My soul rides aboard a paper parasol, eyes wide to the dreaming land. Every vivid hue is where pastel meets neon haze. Into the air I whoop, my lungs singing in anti-thunder boom. Then from my brain comes bubbles of happy rainbow swirl, each of them a snow globe that is to winter quite unknown.
Through the concrete, born in darkness, came a flower so bright that the world stopped spinning for a moment. It shouldn’t be possible, but there it was. It was as startling as seeing a house hover for no reason, or a fish sit on the moon. For so long now I’d been believing a certain set of defined facts, accepting limitations. But if this flower can give a Chelsea flower show performance from the mean grist of a paving slab, what can I do? Where can I go? I want to be the granite that thinks it's helium.
"Hopeful" is a kind of intelligent bravery, the will to seek what is good, to keep walking for the chance of a better things to come.
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