In Hindsight.

I spent three years sweeping hair.

I am enchanted by the romance of the idea, as I am enchanted by most things that retain within themselves a spirit of sentimental endurance. Maybe I am just strange (I am just strange) but it has taken me far too long to understand how I see to give up on the habit now; this romanticism with the seemingly mundane. It’s a one-sided love affair, a daily passionate embrace, a lustful collision with the beauty fighting for control of each second.

And sometimes, regular words and simple sentences fail me. I, then, spin webs of verbs and subjects, delicately working left to right, connecting the threads of thought that catch the adjectives that I bend to fit my purposes.

How do I explain this? The significance of the countless days I spent basking in yolk-colored walls. On the contract written on my brain, I signed off my weekends and my sanity. But mental health is a concept of relative perception. It’s just that I was a kid and I wanted green fields and muddy cleats and it’s just that simply existing sometimes demands sacrifices of daunting proportions.

Society likes to call that growing up.

Acceptance, letting go in its most polished state, is a remarkably difficult concept to master, however, so I suppose the early start won’t hurt, though it certainly pained at the time. Acceptance, for me, has been a journey of hundreds of days spent practicing discipline within four glass windows and behind a red desk. Fitting it is, that arrival at my destination meant letting go of my place of learning.

Lessons learned, practice outside the glass, the figures drawn on the walls yelled at me. I hit a wall, just like they hit the wall when their mysterious creator (artists, they are called) splattered them alive. So I guess they know a thing or two about stuff. Conviction, the fire that began at the pit of my stomach and pummeled out of my mouth, is a far easier idea to embrace than acceptance, for conviction demands action instead of surrender and I am better, generally, at making burning decisions.

And conviction dictated moving on. That tug in my middle, spreading to my chest, because my decisions are made with the heart, which is another romantic concept, as I am in love with life.

Here, convinced, but unsure, and so completely accepting of the contradictions, that…

Good things gonna come.