Have you ever found that the past has a way of relentlessly pursuing you, regardless of how far you've come or how much you've changed? This narrative illustrates that sentiment with an echoing resonance, revealing a journey filled with struggles, self-discovery, disappointments and an indomitable will to survive despite the odds stacked against us. From addict, to graduate to entrepreneur, we delve deep into the reality of battling not only the personal demons, but also the persistent societal stigma one carries in the United Kingdom when they have previously been incarcerated. As you walk through these words, you'll find yourself in art studios and pizza joints, tripping over joy, despair, hope, and in the looming shadow of societal judgement. Prepare to take an enthralling leap into a life journey both bitter and illuminating. 

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“We are not defined by our past. We are defined by the courage to move forward, despite our past.”

 

This is not just an account about how the past has shaped a life, it's also a testament to the human spirit's resilience - offering a glimpse into how essential creativity and personal expression can be in coping with turmoil.

 

The journey back to Harlow was either an uphill battle or an inevitable flop. Equipped with a freshly earned degree, I was hopeful that my academic milestones would eclipse the dark spots in my history. However, the harsh reality was an unveiled stigma - once labeled a criminal, always a criminal. There seemed to be no available pathway for me to elucidate my past to potential employers without resorting to dishonesty. Starting a job with a lie was a route I couldn't take, given it would taint the relationship from the very beginning. Yet, it turned out the societal counsel was to fabricate whatever necessary truths to secure employment.

 

Having a diploma doesn't automatically guarantee employment, especially if you've done time. It's an unfortunate truth that both corporations and society in general hold prejudiced views against ex-cons, ignoring the nature of the crime, mental health, or other extenuating circumstances. The harsh reality is that these prejudices perpetually punish ex-cons, often leading to the unfortunate creation of habitual offenders.

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Should you find my words dubious, I urge you to consider the statistics reflecting the number of individuals who reoffend within two years of prison release. I was egregiously uninformed about the severity of the resistance I'd face while attempting to integrate into society as a law-abiding citizen. I've struggled, weathered numerous disappointments, and reached a point where one more blow could lead me to capitulate completely - a point I was dreadfully close to reaching.

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As I recollect, the tail end of the summer in 2012 was a time of academic disheartenment for me. Earning a grade of 2:2 in my degree felt like a profound failure, leaving me in a quagmire of confusion concerning my future prospects. In that moment, the worth of my degree seemed no more than an entry ticket to a team member role at a nearby McDonalds. The mountain of debt amassed due to Student Finance further emphasized the harsh realization that finding a well-paying job to restore my financial equilibrium seemed an impossible task, given the perceived worthlessness of my degree.

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The prospect of securing a well-paying job seemed bleak despite my degree, solely due to my incarcerated past. Many of my peers had transitioned into teaching roles, but the indelible stain of my past prohibited any such aspirations involving children. Isolated and stuck, I grappled with increasing mental exhaustion and was declared unfit for employment. My reality morphed into a chronic melancholy. Despite the optimism and hopes my family harbored for me, I felt engulfed by despair and couldn't envisage a promising future for myself.

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At a certain juncture, I discovered a silver lining in the form of Gatehouse Arts. This Harlow-based entity united artists under one roof, offering affordable art studios to fuel creativity. My hopes began to soar as I envisaged a life far removed from the one I was living, one where I was a successful artist standing on my own two feet. In hindsight, however, this was merely a mirage, a fleeting dream far removed from reality. It seemed Gatehouse Arts, unwittingly or not, was fanning the flames of an unattainable aspiration within a desperate individual. Yet, initially, I was charged with ambition and an insatiable drive, devoting countless hours to turning the studio into a melting pot of creativity. Subsequently, I invested in its aesthetics, ensuing considerable, albeit meticulously planned, expenses.

 

Financial hardship soon came knocking on my door, prompting me once again to seek out work. Armed with a vehicle and a sense of determination, I decided to approach both Pizza Hut and Domino's, with the intention of committing myself to whichever fast-food chain offered me employment first. As fate would have it, Pizza Hut emerged as the victor in this employment race. Their previous rejections bore heavy on my mind -- in those instances, the necessity of revealing my criminal record on the application form had immediately relegated me to the rejection pile. However, this time my conviction was spent, and thus, I was promptly offered a position. Was I supposed to show gratitude? The thought of working for such a judgmental employer wasn't exactly palatable, yet the pressing need for income spurred me on.

