Chris Cornell dies. He hangs himself in a hotel room, in a town where he doesn't live. He makes it past 27, makes it past the 90s, makes it past all the pit falls that should have caught him but didn't. He built family, mended fences, cut his hair and grew up, and still he died.
I thought if I could just make it to 28, I'd be too old to have to worry about it. If I could get to my 30s I'd be out of the woods. But the woods do not end because we endure youth. The woods grow, and tangle, and darken, and we have to constantly keep running with the Red Queen to just keep one foot on solid ground. The choice to live requires to be made every day. Every damn day we have to get up and survive again. It's a terrifying premise, sometimes.
You have 18 years left to 52. Put one step in front of the other. Make the most of your clearing in the forest. Leave perennials in your wake.
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