You’re given breath to seek life.
Life doesn’t find you.
You wake up trying to fail every second, knowing that breath is but for a dash. Fail it with air-y gasps. A date and end point. Life is finite. Beads strewn together to fill the hours we can hardly count on. It is fluid, bumpy, curvy. Life isn’t a gift or maybe it is. It is a gift we try to give ourselves but often fail at or win. It boils down to perspective. Whose matters! We will never know. And that’s life, a stampede of prints, on you, them, it, we. We make them. They make it.
From beginning to end, our goal: Carpe Vitae.
Every minute, every hour that turns into a day. We shout: Carpe Diem!
And by all that’s considered holy, what happens: we make do. We make do with what is as we wish for what could be, while plotting the what ifs that should lead us to an “I’ve done my best”. I’ve lived the good life, fought the fight, endured with all my might. If might was the sole builder, some will create pyramids, waterfalls and rivers. And have. Others! Much as they will, as stubbornly as they try could hardly draw, needing paper and pencil that often don’t come at the same time or function as they should, when they should.
Endless repetitions of “you go”, “you can do it”, “hang in there”, “so sorry”, “this too shall pass”, “you did it”, “I did it” are essentially a compilation of this is the worst and the best it will be, that you’ll have.