See, this is the thing about trying to do good in a world full of bad – it pushes you to your limits, tests you. When I was younger, I was always labeled an idealist, a dreamer. After leaving home at 17, surviving abuse, homelessness, and coping with single motherhood, I thought life had beaten all the idealism outta me – I was wrong. Those same ideals, those same dreams are still there. But, in this world, at this time, in this place, I’m defeated – and the idealist in me realizes this.
The dreamer in me wants to keep going, wants to regroup, wants to keep hoping. But, at this point, I’m so beaten down, so mentally and physically drained, that I have to give up to keep going.
Who cares, right? Noone really. And, that’s the God’s honest truth. THIS is MY dream and I’m the only one who truly gives a damn about it. Loner, rebel, dreamer, those are my paths in life. Whatever. No, not whatever. Why? I don’t know. I do know that I’ll never be understood and rarely respected but that somehow and someway, I have to be okay with that, I have to accept that or I’ll forever be in a fight – with life, with people, with myself, with The Man Upstairs.
Yesterday, hope was dangled in front of my face like a glimpse of a mirror reflecting the sun’s brightness. That hope was quickly stolen when I was advised that my safety may be in jeopardy due to those who have a deep-seeded hate for those of a darker persuasion. I was shocked to hear those words and even more shocked to be confronted with such fear by someone I had began to trust. But, dem be da breaks, y’all.
So, I’ll do what I do, except this time, I’ll go at it with a lot less trust and idealism, much more caution, and with the knowledge that hate and hope will be my constant companions.