A little fun. @tabo66 - Tumblr Blog

Just me and a local friend hanging out.

bookkeepert

country-born-raised

charlesdclimer

Did you ever try to make a kite with sticks from the yard, newspapers and flour glue?

So is, I’m Sorry.

🌷💫

❤️😂☺️

Yaquina Lighthouse in Newport, Oregon

famouspainterwombat

minimalistquotes

The hardest battle is between your old habits and your new standards.

groovysarity

My father had a face he made when I did something soft.

I knew it before I could name it. The slight shift. The almost-nothing that was everything to a boy watching for signs of whether he was acceptable.

I was a dreamer. I liked poetry and dancing and playing in worlds I invented.

Not that. Not here. Not you.

So I packed the softness away and became the other things — steady, reliable, always on time. The things that earned the nod. The absence of that face.

But the dreamer never left. He just went underground.

And for years I went looking for the person who would receive what my father couldn't. Someone whose face would say —

yes. This. You.

And everyone I wanted to get close to was carrying that same impossible weight — the weight of having to undo what a father did before they even knew my name.

That's not fair to them. It took me a long time to see that.

My father gave me what he had. Both of those men live in me now.

The practical one keeps me grounded. The dreamer wrote this poem.

✦

my softness was never the problem. It was always the point.

If you hid your softness to be acceptable — this one is for you. 🖤

You already know about the other kind of hope.

The ugly kind. The sewer rat kind. The kind with teeth and claws and fur that's seen better days. The kind that doesn't look like salvation but moves like it anyway — showing up in the dark, in the forgotten places, carrying its little diseases like optimism and persistence and joy.

That kind kept you alive.

This is what comes after that.

This is the hope that belongs to the man who kept going when the evidence said stop. Who kept becoming when no one was watching. Who kept doing the hard, quiet work on himself — not to impress anyone, not because the outcome was guaranteed, but because something in him refused to let the darkness be the last word.

This is the hope that lives on the other side of survival.

Not rescue. Not relief. Something slower and more permanent than that.

It's the moment you realize you are no longer waiting to be saved — because somewhere in all that walking, in all that becoming, you built something in yourself that didn't need saving anymore.

Hope isn't what saves you.

It's what you become when you decide not to stop.

The dawn is already here. You just have to look up.