The Middle

by Ernest Armah

Beginnings often have a freshness

Not more than a magical feeling

A sudden glow in our right hemispheres

Intuitively captivating, nobly enticing

Such miasma lingers on

Till it get to the middle

Where lies the crucible

Suspense can never be stolen in a tunnel

Because every move, every thought, every will

Is in pitch darkness

The middle

The knot between start and finish

Is the battle-field for good and evil

A troubling, confusing intersection

This is where most dancers lose their steps

This is where most singers lose their voice

This is where…even with ample ink

Thoughts could not be put to paper.

The middle

Has been the graveyard of many dreams

Still-birth of ambitions

A resting place for the hopeless, seemingly loveless

With the helpless trading their purpose for comfort

Others would get off their track and run other people’s race

So is the picture, so is the story

Until a sensation of brightness

At the tunnel’s end

Is felt

Time becomes fair to the faithful

And atrocious to the faint-hearted

For those who stood and fought in their most critical weakness

Upon their heads a crown

Of character, integrity, reliability and congruity

Is bestowed

They become living testimonies

To the words of Abigail Adams

“It is not in the still calm of life or the repose of a pacific station

That great characters are formed

The habits of a vigorous mind are formed in contending with difficulty

Great necessities call out great virtues”

—2014 musings

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