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Securing employment allowed me to invest in Art materials, fueling my aspiration to produce portrait masterpieces, a passion that had been ignited during my time behind bars. My skills in creating portraits were commendable, but the dreadfully discouraging experience in timeshare sales had completely eroded my confidence. Even when I knew I had produced something of high quality and utterly unique, selling it seemed like an insurmountable task. It's fair to say that my sense of self-worth took a massive hit, messing with my ability to interact with people coherently.

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For six long years after leaving Runwell, I found myself barricading my world, evading engagement with people at all costs. Even now, as the years have trickled on, I see that this avoidance has served as a kind of self-torture, despite my struggle to fully comprehend why. A fear of intimacy with others seems to have taken root in me, functioning as a defense mechanism to shield me from any further pain, to protect me from feeling that hurt ever again.

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Returning to my job at Pizza Hut meant facing an old demon - marijuana. Why was I attracted back to smoking pot, you might ask? I believe the rough reality of life forces many of us to desire temporary refuge from it all. While I am able to find that release through weed, my unease lies in the fact that for some, only the more potent and readily accessible drugs can offer a similar respite.

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Let me clarify, I'm not in a financial position to purchase marijuana but I have accepted it as a reprieve from all my troubles. At times, marijuana has proven to be more of a relief than a burden. It's occasionally beneficial to take a breather from life and its accompanying issues. However, with my impulsive tendencies, it's dangerously easy to rely on drug misuse as a daily habit. Drugs can present, and have become in previous instances, the path of least resistance, despite its crippling financial repercussions. A person entrenched in addiction will always devise ways to support their habit, often prioritizing drugs over necessities like nutrition. To those out there, I would unequivocally assert-- if you find yourself foregoing food to finance your habit, then you are genuinely dealing with a drug problem. It's vital to seek help before it ravages your entire existence.

 

Day after day, I find myself caught in this perpetual cycle of mediocrity, with a life that lacks vibrancy or elation. But I've managed to find solace in the otherwise mundane, allowing myself to be pacified by life’s small distractions. The commitment to taking Clozaril persists despite its harsh repercussions - a decision driven more by fear and the brainwashed ideology that it is crucial, rather than a personal necessity. However, the real paralyzing dread lies in the potential consequences of any rebellion against the established norms.

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Being a part of Gatehouse Arts was a major commitment for me, yet it seemed that other members didn't share the same passion. Despite my participation in group exhibitions, the lack of attendees was a letdown. Each day, it became more clear that Gatehouse Arts was struggling to keep pace in a competitive field. My creative output started to dwindle, and I found myself spending less time in the studio that was supposed to foster my creativity.

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There was a moment when the Gibberd Gallery sought my expertise for a film project—an exhibition showcasing an installation created by children facing challenges and those from underprivileged backgrounds, working alongside artist Nick Turvey. They deemed this project an 'internship,' expecting my thorough technical skills and abilities without having to pay a stipend in return. It's becoming increasingly prevalent in the UK for organizations to consistently employ their teams on an internship basis, a type of contemporary exploitation and a stark evasion of compensation.

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When individuals are struggling to gain a foothold in the real world, the desperation for necessary experience can drive them to accept these unpaid contracts. Sadly, I found myself taken advantage of by The Gibberd Gallery. Their refusal to compensate me fairly for the technical skills they lacked seemed self-serving. They often dangled the possibility of future employment as bait, but it appears that was a mere tactic to take full advantage of my expertise. In the end, there were no job prospects and all I felt was the bitter sting of exploitation.

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In spite of all obstacles and technical constraints, I devoted all my effort and focus to produce the film. Yet, to my surprise, I was informed at the eleventh hour that the faces of some participants had to be obscured. There seemed to be a concern from the parents of those involved, who didn't want their kids linked to this project, or at least that's what I was led to believe. Consequently, I found myself spending countless hours scanning through each video frame to blur out the appropriate faces. In retrospect, had I known about this requirement from the start, I probably wouldn't have engaged with this project. Yet, I was uncannily committed to it by this point and felt compelled to give in to these last-minute adaptations. On the night of premier, I took pride in what I had accomplished, daydreaming that this experience could possibly mark a turning point in my life. Unfortunately, my destiny had other plans for me.

