A wondrously fierce spring thunderstorm came rolling through yesterday and as much as I adore the enchanting sounds of an energetic and mighty thunderclap, I couldn’t help but feel dejectedly wistful. At the beginning of this year I had devotedly envisioned welcoming a new season of storms in my own home. I yearningly believed I’d be nestled under the solacing asylum of my own roof, observing the heavens as they opened up and leaked brilliant fluorescent tendrils onto the earth below. Curled up on the couch, my sidekick faithfully by my side and my laptop by the other. Being so at peace whilst gazing upon tricking rain and finding inspiration through the delightful and ever-changing scenes on a crystal canvas.
Yet who would have thought that with the turn of an upbeat New Year, nine months later and I’d be no better off. Just another brutal repetition of stagnant erstwhile years. More regret and wasted time to affix to the already excessive burden that I haul.
When does it get better?
When will my dreams finally come to pass?
I must sound like a stubborn child, impatient even but I’ve paid my dues and I feel like I have every right to be foolishly frustrated. What am I missing? What am I not doing correctly? When will something phenomenal land in my lap?
I suppose not all is completely lost. Hope. That is something I seem to produce by the bucketful; a never-ending supply of resilience. This year is far from over and a great deal could manifest itself yet, especially within the spate of four months. Something so wonderful, so grand and exciting that camouflages the bad forever.