The best. The one. The life. The answer. ThetheTHEThE.
The finality of things lingers in my thoughts. It pollutes my breath. It stalls my dreams.
How do paradoxes work? And why do I love them so? There are infinite options and unlimited roads to take in life, and each of us makes these choices every second of every day. But a little demon exists, an itty-bitty nymph hanging over our heads. It nags, it harrasses, it tugs on last nerves. It whines at that supersonic, almost inaudible decible: "Did you make THE right decision? Did you say THE right thing? Did you play THE game by THE rules?"
With ear drums throbbing, I take said itty-bitty nymph, I sit him down, and I force him to look at the word. We write it down and then we slice it up. We imprint the ink on silly putty and stretch it apart. We use paint and smear it around. After a few hours of this play, he stops the whining. His angst calms to a purr.
We realize that the finality of things is maleable. As is life. And I'm ready to stretch and bend and blend and break and send my decisions, my messages in a messy, sometimes unpredictable package.
Me and my nymph, we've come to an understanding: There is no THE RIGHT WAY for me. There is only MY WAY. Si?
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