Everyone Has A Story

Life flies by, days mesh together, events and people skim past, barely breaching our periphery. We exist in a state of self-centeredness, driven by a compulsion for the security of routine; barricading ourselves from those who are seemingly insignificant or who have the potential to precariously tip the balance of control one way or the other. Avoiding those who irritate, their presence a friction, rippling the order.

I’ve been victim to this; I am a victim of this. Grasping to the routine, to the known. Head-down in the daily business of my life and my family’s purpose. It’s an addictive comfort, until it consumes you and, all of a sudden, you realize that days, weeks, months have passed; nights thick with insomnia.

And then, boom, something happens. Be it as big as tragedy, as delightful as serendipity, as random as reading.

You are shaken awake; your eyes prised open, heartbeat racing, high on perspective.

Suddenly, it’s not about you anymore. It’s about everyone else.

And this is how it should be.

whim

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