The Days of Miracle and Grief…

There are days when everything we touch goes wrong.

We wake up at the break of dawn, full of promise and zest, raring to go and conquer the big wide world – and suddenly, things start to take a course we never expected.

As if accursed by an omnipotent power, for a crime we never committed, we are battered without cause, feel utterly dejected, and lose the impetus of optimism to the vagaries of nature that now confront us in a state of turmoil.

Ill-fate is not always self-imposed. There are times when attribution for a particular drawback is hard to fathom or is vaguely discernible.

We become like a ball, being tossed around mercilessly by a storm which devastates everything around it and has no particular gripe in justification. That’s what we normally ascribe to being the victims of circumstances beyond our control.

How do we then fight such a powerful phenomenon, where orthodoxy alone is not the right riposte to counteract a string of events that darken our moods and deplete the level of energies to the point where our stamina becomes almost indolent.

We do that in a monolithic way, by mustering our resourceful abilities to clear the fog that has invaded the mind and replace it with a motley of improbabilities in the form of a protective cloud that reignites our brain mechanism to dispel the screen of darkness that pessimism brings in its wake. A vision of real clarity follows and miracles begin to appear on the horizon.

Faith, coupled with a great measure of confidence, rally to turn the tide of depression into a state of nascent energy to bring us back to a dreamlike world that we apparently lost in transit.

It is then that we begin to feel our usual selves again, full of the joys of spring that have momentarily deserted us.

We realise soon after, that our resilience has, as a result, fortified our spirits to a staggering layer of aptitude to guard us against any unwelcome intrusion into our psyche.

The patient is now well again and fighting fit. Praise the Lord.

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