We are underdogs.
From the beginning, the stakes are preposterously high, the odds are against us. They weigh on our shoulders like boulders from our infancy. What will we become?
The critic in our head rails against us.
There is this, often unintelligible, yearning of the soul. For freedom.
We doubt ourselves.
Rise above? Overcome? Scale the summit?
We stumble, groping through darkness, blind.
Fighting for scraps, debris, scratching for bare existence.
We are stripped, shorn, scant.
Despite this, we are restless. Sleepless.
We beg for mercy: for the dream to die, the despair to lift, the trials to cease just for sweet relief, that the torment might end. Why were we chosen for these things?
We mourn, grieve, weep. Our lamentation is a deafening shriek against silence.
But the will to fight grows to a thundering capacity. Stronger, tenacious, enduring. Taunting us, pushing us, raging deep down inside of us, ready to explode. It is always beneath the surface.
Indignation that burns like an ember.
It forcibly entices us to unsheathe our weapon, to slay the evil inside that wars against our hope. To lay low the despair, that poisonous plague.
Doubt. Fear. Circumstance. Burdens, the heavy weight and chain around our neck, threatening to bury us, destroy us, if we allow it.
We are soldiers at war.
I write for the underdog. I write for the weak.
I write for the least likely to prevail. I write for the brokenhearted, the sore, the beaten down, the weary, the despairing. I write for those who doubt, and fear, and despair. I write for those who need hope.
I write for those who have known that when they are at their lowest, the very mean, obscure grave of hell, something unexplainable pushed them through. Something indescribable carried them.
That by grace, grace, grace impossible, they are still here. Alive.