Potential

The time I lamented about potential for ever. And then some.

Potential is carried on the wind, whispers of possibility that are tied to the air with clumsy-fingered knots. There isn't a way I could explain what it feels like, for this potential is something you have to feel for yourself. It can't be taught, it can't be learned, and it can't be lived vicariously though writing no matter how many books you read. I could use a thousand clichés, equate each and every one to it, and still not capture the essence of pure truth that is potential. 

Stand before a bridge, thin rope-and-wood and not entirely stable. Look to the other side, an idea so blindingly possible that it's all you can do not to reach out and take it, lock it away inside golden cage. The problem at hand is the bridge, for it is that bridge of doubt that is an essential part of the potential and has come to consume me. It has sent me turning on a heel and walking calmly from the beauty of possibility, and this bridge of doubt is my sole source of regret. 

There isn't a bridge I can't cross, not a throne upon which I cannot sit. 

To all missed opportunities, that I have now passed by, I'm sorry.

To the world, 

Here I come.

Author's Note

inspired by classical music, melancholy moods, and a day of doing nothing and feeling fantastic about it.

Reviews

[Celestial Witch Child]

You pulled off something which is truly difficult to accomplish- write an inspirational piece without coming off as cliché. Wonderful. (: