Ojalá con gallardía
Encarar pudiera
Mis temores que marchitan
Los primores de la vida,
Mas mientras del árbol
De la juventud
Todos gozan de sus frutas,
Quedo impotente yo
Ante sus mudanzas.
Ah condenado estoy
A verlas madurar
Hasta que de la rama
Se desprendan y a la tierra
Se caigan.

To sing the victor's song
'Fore victory's dawn,
Is only the first loss
Of many to come.

perfection must be
the fastest runner
because nobody,
nobody

has ever caught
it

the day is fleeting,
so why not seize it?

you might not
get the chance
tomorrow

I may never meet you in person...
I may never know your name...
I may never hear your voice...
But that does not mean that I am incapable of understanding your pain.

This is not my teaching, but I must share it:

Imagine your trauma is but a glass of water.
You pick up this glass and
Hold it in front of you.
A minute passes.
Is the glass of water heavy?
No, and that is normal.
An hour passes, and your arm
Begins to hurt.
Three hours pass, and
It becomes almost unbearable
To hold the glass up.
The longer you hold on to the glass,
The heavier it seems to become.
Yet, the amount of water remains the same.
It is normal for the glass to not
Feel heavy at first,
Just as it is normal
To think back
On past traumas
From time to time.
But the longer you
Hold on to these memories,
And the more you think of them
The heavier they seem to become.

The longer you hold on to something,
The heavier it will feel.
Just like the glass of water.

A dream, a dream, bound by lucidity!
Environs bedight with beauteous things--
Th’ verdant leaves, founts, and springs;
Th’ robins embosomed by ebon trees.
And sing, they sing! Mid this august dream
So hearken I th’ avian euphony.
And th’ melody of th’ azure seas
Th’ seas, th’ seas that lie abreast th’ sylvan dwelling
As the aureus eye above clothes th’ nature ‘neath.
Yon roses vermillion, and meadows green,
Th' gilded skies, and th' hawthorns’ blossoming,
Th’ novel life that sprouts of minute seed,
Th’ boughs whither pend th’ gossamer berries.
All by dint of Apollo’s waxing.
And as morn’s hour betokens departure of sleep
Will I enjoy what remains of oneiric state, ere farewell ‘t bids me.
O rejoice, rejoice! Doth abound such felicity mid this ethereal dream.