|© John F Conn|
This photo moves my heart in a hundred different directions.
It is about oppression. It is about loneliness. It is about rejection. It is about reaching. It is about irony and tragedy and the eternal fight for freedom. It is optimism, crucified. It is as frost is to apple blossoms. It is despair.
I would gather hope like a farmer baling hay. I would bundle it with fine golden rope and give it to this boy to find rest upon. It would be soft beneath his hand, rich upholstery into which he may etch whatever shape might bring him happiness. It would be warm like May but crisp like autumn. It would taste of holidays and smell like my mother. It would whisper like snow and pray like poetry.
Hope springs eternal - it wells up and pushes and pushes and maybe he'll come to that gate every single day because somehow-sometime-someway-someday it will be open. And I will hand him my gift and beg of him, "Hold on to this offering - hold this tightly to your heart - may it help you in your waiting - may it lesson your burden of distress - because the moment we stop hoping, we start dying - and I want nothing but to save you."
[NaBloPoMo Day 8]