Trying to force the natural sequence of nature is like slamming your head against a board of nails. Acceptance of who we are in our own divinity, instead of playing dress up and pretending to be someone we are not.
You can’t wear Prada, drink the richest bourbon, smoke fancy cigars, and do the finest line of cocaine and compare yourself to the man. The boy, mimicking a man.
You see, he wears Levi’s, smells of cheap whiskey, smokes whatever is free, and writes about a life that once was, before the pain. The infallible days of clarity.
You can’t walk a poor mans path, with your rich arrogance. There isn’t enough money to buy this man’s soul. His story, unfolds daily and reeks of a heavy burden, lack of that deep intimacy, lack of hope. Yet, he is rich in character, rich in wisdom, rich in reflection and worth so much more than the shell of a human pretending to be what he never will be.
The man’s book embodies thousands of pages, well read. The boys, empty pages of a life never lived.
Carry on…nothing to see here