Life's Too Short
Life's too short to not wear little pink undies. To not feel pretty. To not act like
a goofball and fly in the face of Acceptable Behaviour.
I'd like to think I've always thought this way. That I was free. That I was somehow
unrestricted. That adulthood would be what I made of it.
Sadly, perhaps typically, I slowly and unthinkingly allowed others to shape what I
would say and do. Gradually building an exquisite and complicated prison for creative
thought was what I was truly doing. Perhaps I would unlock it some day. Maybe even
let it out for a short while.
What it simply did was rot. No sunshine. No fresh air. Nothing to nurture or feed my
imagination. The practicalities and expectations of others came first, every time. I
began to wonder where I had placed the prison, but getting yanked back into the day-
to-day mechanics of society would end any searching.
I began to feel...dull. Everything had a purpose. Everything had a reason. Square pegs
in square holes. Insert tab A into slot B. It all became so...dreary.
One day - a day I wasn't particularly looking for it - I found where I had hidden my
dreams. They had withered and gone dry. Bits and pieces had shriveled.
They were beautiful.
Excitement flowed through my veins! I had rediscovered my flights of fancy! Hidden
worlds, fanciful stories, colourful characters all found a way back into my life. I
picked up a set of pens and a sketchbook. The discouragement at how technically poor
I was was only matched by the passion and satisfaction of making something where there
was once nothing.
I kept drawing. I drew paws and ears. Fur patterns and muzzles. All these thoughts and
ideas that I kept stowed away came flooding out through my own two paws. I bought a
tablet and fired up my photo editing software. I really had no idea what I was doing,
technically. The logical parts of my brain kept trying to make me stop: "This sucks!"
they seemed to say, "Nothing about this makes any sense. You suck."
I have to tamp down that part every day.
What I had to learn and what I needed to understand was that life wasn't all about the
numbers. It wasn't all about the practical. The reason that part of my existence had
no meaning for me is that I didn't give it meaning. It can only come through creating
a balance. If I can't create, how can I appreciate the finer points of a balanced life?
Has life been better? Immeasurably. Does it make more sense now? No, but I've learned
that making sense out of life isn't necessarily something I want to do in every
situation. Life is too short to come up with a reason for every single action I take.
So, here, without context, is a dog showing off his pink undies. It makes little sense.