For the Lost.

 I think often of who I could have been.

If I were merely stronger, smarter... better.

Could I achieve all I had set out to do? If I had done all I wished under the sun. If I had earned and warred and won.... would I be happy then?

I am haunted by what could have been. I am haunted by what will be. I have lost more than I had ever thought possible. My dreams are dead, my spirit crushed, and I live only for the little death of sleep. I think fondly and bitterly of who I once was. How simple life had been. How unburden, idealistic and unbroken I had been.

I had thought I had known suffering then. I had thought a body that rebelled with a being that was weak and a heart that was a coward was all that needed to be conquer. But I was a fool then, as I am a fool now.

To live, is to know and to suffer.

You will never be as strong as you can be. You will never achieve everything you've set your spirit to. You are weak. As I am weak. The greater the hunger for more. The less you will realistically be satisfied. And then...

Dust to dust. Ash to ash. And you and I will go to the Father in disgrace, for you and I, "more than conquerors", were beaten, brought low by the simple and quiet.

I had run on a broken leg. I had once been more. I had once moved far and fast to fight an enemy who barely knows me. I am worse for it. The candle had burnt both its edges and all I have left are the ashes.

I have tasted glory and it has slipped through my fingers and I am worse for it.

It is a small pain to never know the potential of greatness. It is a far worse agony to taste and see and to be brought blind and thrust upon your knees. I have wept and have despaired as many before me. I have been a conqueror as I am now conquered.

Shame is a bitter muse, and despair a lasting friend. And I know peace only in hazy dreams and little deaths.

But it is not over, and I am not done.

A rat with an inkling of hope will swim and long outlast its peers if the illusion of salvation is present. I am no rat. I had lost my dreams and my hopes long ago. There is no earthly salvation for me. There is no saving grace for my suffering. But I will fight. I will carve something of myself yet. I will never achieve what I wanted, but so what? I will never get all I crave, but so what? I will not give up. I will not die. Death is a cowards escape. Endless pain is a lasting friend and I will know her well. There is no hope. There is no peace, and there is no grace for me from this earth. So what?

I will not give in. I am not done. And I will take more and more until my body is broken, and the world has claimed my grave. Until then, I am not done.