Grinding

Grinding

In the making of a man, each is given what she can handle. That which breaks you will not break me and vice versa. I’ve been allowed to live as I truly am … part selfish and free, part bound by generosity to a fault …I am a prayer. A moray pattern forced out by whips, chains, extreme circumstances, extreme environments, extreme moments and catatonic states. For people that live in a place of pain, I am the crocodile that swims down to the bottom of the river where the sad lady sleeps in the mud. I ride watermelons out to the sea. So many never get to do this, live as they truly are. Life will not let them shine gold. They travel down tunnels that lead to more tunnels. Soon they forget where they are. They believe the path to money and food is real life while those that shine gold starve, bodies melting in the sun. The light is too strong. The flowers burn. And everyone must shift between rails in the tunnels, grey ghosts with food and money, electric, shining gold, living life as you truly are, everyone searching for each other, grinding and barreling down the rails. We are all trying to find the middle. We all have bills to pay. We all have to eat. Even those that shine gold and burn in the sun.

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