Life is the happening of a place we’re never quite gonna get around to understanding. As much as we want to get it, it ain’t happening.
Think about it . . .
You start by getting slapped in the ass by a dude in a butcher coat, just to make sure you’re awake. After which you wail away as if Nazi’s have invaded the maternity ward, while strangers surround you and laugh at the squeals you’re asking them to take seriously. And then life really starts fucking with you.
Every single one of our life stories is a snowflake- possessing a completely unique definition of the known whilst using it as currency for all the unknown. Our soulful fingerprints are cultivated from the channels of crimes and misdemeanors, rises and falls, inventions and re-inventions, lonesome walks and bad company nights.
Life is always busy figuring you out, but it’s never gonna be cool when it comes to returning the favor. It gifts you its best and it punishes you with its worst, after which it’s left to you to figure out the math on those diametrically opposed places, and to somehow forge a confluence that doesn’t read of the Manson family tree.
I once wrote somewhere that life is like a speeding train and we, the clueless passengers; busy staring out at a still life picture. We don’t realize just how fast we’re moving until we exit the train and look around, shaking our heads in wonder at the deception.
Life gives you enough, and it lets you know that is all you’re ever gonna get. Enough. As a kid, we’re too busy believing that days last forever and as adolescents we’re too busy proving it. As young adults, we play with money and sex and new found titles until it bores us into being more responsible. By middle age, we come to understand mortality on a level that feels way too personal. And from what I hear of folks who make it to their golden years? They’ve learned that while the days might be short, the ability to curse at kids without repercussion? Is fucking awesome.
To which, there’s a final chapter. And if you’re really lucky, you find peace there. I remember listening to John Kennedy Jr talk about his mother after she passed. The kid framed portraits when he spoke. Never more so than on the day mama died. His recounting of her final moments was of a circle, filled with close friends, family and her books. I’ll never forget that. She turned enough into everything.
It’s all you could ask for.