I’ve never understood people that live for the weekend.
Who doesn’t love a Wednesday?
Who can’t make the most of a Thursday?
Who lives for two days out of seven?
I’ve never understood people that are afraid to say what they’re thinking.
Who can keep it in?
Who can stew on letters and words?
Who can resist and refrain?
I’ve never understood people that worry about things that haven’t happened.
Who can be troubled by a hypothetical?
Who can limit their lives by fearing something that may not even occur?
There’s so much I don’t understand.
I’m scared and you’re scared and we’re all scared.
They’re over there whining and worrying and the only difference between them and us is that we pull on our boots and step out onto the frost covered streets and give a damn.
Give a damn about life.
Give a damn that it’s Wednesday. Because Wednesdays are for living.
We make the choice between sitting back and marching on, and we choose to march on.
To discover new places; bars on corners and barns in fields, and meet new people – the kind that challenge and captivate – and we make it up as we go along, without any idea of how it’ll turn out. And it’s good. It’s brilliant and stirring and I think it’s what it means to be alive and they don’t know.
They don’t know what they’re missing out on.
That feeling; when nervous energy and apprehension and excitement combine in the pit of your stomach.
You’re one of two people in this world, I’m sure of it.
You either run from that feeling or you live for it.
You push it away or you embrace it.
You hide from it or wear it like a cloak.
Sometimes it’s heavy,
sometimes it’s even too big,
but it’s a cloak I always want,
pinned on my shoulders,
engulfing and enveloping me.