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At this point, my assistant manager at Pizza Hut, who also doubled as my drug dealer, eventually connected me with another dealer who, unfortunately, swindled me over marijuana. This, however, was just the beginning of my issues. I started to question my medication. I felt emotionally numb, constantly sedated by Clozaril to the point of frequently falling asleep. So, I decided to confront the Mental Health Services about this. I was also exploring opportunities in Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL), and used that as leverage to my argument - I wanted to leave the country and wouldn't have access to these medications abroad. My consulting physician agreed and advised a gradual withdrawal from Clozaril, setting a timeline for me to follow. Regrettably, there was no forewarning about the potential withdrawal experiences or how hard it would be. I was inadequately prepared for what was to come, and was left to my own devices in a state of utter denial.

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There came a point when I started progressively reducing my dosage, seeking to reclaim a life not tethered to sedation. A deliberate, yet possibly misguided decision on my part, prompted by the ceaseless appointment cancellations and rescheduling failures from the Mental Health Services. It was an unmistakable sign of another impending letdown from the very system that was supposed to aid my healing. Yet, amidst this chaos, I only became more resolute in my pursuit of a life free from the fog of sedation. The will to mend the shattered pieces of my existence seemed to fuel my determination, pushing me to a point where nothing could stand in my way.

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During this period, my mistrust in Gatehouse Arts was growing. I started to lose faith in the institution, feeling that their constant drive towards charitable acts to validate their standing seemed insincere and exploited their registered charity status. It was as if they were adhering to certain conduct just to maintain this status, which struck me as a form of dishonesty.

 

Yes, there were numerous problems indeed. The turning point, however, came as they asked me to engage in charity work with children, which required a CRB check. I was compelled to reveal that this was unattainable for me, and explained why. It seems that was the day when management's perception of me shifted. From that moment, it appeared they were creatively crafting reasons to oust me from their group. I was left feeling shunned and directed towards the exit. Ultimately, under the crushing pressure of feeling unwelcome and grappling with imminent failure, I gave up my studio and then plotted a suicidal journey to Tenerife. For some inexplicable reason, I felt lured to revisit that place and confront what had been. It was as if I was emerging from a haze, finally seeing the harsh reality of my life.

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In the summer of 2014, I found myself in Las Americas, having booked a three-night stint at hotel Ponderosa. Despite being on a minimal dosage of Clozaril, I had a grim plan in mind. I had intended to emulate the tragic fate of Chris Baxter and cast myself from that severe rock formation, under the cover of the night. Equipped with a torch to cut through the dense darkness, I planned to scale the rocky face, meeting my destiny as dawn broke. However, destiny had other plans and I didn't make it there that night. I ended up wanting to prolong my stay, creating numerous opportunities for me to confront the end I had anticipated.

 

Unable to secure an extended stay at my current hotel, I found myself relocating to a different apartment opposite Ponderosa. All I requested was a top-floor unit, a simple wish for an accommodation comfort. This was an incredibly bleak period in my life after prison, a testing time that I inevitably had to confront. Interestingly, despite penning a comprehensive suicide note, I discovered a beacon of hope in an unexpected revelation. I started applying my prior knowledge of dimensional painting techniques to portrait art - the only choice at the time was my Emma Watson painting. I devoted every waking moment of an entire week to enhancing the detail in the hair of the portrait. The idea was to create a masterpiece so riveting that people would be compelled to pay me upfront for future artwork. Looking back, I suspect I was slipping into delusion, and this all transpired right before my final Clozaril dose.

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After determiningly sticking to my Clorazil reduction plan in Tenerife, devoid of any supervision from Mental Health Services, I swallowed the final pill. My sleep pattern took a hit, and restful slumbers were becoming a mere memory. It was the persistent clamor of buses from the station that I blamed for my sleepless nights, but eventually a realization dawned on me. Tenerife didn't have round-the-clock buses. What I was hearing was the manifestation of my altered state. My overall experience ranged from high lows to lower lows, but I did use some of my time trying to unearth the whereabouts of colleagues from a previous chapter in my life.

