Everyone’s born in a furrow in Life’s great muddy field. From the moment you’re born – the odds are stacked against you. There’s the family you’re born into and their social class. We don’t get to chose who we’re born to, or where. That part is just dumb fucking luck (whether good or bad). If you’re poor – you got two choices: you can settle for that, or you can fight…
It’s taken me too many years to finally realize that we’re all born in a societal niche. I wasted by schooling, pissing about chasing a girl when I should’ve been working on getting into publishing or journalism. Then I drank and womanized my early twenties away prior to getting a job with the mail service. That job quickly consumed my life with the pursuit of a paycheck and the shit it bought me; demanding more and more of my time until I eventually gave up all pretense at writing. Frankly, I’m amazed I managed to even write a novel. Then at twenty-nine my closest friend, my Brother Michael died suddenly. I went off the reservation on that one. I pretty much lost the next decade to drunken mourning, a farce of a marriage and a doomed long distance relationship.
We don’t choose the life we’re dealt. We can, however, decide what we do with it. We can adopt to just muddle on. School, regular working life, family life, a few beers, a holiday now again, death. Or… we can work out what we love, what and who inspires us, what we’re good at, then chase it with all we got to give (the fight, as my bro called it).
Grit what’s left of your teeth, after life has attempted to punch them repeatedly from your head. Flex your muscles and claw your way, snarling and growling, from that muddy oozing track in the dirt. I have no intention of remaining in the furrow. I don’t know if I’ll succeed, if that’s even possible or if I have any talent with words whatsoever. I’ll die trying though…
Darkgingerbread 