CXLI

I listen to see if hope is still there. In my heart, in my mind, in my mind's eye. In my soul. I listen because hope comes like a whisper, most times, and you must quiet yourself to hear it. So I quiet. I breathe slow. I pause and do not exhale. Until I hear it. The still small voice. The flutter in my chest - not the physical sensation, the sound of it. Soft as a feather, light as the lightest touch, warm like the winter sun through once-frosted glass. Strong in the way that spiderwebs are strong. True as the needle of a compass pointing North. I hear it all, most days, but today I need to strain to listen.
Don't give up.
Don't give in.
Don't give up.
Don't give in.
Hope comes in the morning. And every morning she sings to me, from the depths of my own soul. Softly, sweetly, she sings to me. And even if the day is bleak, and the night was long, when I hear my soul sing to me, I know one of these days He'll come home.
Don't give up.
Don't give in.
Don't give up.
Don't give in.
Hope comes in the morning.
Softly, sweetly.
Hear my soul sing.
Don't give up.
Don't give in.




[Image: ELLE Denmark]