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The individuals from my past had vanished without a trace, leading me to speculate that they might have met grim fates, moved on, or perhaps ended up behind bars. The once bustling timeshare resort I used to work for had transformed into a dilapidated apartment block, far removed from its original promise of a grand hotel. The clubs that had once profited off the illicit trade propagated by my old employers were now desolate, a stark testament to the inevitable downfall of their dishonest endeavors. Ultimately, I realized that true abundance stems not from exploiting illicit shortcuts, but rather hails from honest hard work and the company of true friends. Yet, as I stood alone at this crossroads in my life, bereft of genuine friendships, I wondered about my next step.

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Somehow, I managed to avoid death for another time. The thought of carving a future with my artwork filled me with an unexpected optimism, despite the colossal effort I knew this would require. I convinced myself that it was feasible, even though I was blissfully unaware of the chaos that awaited me back home. The pricing for a ticket back home left a gaping hole in my pockets - over £240, leaving me penniless and stranded at Gatwick airport. The knowledge of an impending paycheck coaxed me into a false sense of security. I believed I could simply wait out those few days in relative comfort, oblivious to my rapidly depleting funds.

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At Gatwick, relaxation was a luxury I couldn't afford, every moment filled with activity. Even when the opportunity for rest presented itself, it was hampered by incessant airport noise, an unwanted soundtrack to my solitude. Days consisted of people-watching and pacing circular routes around the premises, my luggage as my unwilling partner. Conversely, the nights offered the prospects of rest, but it was elusive. Sleep came in frustratingly short bursts of an hour, if at all.

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At one point during my journey, Gatwick Airport security put me in a terribly distressing situation. They utilized a peculiar tactic to torment me, focusing on artificial noise that seemed to trail me everywhere within the airport. Whenever I strived for a moment of rest, a cacophony of intrusive noises would keep me in a state of permanent unrest. Oddly enough, I had never experienced hearing voices before this incident but while at Gatwick, it was a near constant ordeal. 

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Understandably, as soon as I left the relentless ambiance of the airport, the voices ceased abruptly and tranquility was restored. It was as if someone had been reading a script intended for my mental attrition, deliberately trying to break my spirit in that airport. Unbelievable as it might seem, it sounded as though Gatwick Airport harbored a grudge against me, spurring them to exploit their power in a very distressing manner. But, life goes on. And one must, too.

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It was there in the parking lot, waiting for my mother's familiar car to come to my aid, that I found myself grappling with a rising wave of nausea. In an effort to combat the sickness, I planted myself firmly on the unforgiving asphalt, only to spend the remainder of my time unsteadily oscillating between states of awareness. As I floated in this state of semi-consciousness, a dreadful conclusion crept upon me: had the state poisoned me? Was this horrifying moment marking the end of my journey? As it turned out, the true culprit was a lot less sinister, yet no less debilitating - I was dealing with Clozaril withdrawal.

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My mum and Jason ultimately stepped in to help me. I must admit, I was in such severe discomfort on the journey home, I was on the brink of requesting a trip to the hospital. I felt as though my life was slipping away right there in the backseat. Mustering up some strength, I decided to keep going, and eventually made it home. Mum decided to treat us to some Chinese takeout, which, I recall, ended up being the most parched meal I had ever consumed. My mind, chaotic at that time, began to draw up conjectures about Mum partaking in an alleged scheme aimed at my humiliation. Oddly enough, the police paid an unanticipated visit to our home that very evening, though they had no probable cause to do so.

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Unexpectedly, I found myself returning to my studio—honestly, it had completely slipped my mind that I had surrendered my space. At that moment, all I could think about was how excited and ready I felt to put my new skills into action, convinced that my sculpted portraits were a unique selling point. I received a telephone call reminding me of the date to empty my studio, wherein it was stressed that there was no chance of retracting my resignation—a testament, perhaps, to how the organization perceived me.

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Eventually, resentment crept in and I found myself attributing my despair and thoughts of suicide to Gatehouse Arts. I hastily retrieved my art materials, which were in temporary storage in a vacant storefront for about a month. My thoughts were becoming more muddled and my reasoning was beginning to twist. I slowly but surely became more and more uneasy about my surroundings. 

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In an escalating state of distress, I began to perceive electronic sounds in the silence, although these weren't voices. The only time I would hear voices was when the police were around, their strange, focused sound technology somehow transmitting sounds into my head. Overwhelmed by raw emotion, I felt an intense desire to depart Harlow, to abscond from my life. Thus, I found myself in the car, embarking on a directionless drive.

