So what happened is you gave up? After breaking your back against the shores, back beaten, bone weary trudging through the swamps, you lay down your weapons and, what – just stopped?
As if all the working you had done was naught. As if your pursuit of happiness was simply just an idle walk that you went on and, now tired, you turn back to this little cocoon of comfort to lick your wounds.
As if you haven’t holed yourself up in comfort before only to find that the very thing you call comfort become a prison of itself.
As if freedom hasn’t always been the feeling of the wind in your hair.
As if you don’t know that there is no way the wind blows through your hair unless you are moving – or there is a storm.
So when you tell me you gave up, all I wonder is – when is the storm coming?