If You Are Reading This, I Love You.

No one can force you to do anything. You chose. You always choose. You can choose not to weigh yourself; you can choose to have a dash of milk in your coffee; you can choose to begin that furtive stumble towards the light.

Conversely, you can choose to remain behind. You can choose to cower. You can choose to starve, binge, abuse yourself. It is a compulsion, yes, but it is a compulsion that can be fixed. Patched up. Knitted anew into a healthier form.

How often do you look back? Really reflect on what you’ve done? The insignificance of it all; pointless arguments, inside jokes, funny hair cuts. But do you ever wonder how you’ll be remembered? Or if what you’ve done or what you’re doing means anything at all? What will your songs sound like when you’re dead and gone? Will tears fall when the last note is sung? And how will your story be told? Will your words leave a bitter taste in their mouths? Or will they even remember you at all? Compassion. The concept is rather simple, most know what it means to be civil. But there truly is a fine line between sweet and sour. Give too much of yourself away and you’ll be all used up. Not enough and no one will be around to share this with. So what is it that motivates us to be better, gentler, more refined? I like to think it’s those close to us, close to the heart and soul. Those who carried you to the car after you puked on their shoes, those who took the blame for breaking the window when it was you who casts the stone, those who will be by your side when reality knocks on your door both good and bad. But more importantly, those whose stories you will share with your kids and grandkids, and their kids, and their grandkids, in hopes to somehow keep this all alive. Chivalry, decency, kindness, compassion, desire, strength. How will you be remembered?

There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportions.