Good times don’t last neither bad times. Like drops of rain, it comes in buckets; sometimes sporadically and others, one continuous line of giving and misgivings. It feels like the end, the world closing in, grabbing you by the ankles, an earthquake of helplessness but it is not; just the universe waving at you. A slap in the face. A speed bump. A semicolon in your carefully catered uninterrupted life to say; hello I am here, can you see me?! Indeed. Dust off that dapper jacket, your gentleman stylish shoes and put it on. Walk up to the street and start trekking. Unmindful of the itinerary, brisk wind blowing at you, the acoustic sound of sand and gravel naked to the untrained ear whispers the pitch perfect noise companion; keep going it says, towards the ship in the far away land. Never fear but mutate. Never waver but stand firm. Never question but smile in gratitude. Make new adventure as twisted as imperfect lines it may come to be, rattled by uncollected evidence, never mind it; craft The stories. Be the anchor in the limitless water, a catalyst to the ship selling, to life as it is, for the living. Keep striving!
And because life is filled of adulterated mushrooms. It blooms indiscriminately. Just because you know about it, it doesn’t mean you can go. Just because you can, it doesn’t mean you should. Life is full of promises and rewards, bringing joy always as altruistic as it may sound. Just because you are not there yet, it doesn’t mean it is not coming, giving up is not an option or you will never get there. You will, in due time, at strike of that right jingle and boombox speaker. At snail pace dictated by the rabbit hole. Keep playing, climbing the mountain without peaking at the moon or celebrate dark alleys. Stay often in state of gratitude as tomorrow is never promised but here. Don’t blink but be fully dressed for the occasion, the unexpected blue sky and fresh aroma in the midst of one torrential rain hip pop dance number.
When we think we have it all, we don’t. You wouldn’t catch me saying it but there isn’t a thing called, perfect; no, perfect is not that perfect or cracked up to be. It is convoluted. It makes the perfect story, the best headline for the billboard charts but it is incomplete, a semicolon on a luggage of many Amens.