Where Words Fail

There is this list of maybes. It’s a list of truths, but anything but the truth. It’s the whole mixed with the broken. The old and the new. It’s abiding and it’s current, and it flows like the current inside of you.

Maybe your Friday nights are spent watching wrestling with your grandparents. Maybe you are in love with your boss. You think about him on your way home and so you turn the radio up a little louder so you don’t have to hear your brain go on about it any more. Maybe you’re trying to go to church and it sucks because let’s be real–church sucks. Maybe you need to lose weight but Grandpa keeps buying icecream and why wouldn’t he? You asked him to! Maybe your sad and tired but mostly sad. Because life isn’t fair and men want to have sex with you but they don’t want to talk to you and makeup classes are expensive and algebra is hard even after college and it looms in waiting for you under your bed like the jellyfish you thought you’d killed with a boxcutter.

But I digress.

Maybe we are just as broken as we think we are Maybe you’re just like me and I’m just like you. Okay–probably not. That’s a stretch. But here’s my point, or rather, my point that leads to my point:

The ones who love me–and I mean really love me–with my knee high socks and singing in Spanish when I can’t even speak it, and my driving 60 mph–those are the ones who count. And you won’t know who they are, until you do.

Sometimes you’ve gotta draw the line.

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