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There came a point when I found myself stuck in Grantham, waiting anxiously for funds to finally reflect in my account. This interim period lasted a couple of days. As soon as I was financially capable again, I had to make the tough decision to leave the car behind and return home via train.

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Returning to Harlow felt like navigating through a battlefield. The first step I took was to voluntarily check myself into the hospital. Regrettably, this led to a reintroduction of Clozaril, a medication I did not wish to rely on any longer. Yet, my departure from the hospital was swift and I immediately embarked on the daunting journey of withdrawing from the Clozaril before I could get hooked. However, I soon realized how deeply the hooks of dependency were already embedded. I can equitably say, the symptoms mirrored my assumptions of what heroin withdrawal must feel like.

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The repeated instances of needing Clozaril, only to stop it over and over again, had me grappling with withdrawal symptoms. My weight slipped away as eating became a struggle, just like getting out of bed. This was a tremendously challenging period in my life. But anger surfaced, seeking an outlet, and unfortunately, Gatehouse Arts became the scapegoat. It's as if they become a symbol, a representation of the sum of all my misfortunes, leading to my exhausting pursuit of creating difficulties for their

members.

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Regrettably, my behavior began to unravel, alienating those closest to me as I grappled with onrushing despair. It was as if I was bracing myself for a bitter end, letting myself believe that if so many people detested me, then perhaps everyone ought to. I found myself sinking into a relapse, my actions far from rational or considered. 

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In the midst of this period, I start spiraling into the realm of Devil's Dice-induced psychosis. The gist of this Devil's Dice theory is, when the devil throws a pair of dice, he invariably lands a 1 and 6 – illustrating that he can't distinguish between right and wrong, and instead, dilutes his choices. I found myself utterly gripped in its clutches, consistently throwing the symbolic dice to judge if those who I perceived as my antagonists react in a morally just manner. If this is the scenario, it's indeed suggestive of a world spiraling endlessly in cycles of resentment, fueling acts of vengeance in response to perceived wrongdoings. Imagine if each affected individual continued to inflict the same on others - we can sense the crux of societal discord. The circuit of ill-will needs snapping, and that, ironically, is the only righteous course of action during grim circumstances — albeit the most challenging task to take on.

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Once again, I turned to self-harm, a destructive habit I believed I'd left behind years ago. It was a temporary balm for my distress but, in reality, I was completely shattered. Without the intervention of my arrest and subsequent remand to HMP Chelmsford, I genuinely believed that I wouldn't have survived that year. It seemed as if I was returning to square one, trapped again within the confines of prison walls.

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Withdrawing from the medication I relied on was a severe ordeal. Captivated by the belief that I was under attack, I instinctively retaliated, lashing out at whatever I held dear in my life. Unfortunately, my life had few cherished aspects left, intensifying the struggle. As part of my self-destruction journey, I chose to harass people who, needless to say, didn't deserve it.

 

In a major lapse of judgement, I unjustly became entangled with Corrina Dunlea, a decision fueled by my misguided belief that she had taken advantage of me during my internship at the Gibberd Gallery. In actuality, I hoped she might sternly rebuke Amanda Westbury of Gatehouse Arts for her unwelcome attention. The truth is, Corrina Dunlea was largely innocent, and here I was, unjustly laying into her. On one regrettable night, I sent her a cryptic message asserting that I was in the Gibberd Gallery starting fires. This reckless act, which understandably led her to rush to the gallery in fear of precious artwork catching aflame, makes me question, why in the world would I do such a thing?

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Once upon a time, a dear friend named Helen Dickinson entered my life. Back in those early days, she was Helen Crossley, and our friendship was golden. An underlying affection blossomed within me for Helen, but it remained a hushed secret forever. Our lives intertwined briefly as we shared a stolen kiss near the majestic tree by King’s Oak in High Beach. However, with the prospect of University in Leeds on her horizon, I quietly let her soar into that future, unencumbered.

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My feelings for Helen remained concealed in all those years, a secret I kept buried within. Despite our connection on Facebook, life unfolded differently for each of us. While I was serving my first major sentence, Helen embraced a new chapter of her life, marrying and starting a family with her husband. Our paths first intertwined under the watchful gaze of the steeple at Loughton's Glass Church — a meeting etched in time on a distant Friday night. Regrettably, I allowed darkness to cloud my judgment as I threatened her family, an act that undeservedly spared me from prison.

