A Fighter's Prayer

Voices go in one ear, out the other
Yap. Whine. Scream. Shout. Laugh. Cry. Whisper.
A tornado with myself in the middle as I stare helplessly,
hopelessly,
into violent chasm of who’s, what’s, where’s and why’s.
The ground becomes sand beneath my feet and I’m sinking as the tornado tightens its turn, not unlike a corset binding a waist, linen wraps enshrouding a mummy, an overbearing aunt entrapping their nieces and nephews.
Pain. Overwhelming pressure. As if only a piece of glass, my composure and my sanity creak and strain under the pressure, threatening to explode,
A thousand shards becoming a thousand daggers to impale themselves on those I love.
I hate it. I hate it so much I wish my passion could ignite a flame to burn away the terror and stress, leaving only a calm and clear mind to which new ideas and my future can grow.
I scream as the sand becomes my straightjacket, my vice, my censorship if you will.
And as I pray to my Rock I wonder—is this how the strong are made?
Does every strong man and woman who walks their spirit and becomes a light for others bright because they have shined in the darkest places already? I hope I can do the same.
I hope I’m strong enough to stand on the rock.
Not just to cling to it in the midst of the storm that threatens to tear me to pieces, but to stand.
And stand tall.
Taller than the voice that whispers doubt when I absently stray from the path I tread.
Taller than the other person who screams for violence and retribution that is not mine to enforce.
Taller than the temptations that lope beside me
Taller.
Just taller, and never alone.

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