On the Ace of Hearts

It's a 3 AM revelation on the morning of the last day.

It's the hero inside stepping forward to silence the doubts, insecurities, worries.
It's the realization that there's more to the world than you can see, more that is hidden, secret: a world crafted more by time and chance than intelligence, and yet still filled with beauty and patterns.

It's me, armed only with words and a melodic disposition, digging and searching for meaning in an ocean of sand, while the sun beats down on my back.
It's a smiling at a secret meant for someone else.
It's blanching to hear the truth, or perhaps the echo of truth, or even just what you hope to be true.
It's writing a letter with an address that you've smudged beyond recognition, that will never arrive at its destination, but knowing that the writing was always far more important to you than the reception.

It's finding an old shoebox in the attic full of pictures of you, smiling and optimistic for the beautiful future that you knew so surely awaited you, and realizing that not so long ago, today was the future, and it was bright, and it was filled with promise.

It's chalk on the side walk on a rainy day, with words that fade, with words that drain. And when it's all gone, a blank slate, a fresh start. But you didn't write that first message. And you can't remember how it went. And you can't put it back.

It's the sky on fire as the sun sets. It's stopping to take pictures of things that matter to you, even everyday miracles, knowing that they are permanent, that they won't change.

It's taking solace in the warm embrace of sunlight, the gentle pitter-patter of rain, the rustle of falling leaves, the soft touch of snow.

It's the first step to recovery.

It's confidence in what this is.

It's the future. And it's now. And it always will be.