In that cold, moonless night
my feeble mind raced through
a thousand thoughts.
But those thoughts,
cannot describe what I was feeling
as I was giving my own life away.

As much as I wanted to start over,
I convinced myself that it was worthless.
I had already lost faith in the things around me,
I'd lost faith in the things I treasured most.
But most of all,
I had lost faith in myself.

I'd always left the door ajar,
hoping that my miseries would finally come to an end.
After all, I thought,
would the world any less different
after I had passed away?


I waited,
and death came.
He had knocked on the door,
and said his warning.

Weak was I, not far from surrendering.
But at the last moment, I remembered.
The thousand thoughts, memories, feelings,
all coalesced into one faint memory I'd myself had forgotten.

One one overcast morning, the sun still rising,
a friend said,
"I believe everything turns out well in the end.
If your life is still sour, then it isn't the end."

Like a violent stampede hurdling down a hill,
or a tsunami reaching land,
every part of my faith was restored.
From the things I had once doubted,
reassurance came flooding back.

He gave another warning,
before kicking the door open.
I stood in front of him, and said:
You are going to leave this house now. There is no one here to take.
Yes, I gave up. And yes, I decided to take my life away.
But He changed that decision, and turned me around.
And guess what?
Today, isn't my day.