I’m not one for accepting my conditions; and it’s a rare occasion that I feel like giving up.
Most days I feel like fighting through everything the universe makes me think I should give up on. A part of that no-nonsense, headstrong, stubbornness that I possess.
But whether it’s up in arms, or in anticipation of a fight, my hands are thrown.
When in protest, I am reminded of my values.
When in preparation, I am reminded of my purpose.
It’s hard to have a sense of hopelessness when you’re hard-headed enough to persevere.
But I’m not sure that’s necessarily a good thing.
It’s in our best interest to be able to identify when something is no longer worth our efforts, or when the best option is simply to grieve the lack of desired outcome. It’s healthy to know when to quit, lay down arms, and accept a loss.
I, on the other hand, am often the lobster pinching at air as I’m pulled from the sea in a trap. It’s futile, but my spirit refuses to accept defeat.
Sometimes forlorn is a righteous sensation, and is certainly the more graceful, as negative as it may seem. It allows us acceptance, and therefore, peace, much sooner than protest.