No one wants to hurt. No
one wants to be seen hurting, and no one is born with the wish to hurt others.
The flaws of life have created the occurrence of pain. Unforeseen experiences
come upon on, and before a breath is drawn, our lives are changed. Permanency
is constantly overestimated. Like “q” and “u” together, “forever” walks in step
with “until”. Often we anticipate pain in one capacity, and are blindsided when
it arrives by another means. Because feelings are the glasses through which we
interpret life, we often depend upon them. Because we see qualities similar to
ourselves in people, we relate and become endeared to them. Influenced by
people and by feelings, we envision the road map of our lives.
Marching staunchly onward
toward a set of goals, we fail to see the beauty in the happenings that refuse
to keep time to our rhythm. Suddenly,
the music box is shut, and we have no beat to follow; only awkward glances
toward the hand on the lid. Feelings are fickle, people change, and life maps
are written on an etch-a-sketch.
To walk alone is not
easy. A hundred hands will gladly reach out to guide you; as they do, they bump
you, and balance is further compromised. Oftentimes, the first hand seen is
grasped, but take inventory of yourself. If the path you stand on was ever
truly yours, it is there still. If the hand you once held was closing doors before
you could reach them, grasp the knobs. If walking becomes impossible, plant
both hands firmly on the floor and simply move forward.
There is no shame in
change; there is only shame in keeping your eyes shut. There is no shame in
tears; life’s color can be seen through water. Keep your hands up, but never
clenched. Shake your etch-a-sketch; let no one snatch it from your hands, let
no one scrawl a definition upon it. Sweep constantly the broken pieces away
from your feet; let nothing trip you.
Independence is not
isolation. Love is intentional, as is the absence of. Pain is progress; in
whichever way you choose to show it, hurt for yourself alone, not for any other
soul. Love and white flags be damned; there is plenty enough time in later life
for domesticity. This is no cry for help; this is a damage assessment to remind
the heart that nothing less than epic adventures, or significant betterment of
oneself should ever sway your feet from steps which bring a smile. Master your
own mediocrity; true love, in whichever capacity your soul needs to receive it,
will surely follow.
