Everything rushed, nothing done right–more so to just get by, get through. But for what? To wake in the morning to the same gut-wrenching realization that it’s the norm now.
My refusal to budge in the notion that it can be changed is like a lighthouse in the fog, bellowing to ships lost in the haze. Good captains, seasoned captains recognize the call. The others must answer for their own stubbornness. They are too busy doing ship things to hear the call–and now they’ve convinced themselves there was no foghorn, no signal, sent after all.
And they believe their lies.
The lighthouse isn’t of much use during the day, the beautiful sunny lighted hours, but in the dark of the night? In the storm?
It can be changed. I’m sure of it.