If.

If - by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

by Rudyard Kipling

uncomfortable

Peace of mind is lacking these days,

There was a time when thoughts would invade my head, charging out of reflective waters of my past. Mellowing my soul and ebbing the tides of woe.

With the brightening dawn, I would cleanse my mind and body
with trident hot waters showering upon me. Locking away any rays of light,
the darkness trapped my thoughts inside. As the beads trumpeted down,
Stabbing my fears away. A thick lather would do the rest. One wipe away.

These days, however, the tides do not come to bay. The light lurches in uninvited, unlocking my fears to bare amok. The beads trickle like shy school children sheepishly venturing out, fear-stricken. The trumpets sound of leaky pipes, clogged with despair. My soul knows not where to rest, for it has been abandoned, imprisoned with doubt. The lather is temporary, for the world outside my swiss-bubble invites a dreaded heat. The only beads are formed of my own odors, they too seek refuge.

My nights are spent searching for sanctuary, a modest peace. A temporary hum of laughter or pleasure. My soul is nowhere to be found, hidden, and coy from the consequential woes endemic to my world. I hope to create. But hope is dim these days. Can't even count to anything, my vision is near sighted. Spectacles purchased of second-hand black market. Unreliable and still.