My life consists of comparisons akin to strife, destruction, and the celebration of survival among the suffering. You may ask why I think this. I’d respond that I don’t see my life as a success. However, this can still change.
I’m a river that flows, gathered from rain at the mountain summit and pooling in currents born of pure spirit. I crash, unaware of the banks below me, over tree roots and boulders stacked in my way.
Maturing is learning from the world around me. I have friends who stab me in the back and enemies who sit in mud puddles and cry with me. These obstacles cause my will to bend. The memorable ones are rivers that bend together as slackened strings surge with absolute beauty.
Sometimes, I spill into dams and create lakes that teem with life. The art I create splatters over fish scales, and memories grow thick like the plants weaving in the streams of passion. Over the top, the friends I let swim, and fish in my depths reap the benefits of my exploration and broken boundaries.
My depths and cogs turn in the factories placed along my shores. I play a role in making humanity move and work. My drive is what forces people around me to also make a difference in history. What are we for if not to inspire others? What better way to exist than as a force of nature that causes change to the very environment it exists in?
I am an endless flow when provided the right rain of the wet seasons. The sun makes me shimmer as much as the downpours make me strong. The sun makes life flourish, while the water makes us grow. The clouds provide relief that rays of heat only damage.
But have hope, for, someday, a new river will come crashing down your banks and create your currents anew.
When my bed dries up and my current breaks, scars of my past ripple and surge, the surface broken and vivid among the grains of sand. People stack my stones in mock piles, claiming to create art and purpose out of my brokenness. My shells and arrowheads are stolen, and my remaining strength is dammed in.
Sometimes, I grow too weak to even recognize myself. I’m only a fraction of what I used to be. I’m tired of running the race, and the ocean is still far behind the horizon. Why keep going if my waters will never be what they once were?
So I sit. I wait. I wait for something, anything, to come along.
In life, no one person will be without deep, depressing thoughts. We are all flawed and have the same faults. Just like a river that runs dry, it will stagnate and return to a shell of its former beauty.
But have hope, for, someday, a new river will come crashing down on your banks and create your currents anew. Have faith that new friends and family will converge with you, and you will thrive once more.
Don’t worry, little river. We made it to the ocean, and our waters are still as crystal clear as you remember. Just keep going as far as you can.
