This is the way the world ends....

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar


Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

When the world seems to back you into the corner, and bark and growl the only thing you can retreat to is your dreams. But even those seem to turn themselves against you.  When things seem to spin out of control, and you seem to be spiraling down that rabbit hole, all you have to do is reach out a hand, open your eyes and find that you are still rooted to your same life, and what fantastic worlds you see are nothing more than dreams. When all seems lost, close your eyes, take a deep breath, count to three and breathe. Understand that nothing seems to have a set plan, and that nothing you do will ever go your way the first time. When you loose hope, when you give up it sets the way the day will go, and things will be worse. Hope is a waking dream. 

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