Going Down Swinging

We are all supposed to have a gift. What it is, who knows? Maybe it is hidden away, wrapped up and collecting dust in some closet, a part of all the junk and baggage we have collected in our lives. A dust bin of dreams and potential. I guess we throw out a lot of things that we don't know the value of until it is long gone. The void left behind is the worse part. Buildings abandoned years before have an eerie, serene beauty, but in the end they all rot and collapse into a pile of rubble. It is that mound on which we stand, no longer useful, but we fight to protect it nevertheless. Not to save the pile, but for the honour of the memory of what it once was. And isn't that the point? The memories are worth fighting for because that is all we really have left. Memories and hope. Hope that the glory of things lost long ago can rise from the ashes. Those embers have long died out, but the fight gives us glory. It is a suicide mission to be sure, we can never win that fight, but still we try, and maybe that is the gift we all have, a chance to go out fighting.