Symphony No. 9

("In a letter that won't be sent, she said...")

We are not guaranteed a tomorrow.

We are not guaranteed another twelve hours of sunshine, another twelve hours of darkness, nor the warm sensation of waking to a new and unblemished set of hours.

We are guaranteed nothing. We enter this world with nothing and we are shaped (for better or for worse) by the situations that inevitably and indelibly mark us, by the people surrounding us, by the costumes we wear for life's acts, and by the parts we choose to play in such scenes.

I am not guaranteed a tomorrow. Nor are you. I am not guaranteed another chance at anything...and nor are you. I am, however, learning that each day -- in and of itself -- is a gift. Tomorrow is a gift. The weather it brings, the moments of contentment it heralds, the faces and the friends it ushers along, the fleeting moments of ignorant joy it brings -- these are all gifts, regardless of length and staying power.

I am content with this upward struggle because I see no use in allowing it to expire -- in allowing another chance at bliss to die. I cannot (in good faith) give up, because I am aware now of the pain I've caused, of the heart I've broken, of the once-glorious things I've tarnished. There are more glorious things to make, however. There are aches to heal, and there is a heart to mend.

I refuse to give up. If I know what love is, then you do, too. If I know that what I felt was real and all-encompassing, then you do, too. I am Jack's unmissed, unkissed hands. I am Jack's cold face. I am Jack's indignant refusal. I'm going to call you, despite tiny worries that whisper to me that I shouldn't. I'm going to do things to make you realize how much and to what degree you mean to me -- because you are too...deeply ingrained in this head and heart to lose.