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There was more too, I attacked David Beaumont at this time too. David was a fellow mature student from Coventry University whom was registered as disabled. He got the support that I too should of had and as a result attained a 2:1 that permitted him to continue his studies that I envied. I was out sabotaging all of the only good in my life because I intended to die and wanted the whole world to hate me on the same note.

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In the throes of physical and emotional self-destruction, I was treading a path of irreversible damage. Those moments when I expressed to my own mother that I had wished never to have been born are vividly imprinted in my memory – these biting words must have shattered her heart. She tearfully confessed to me then that there was a span of time when I was a stillborn – for a spell, they were convinced I was gone. You see, the moniker 'Michael' wasn't my initial christening, it was my fate. Bounding back to an earlier epoch in Ireland, my once-great grandparents faced relentless hardships. They were the unfortunate parents of a young boy named Michael, who they lost prematurely. As the wheel of time spun on, they gave birth to another son and decided to bestow upon him the moniker, 'Michael'. In the annals of my family's history, the name 'Michael' carries bittersweet significance - he is both the unborn child and the one that survived.

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Exasperated, I found myself detained for the intimidating conduct that had summoned me to the Harlow Police station to partake in an intense interrogation, while my lawyer, Ms. Harvey, prepared to respond to the forthcoming charges. Despite my desire to put forth my own account of events, Ms. Harvey prudently counseled me to maintain a stance of silence. In the tension-filled room where the inquisition transpired, two policemen, my attorney, and a guardian figure, assigned to protect my rights as a vulnerable individual, were present. As one query led to another, mounting in intensity, my sense of composure began to wobble. I sought refuge in whispered consultations with Ms. Harvey, the details of which now blur in my memory. But I can say with certainty that my emotional fortitude crumbled beneath the weight of those relentless strafings.

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Allow me to paint a picture of a journey like no other, sparked by desperation and a yearning for solace. Think of the turmoil as trying to latch onto sanity when you teeter on the edge. Picture this, my two friends, Chris Glover and Chris Baxter, combating their own demons, their struggles became a reflection of my own. At this point, I laid bare the haunting specter I confronted every time I braved to face the sun. Now, imagine the dam of protective emotions breaking loose - an impending storm of confusion and dread that has me trembling and consumed by fear. She must have questioned my sanity, and having been candid, she might not have been entirely wrong. It's an altogether mad tale to recount.

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Following my footsteps back to a complex chapter of my past, my time at Eastlea School in Canning Town comes to the forefront. P.E. lessons and my teacher, Mr. Willis, in particular, stand out in a haunting fashion. I eluded to a period when I found myself trapped in a vulnerable situation - naked and in the presence of this man. I was ensnared in his manipulative control, a tactic clearly designed to position himself to his advantage. I recalled attempting to escape a shower by alleging I didn't have a towel, yet he conveniently produced one. Acknowledging P.E. as one of the subjects I defied, I painted a picture of a boy in full rebellion against the school system. This chapter in my life frame abruptly closed with the unexpected demise of Mr. Willis. His departure during the school holidays away from the campus and its young inhabitants seemed ironically fitting.

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In truth, the memories of that evening at the police station have mostly faded into a vague blur. The one memory that retains its vividness is the distinct sensation of nausea on reaching the court the next day. During that night, I had a recurring cogitation—I should have mustered the courage to knock on the boss’s door, to confront the issues head on. I recall conversing with Ms. Harvey at the magistrates, but being taken into custody was the inevitable aftermath of admission. I could confront and endure my sentence now rather than later, to get it over with, but the uncertainty surrounding the specifics of the sentence, being on remand, were to be dealt with in the future.

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Fleeting Moments by Michael Ezare Barrett

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Whispers of what could have been,
Echoes in the void we see,
Moments passed and dreams unseen,
Lost opportunities, let them be.

Choices made, in fleeting time,
Paths not taken, roads declined,
Yearning hearts left far behind,
In the shadowed corners of the mind.

Time a river, ever flowing,
Carrying hopes that aren't sowing,
Regret's cold hand, ever knowing,
The seeds unplanted, never growing.

Doors once open, now long closed,
What's beyond, never disclosed,
Fate's cruel twist, now imposed,
On dreams deferred, life's path opposed.

Yet in the silence, a lesson clear,
Opportunity may reappear,
If eyes wide open, hearts sincere,
Embrace the now, let go of fear.