Discipline. Some people wear it like they wear a pair of
uncomfortable boots. They suck it up and walk it out. They see it through no
matter what. There is no exception.
There is no limit. It is what it is and there’s no use imagining “what ifs.”
It’s a terrifying kind of admirable. A sickly kind of glory.
Blood streaming down your face as you finish the race with a gash in your forehead.
Sweat covering your brow as you dance until you are sick then collapse after
the final bow.
Grit. Determination. Perseverance.
Hope.
A stubborn relentless hope that dashes the shore again and
again and again with its force.
It breaks upon the rocks day in day out sometimes barely
audible then deafening as it thunders towards land driven by a storm.
A desperation for something better so keen that it repeats
itself day after day after day. Hour after hour. The same path, the same
mistakes, the same hope, the same plans, barely changing in its course.
Tumbling, burning, ripping.
It recedes and returns. Always coming and leaving and coming
and leaving.
And you can’t even see it, the dent it makes.
The way it’s painfully slowly minusculey weathering the
rocks that line the shore.
Until it is smooth and there you stand on the edge of what
used to be cliff covered in craggy rocks and razors that cut the bare foot.
Smooth, it’s smooth and washed back, receded into the land.
The cliff broken down, tumbled into a hill.
All that discipline, determination, grit. It sanded back the
resistance.
