Things may come to those who wait, but only the things left by those who hustle.
Abraham Lincoln
An open letter to that 'ONE', that some (not all) just love to hate:
Dear appalled one,
I beheld the befuddlement in thy rumpled brows. I beg thee to un-crease thy tension and throw away that frown. Indeed rest your merry head, for you are not alone. In plain English, this is a requirement for greatness. A prerequisite as it were for making a difference in your world. Do not take it personal. Nay, the trolls and stalkers were thus appointed to be so. They must deliver. Likewise so must you. Besides your appointment trumps theirs. There is indeed a Power above powers. They would have nothing else going for them if they did not peep into your kitchen window to tell you where to place your pans and how to handle the salt shaker. They must teach you what they never learnt.
Keep going still...
May this epistle soothe your rattled heart, the constant bombardment of obtusity often comes with this territory of achievement. Indeed you must have been trained in the past for a time such as this. The flaming embers of agony, riddled with pain laced ordeals as tongue rolled upon tongue unleashing curses at you from an innate discontent. A discontent whose origin was as clear to you as a blurry fog. The trials of days gone by were tenaciously unending and troubles fiercely unrelenting. But you were ingeniously trained. Feel free to borrow from those learning episodes, they are all yours now you see. Your tears that had crystallized into priceless pearls of wisdom, now glimmers and basks in the Sun's approval.
Keep going and shining...
I saw the picture too. Without fail that dress was made for your body. It draped and wrapped around you beautifully as it clung possessively to every contour and curve. You were the dress and the dress was you. But did they tell you that? No. They preferred it as it hung from a lifeless pole or was that a person? Most could not really tell the difference between a dress and a dungaree, but they could tell you wore it wrong. Your critics never really did anything significant, but they can sure conjure up what you should not have done at all. As they adherently cheered on a lifeless pole, they spitefully carved gaping holes in their faces.
Keep going...
I noticed how you go about doing your craft, creating and making your world a thing of beauty. For goodness sakes, there are so many short-cuts you could have taken. But you kept right and worked hard. I see how poised and articulate you are. I also see the minds twisted with envy jabbing at your every move, word or lack thereof. They act like you were responsible for their 'bileage'. By grace, you made the most of what fate had served. Why then do they think their misery you must partake also. They spew out pointers and admonitions while housed in dilapidated enclaves. They shout 'foul' while drenched in a maggot infested pile.
Keep going...
Oh what a sorry state of anguish, that bears a gnawing tug of misery. Of which the sufferer draws life from negativity. Anything they hope might cast a shadow on their object of envy. It may be hovering over a negative comment to give it blood or presiding over a rumor to fan its ebbing flame. Hoping that maybe the despair that they feel could lift even for a second. But nay, evil only begets a greater emptiness and in its bowels demons will play. And till then the victor will rise. For It is impossible for a mere mortal to trample the eminence orchestrated by immortality. So dear appalled (bordering on perplexity), ignore all the trifling attempts at aspersions, for it is quite hopeless in result and exiguous in attempt.
Let me end with an analogy of what I call the 'chicken versus eagle' syndrome.
A baby eagle fell off its nest high up in a tree and fell into a nest of chickens. It then grew up cackling and clucking like a chicken and terrorizing worms for food. Until one day he (the eagle) looked up and saw another eagle soaring high up in the sky. There was suddenly a tug in his heart and instantly, he knew where he belonged. So he flapped his languid wings, and lifted off. Gaining new heights as he soared. The chickens who knew all along that he was an eagle were very angry with him for realizing who he was and owning it. Thus every time the eagle flew by, the angry chickens spat shredded worms at him and smacked their beaks against each other in frustration. But why? Eagles were meant to soar! They (the chickens) eventually went after each others throats. The result; a gruesome display of animus, but I will not get into that now.
But this much I can tell you, it was a sight so bizarre that Lawmakers termed it: angry chickens at war.
And the moral of this story would be?? You tell me, your guess is as good as mine...
So keep doing what you do dear appalled (and the likes of you), that they (and the likes of them) may keep doing what they do. Then one day there will be a convergence of results. Some will be sorry they did what they did because you did what you do. Keep soaring valiant one, in the rapture of ascension. The sky is sure the limit!
Have a safe and happy life.
Yours Sincerely,
A former appalled candidate
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