entire bodies, but lingering nowhere but the heart. It stays there for  as long as it can, dwelling in peace, only torn away when the person no longer accepts it. When it turns to a burden or they simply choose to no longer believe. Then it leaves them. It slides slowly off them to the ground where is lays still for a time, dying. as it passed it whispers to its skyward home, a whispering wind that will break a new bubble and send a million shards into the world for every one that dies. it is like it never dies, but multiplies in number, infecting a many as it can for as long as it can. But now something is happening. some have become immune to these little pieces that come to them, a gift that they refuse. It does not sink in and dwell in their souls, reviving their desolate parts. It no longer keeps them going on their paths. it simply bounces off and shatters into a million more shards too minuscule to be noticed. it had no dying breath, as it was never able to live. It simply was, but no longer is. What is happening? The shards turn to dust and the people are left untouched. All but a few accept this gift. They relish each shard and hold it tight until the next comes along. They let it grow, overwhelming them until it dictates the very way they live their lives. Those few have such happy lives, what a pity to those that miss out. Why do they bounce off? A choice. It is their choice to accept or decline. Some have left it for good, others say it is fable. Some chose logic. Some chose realism. Others, could no longer handle it. Some have lost it. At least that is what they believe. They believe it is what they must find, so they search, but it cannot be found. They focus on what they must do to get it so they miss it entirely.  And still others have left it. it didn’t work for them. They didn’t get their way or they lost sight of their goal. They believe it is a waste of time. A gimmick, a pauper’s amusement, a tall tale. But it is not. It is as real as they are, perhaps more so. It is what all great men have and what low men crave. It is a task master that many are happily slaves to. It is the one thing that quiets fear and stands up to disaster. What is this mystical thing I speak of? I speak of hope.

Hope.