Tuesday, June 18, 2013

REFUSAL OF THE FITTEST

There is a skylight in the breakroom at work, and on days both good and bad I go there and look up. It's a ritual first born a couple years ago, when I sat there with a friend, let the daylight hit my face and thanked the gods or whatever for being kind and generous.

Since then I have cursed the daylight, welcomed the clouds, endured the storms, asked for respite. There have been days — Christ, yes; fuck, yes — when I would have gladly rolled out the time machine and taken a trip back to the pre-skylight days, when life wasn't nearly as big and choices seemed much less consequential.

Today I wandered into the breakroom and looked up, let a wave of remembering break over my brow. I kept the sigh inside and instead took a photo. You survived, I thought, and that's not saying much, but it certainly beats the alternative.

But survival isn't enough. I didn't come this far to simply survive. Any fool can draw air. That's not the badass way. I have issues, like everyone else. But I refuse to quit. Four hundred entries in now, and there are chapters yet to write in this letter to a curious artist. Chapters yet to write, and life yet to live. You'll see.

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