I am a trier. Slight and flaccid, timid and small. I make the littlest of ripples. I make the gentlest breeze. In the pond, I am unnoticed. Around me are so many larger stones, wilder winds. Around me are those to whom the light rushes.
The light has not come easily to me. I’ve crawled to it, on my hands and knees, and always I am a few inches too short, too slow, too ordinary.
But—and there is always a ‘but’—I am a trier.
When I am undone, I am doing. When I am shrunken, I grow. When I am, wilted I bloom. When I am broken, I am building.
Wait for me, I urge you. For the smallest of ripples can shape the pond. The gentlest of breezes can summon the storm. The light rushes not to me. It is not meant for me—the unnoticed and the small. So, when I am in darkness, I make my own light. Spun from sweat. Threaded with tears. Stitched in the solemnity of sacrifice.
For I am a trier. And when I am dead, I have just begun to live.