So many of us are out at sea, looking for home. We try this way and that, battling the endless march of adversaries, led by cynicism and apathy. We fight them with every poetry we possess. We are gentle. We yield. We get back to navigating our crafts.
Every once in a while, exhaustion can turn into despair. The tiny flame, which takes our every resource to shield, blows out on an unexpected gust. Even then, lightless and alone, some of us remount our enterprise.
It helps to think of more than ourselves. It helps to see the earth workers, the artists, the mothers, the lovers, the singers, the poets and dreamers as threads in a web. By ourselves we are fragile strands, songs with no listeners, but together we are a relentless network. Wherever there is depression, there is colour made vivid by the grey.
When I feel this fog rolling in on me, I light fires of affection in the hearts of others. I tell them in tangible ways how the life they live makes me live mine differently, how precious and important they are to the rest of us. That fire then becomes like a beacon which burns through the grey and which I can sail towards.