I’ve always separated people into two categories. They are either hard or soft. But not in the sense that it means that they’re not capable of feeling some kind of angst or anguish. But more so in the way they live life.
Some love to life fast, hugging death, making her smile. Until the edges of that wonderful and inviting smile wraps you up and makes you oblivious of what’s next.
Others like to sip their coffee, or tea, if you swing that way, and let death put her hands on your shoulders. But never letting her sit with you, allowing her in that moment to ask you how your coffee is. Letting her be so intimate.
But instead she is in the back of your mind, just waiting. Waiting for the day you invite her to sit. To soak up the morning rays on the patio because you like waking up early. You think it makes you a better human. Appreciating life in that way. Because in that moment, and many like it, you feel at peace and that the world moves a tad bit slower. And wish nothing more but to continue to have these elongated moments. Again, and again, and again.
But being soft isn’t bad at all.
Sure living fast and hard is a bit enticing, but it’s not everything. At some point living life hard and living life softly seems meaningless.
The end goal is still the same, right?