If courage is something we inherit then mine was already battle scarred the day my parents sewed it into my blood. Whenever I have to reach for it I reread the fingerprints bruised along its flesh from worried hands that clutched it close seeking reassurance. The beatings haven’t made it fragile. Instead it’s more like leather, worked until it bends softly beneath pressure but refusing to break. More often than not I wrap it around my joints in the hope it will support knees elbows aching wrists when I force them to lift me a little higher. I cannot hide myself completely beneath its folds as all armour has its chinks. Instead I protect myself as best I can, tuck in the frayed edges, darn the patches when they come loose and try to add something of mine that I can pass on when it becomes time. Daily Post: Courage
You can count them on one hand, those ones that mean the most care the most put up with the most. You can gather acquaintance like confetti, but there are always gaps between fingers where people fall through and when the wind sweeps by it will leave you with empty palms. Those ones who cling on, who can be counted on one hand are the ones who’ll scale mountains, dig beneath oceans, trek over desert and parachute in over enemy territory. All for the sake of standing in the background to push you forwards, when the spotlight seems too bright.