I bear witness to tragedy expressed in various ways. I live each day with bold renew that it s not me, this time. I regroup when it s a scare and I m involved, and I know the crushing weight of terror before those without my luck. I am the verification of hope, personified in stony reluctance to have it any other way. I gauge the ifs responsibly while subduing the horror of probabilities, naturally.
Where came this immortal invulnerability?
Does my mortal reliance beat so strong that it makes me extraordinary? What character I must have learned to confess these things.
Though I remember well when I felt these ways, I cannot recall that fearlessness I once knew. It just took one bruise to shake my confidence.
I wonder now how long luck lasts. How long could I have remained steadfast in my incorruptibility? Suddenly I feel vulnerable, and only now can I be honest about my fear. Perhaps this fear has always been there.
It is with fear now that I abide uncertainty. To whom can I reveal what I never imagined? Where can a blind person turn for comfort? From where comes this instinctive urge to protect others while it s me in need of reassurance?
