Sometimes, all it comes down to, is holding on to something.
To a smile, maybe, or the covers of your bed.
To a vision, a passion. Or just a box of cookies.
To hope, and light, and lofty ideas, or a pack of tissues.
Holding on is not always heroic, rarely graceful. It involves ugly tears that will not do well on canvas, a heart that breaks a million times, a soul that is too confused to even look up for the light. If it means doing nothing, talking nothing, thinking nothing, for a while, sometimes a longer while than anyone could ever justify. And being so scared that nobody could ever respect your smallness. Maybe it means hurt, until you realise that it is yourself that is causing the hurt, and then, still not being able to stop. It means hate, and dark clouds, and shadowy valleys and looking out the window and seeing a world turn on without you, so fast and big that it makes your innermost soul cringe with fear. It will also mean cowering in a corner and trying to dissapear by curling into a ball of unworthyness.
Oh, yes, it will. But however ugly and wasted and useless the days may seem, floating by endlessly, you are holding on. Because you are still here when all you want is to dissappear, into a blue and peaceful cloud, forever. You are still here, and all your dissappearances are temporary. That is why you are a hero. That is why your scars are nothing to hide from the world. Because you held on to whatever you could when you needed to.
And then one day you looked up and you said. “I found a tiny bit of love, right here.”
And then you got up, slowly, on shaky feet, and you took a tiny step, and you gave it another try.