Internally fantasising about happiness in essensce. The touch of a compassionate heart, making me believe that my hope is not wasted. For wasted hope is a heartbreak all in itself. As placid as a clear lake on a warm summer day, so stable on the outside, yet churning, dark and mysterious on the inside. Having the passion and drive I do for life is both a hinderance and joy. The passion making me impulsive and the drive making me courageous. Both balking at reality, knowing that even in the end, everything will be as it should. Faith in who I am and what I plan to accomplish. Fear in being thrown off track by an unseen dream. I feel it there, lurking in the distance. Threatining to thwart the plans I've fantasised about since my begining. I will not yeild.