I’ve been reading my posts lately, honestly with a little disgusto. Not because I’ve repented of the things I’ve written in the past. They were in me and they needed to come out. En su momento they have all been my truth and therefore despite my opinions about them now they are rightfully just that – a part of me.
I guess the disgusto is a little deeper. You see I’m realizing now, more and more, that I don’t have all the answers. That life isn’t as color de rosa as I have wanted to believe. That sometimes you do put all of your ganas and corazón into something and you can still fuck it up. Excuse my French. For the first time in my life the answers don’t seem as black and white. Granted I am much more calmado and less prone to go into full stress out and worry about every single little thing mode these days. I’ve adopted a much more laissez fare attitude overall. But still I can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling of knowing that life is really not under my control.
My parents’ warnings of life being too short make sense now. I see the years passing by, the kids seem to be growing up way too fast, I’m still not quite sure what I want to be when I grow up, my parents …well they’re just not as young as they once were, and quite frankly it all makes me look at the whimsical writer in me with a lot of disgusto. Coraje even!
Why does he want me to see life through such a rose colored glass? Why do things in his world always make sense? Why does he insist that ‘things always happen for a reason’ and that they also ‘always have a way of working themselves out’?
I question myself and then I realize… No seas baboso guey, ¡no mames! you come from a long line of luchistas. You don’t question why, you roll with the punches, le echas ganas, and as long as your heart is in the right place you hope and pray for the best. That’s all I can do.
No hay de otra manito.
Or at least that’s where I am right now.
I hope of some of that at least made some sense to somebody else besides myself.