HOPE

I seem to have great ideas, then fall asleep, and forget I ever had them. Tonight I will not let it fade away into another mundane day.

He looked into the tree lined web of orange night sky. If he was ordinary, if he was not extraordinary, then the passion, the fear, the anxiety, the sadness, the utter loss of all he was, the shear joy in knowing life, it too was not unique. It too was commonplace.
The very thought tore at his fiber. It tore into the thing that made him human as much as a surgeon's tools could pry open the very ribcage that held the life within his mortal skin.
As the idea ripped apart what this man was, something grew in it's place. Glowing embers sparked of good, righteousness. Smoldering from them were the evils, encrouching on the light. They mingled inside overwelming the thing that was man, and spilled about the fiberous being standing naked in the moons warming glow.
If he could not be more then just human. If he could not believe that what made him who he was could be an infinite singularity, then he could not exist any longer.
The ember's burst into a magnetic heat, drawing in his blood, his mind, every second lived from his first breath fed the fire.
He was tearing apart and rebuilding whatever it was that life had made him. The tree's swayed violently. They only new death when all providence of survival dispersed. They thrived until there was nothing left to sustain them, and this man wanted to drain from the very earth beneath him what those trees drank. He wanted to shed all mortal being, and have for even one moment the belief that it never had to end.
He could not journey what road lay ahead without knowing it meant something. The moonlight darkened the branches into outstretching wraiths. The stems and arms seemed to want to pull him from the ground in which he stood and crush him into the night sky above.
The man, ordinary, plain, not unique in anyway, had existed and wether or not history or mankind would ever record it, he would not let the crackling fire inside die from the suffocation smog that tryed to overwelm it.
A cloud moved, a perpetuous cycle in the humid sky shifted. Blue and gold flooded the ground about him and drove away the shadowy arms clawing at his feet. The smoke inside was replaced with the rich air in every breath he drew, and with each new breath the flames grew stronger.
He would not allow all the suffering, the loss, the passion, or even the ordinary memories of first season's day be lost by his own doubt. He was more then just a man. He was one man, who now knew what could be lost and gained, and grown from a shredded heart, a shredded mind, or even a body.
What wisdom does the great elm have, that he could not make a bed from? He closed his eyes only hoping that he would not wake and forget what it was that made him want to thrive. He dreaded that it was all a dream soon forgotten when awoke by the alarm clock. But most of all, he did not want to lose hope ever again, because so much greater is the loss of it, then any sustanance that kept him alive.
The trees sang in the wind, moaning a soft love song to the sky, and a great gospel to the ground.