#wordsnotmine

For lack of exact words, let me say that I feel gray clouds and yellow flowers. While I am rejoicing in the blossoming of Imelda grass, I am lamenting the darkening of clouds. I am the contrast. I am in between. Or I am the clouds. I feel sad about the fact that I have to let go of the water I’ve been keeping for a long time. Or I am the flowers. I feel happy about fact that the water in the clouds is now what it has been longing to be: the rain. Or, perhaps, I am the rain. You see, I don’t exactly know what to feel about it. But then again I realize that this is not about me. Be the clouds, for I will always look up to you. Be the rain, for I will always enjoy your shower, your pouring. Be the flowers, for I will always find time to gaze at the sublime simplicity of your blooming. Without you, I will wander lonely as a cloud. But these flowers are my golden daffodils. My memory of them is where time and space do not exist. I will always remember you in them.

It doesn’t matter how many possibilities they’ve missed -- thousands, millions, billions -- what matters is this possibility, right here and right now.

Is he ready? No, probably not. But his readiness is irrelevant because action and inaction are posing equal risks. Everything hinges on this moment. It might not come again anytime soon.