When you’re little its easy to be sad. I remember when I used to cry, when for example somebody had done something inherently wrong. I could cry out and let the tears flow, and I would be one with the pain, for all the world to see. I would be submerged into the sea of tears, and look pain in the face. I would say to it,

“You and I, we are one. We are the same. In this instant I exist as nothing less, nothing more, than sadness. Because you flow through every single vein in my body.”

As I aged it got harder to become that sadness when I cried. I saw with more clarity, or less depending on how you see it. And the sadness was mingled with doubt, hope, anger, depression, surprise. It got harder to focus on the sadness and wallow in its startling clarity, because so many other thoughts vied for my attention. And they won, and do still win, as I’ve already moved on from the pain, always looking forward, but always somehow leaving some pain behind.

Maybe someday I can be one with the child and embrace the pain before saying goodbye. Maybe.

You call it unreliable, I call it spontaneous. 

You call it unstable, I call it growth.

You call it unconventional, I call it original.

You call it a struggle, I call it a journey.

You call it unplanned, crazy, never stopping, wild.

I call it life.