The best of times and the worst of times are misnomers; there are simply times and what you derive from those times are only the attachments that you bring to the table. Your life is not the seventh chapter of some vastly entertaining novel, it’s just the seventh chapter of a novel in progress that may end sooner than later. You could be the main character, but no convention states that the main character can’t die before the last page. You are not the smartest person you know, you are not the most charming, you are not the most anything…you are just a character who dies in the third act of a fifty act play meant to be performed on repeat. You don’t even have a singing part. This isn’t a musical; there are no dance routines and you’ll be lucky to get a standing ovation at the end.

The last time I saw someone dancing at the gas station, they were homeless and begged enough to get a cup of hot coffee, that’s all. No lottery winner, no sunshine breaking through to shine just on them as they moved up the caste system to do something amazing with themselves. They simply got something warm to drink while flurries buried themselves beneath the dirty skin of unbathed and filthy and the ignoring public walked past quickly.

I met someone tonight who reminded me that I have the world at my fingertips, even at the age of almost thirty. He said, “I love an old stripper with a lip-grip like a vise” and I shuddered at the thought of over-creviced skin on weak thighs, attempting pole dances in the back of Chevy Novas just to pay for Christmas as blinking lights lit up the silver streaks in her hair. I saw him chug his beer as if the bar were running out and the younger waitress couldn’t keep up the supply of his demand while I wished for God to take my life before I ever succumbed to that line of thinking at that age.

It may not be now, but sometime you’ll feel the tickle at the base of your spine. A tickle that says ‘I need out,’ but leaves you questioning how to do so. This is the unease that provides motivation, the unease that replaces your sloth with action. Assuming you can overcome the Sisyphusian obstacle, your hands will be too small to reap the mountain of reward, so just let it sift through your fingers like filaments of silk to those still stuck in the valley below.

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