Listen to this post:
What if I slept on the other side of the bed for a while? What if I played the other side of the LP? What if I flipped the pancake one more time?
Would it taste the same? Would it smell the same? What difference would it make? What if the amber waves of grain were a different color? What if the grass was crabbier on your side of the fence?
What if I know what the heck I was talking about? What if I wasn’t an imposter after all? What if I took the road more traveled? What if I dared to eat a peach? What if “to be” was just the same as “not to be”?
What if I just leaned into the cliche every time? The chicken did cross the road safely, after all, and when I walked a mile in your shoes, it pinched a little but my feet survived.
Have I been trying too hard or not hard enough? What if I tried softer?
All along I have had the power to find my way home, but if you’d told me, I wouldn’t have believed you. First I had to walk many miles along the road laid with yellow brick, and I needed to make friends along the way. I don’t make friends easily, I guess, and not because I sang songs to myself and fell into a pigpen. I needed my puppy to show me the scary man was all bluster and smoke and mirrors.
Sometimes I have no idea where I’m going with this, and all of a sudden I discover how much fun I’m having making nonsense. It’s almost as if nonsense makes more sense than sense itself. You know what I mean, don’t you?
And all I had to do was sleep on the other side of the bed for a while. Maybe next I’ll sleep with my head at the foot of the bed. I draw the line at sleeping with my feet on the pillow.
