I sometimes find myself taking a hit for others and for my family, but none for myself. I find that really heart wrenching, albeit pretentious at some point. I reckon that if I keep sweeping the messes of my world under the rug, there will come a time that the rug itself will become so massive that it ought to overlap with my reality.
It’s silly but it’s a bit comforting to find out that your friends’ heads are wired up similarly to yours. It’s as if the choice were subconscious; to be with people who could understand you because a parcel of you is well ingrained within them long before you’ve even met. The number alone provides a feeling of safety, a certain guarantee that we’d make it out of our damned tragedies alive.
But there are times when the act of self preservation alone feels dragging and selfish. And there are instances when it is hard to distinguish the life line from the road to damnation. So I trod lightly in the gray area, shying away from the absolutes. However, even the broad daylight, the spectrum of gray hues are vast enough to get lost into.
On the darker days when my myopic vision clouds my judgment, I reread the essays in Life on the Cusp. It’s like a food for the soul, tailored for people who’ve made it past their mid-life crisis.
It’s a gem, really. It’s a confidant who tells you that some things are not mutually exclusive, an old friend who reminds you of the good times so you could make it through the bad ones, and a cup of coffee whose warmth hugs the heart.