I approach every day the way I approach a bowl of Lucky Charms: Eat a few spoonfuls and then throw the rest on the floor when you remember it’s sugar coated garbage.
No no… I’m not quite that bitter yet. Let me start over.
I haven’t felt as open as I used to be. Not as willing to let others write in my metaphorical book, if you will. Sometimes you’re just too broken to feel open minded. I won’t apologize for that.
It’s so easy to become bitter when every item, every song has a long red Crime Noir thread tied to old pains. It’s so easy to become paralyzed, trapped in the web.
But It’s just thread, a series of twisted, inaccurate, convoluted ghosts; and I am God. At least insomuch as this is my mind, and my life.
I just have to stand up and remember that the red strings don’t hold my hand back when I draw. They don’t hold my feet back when I’m pushing my skateboard. They don’t block the wind when I run. What strength do they have that I don’t give them, after all.
I’ve realized that I could spend a lifetime running around trying to cut these strings, trying to run from the hurt.
But I can’t, any more that I can stem the tides.
So I won’t.