Working (it) out "better"
It has always worked out.
hasn't it?
Even when you told the psychiatrist you are throwing away the drugs
packing your bags
and going to Ireland.
And you had no idea
how and if you are going to make it.
But you had faith.
And more importantly:
there was no choice.
And even the call center
And the puffed-up Englishman messing with you
and you telling to fuck off
and getting fired.
And the house without a hearth
and with little heart;
was a perfect place to be.
Because it had a magical garden.
Where you walked the neighbour's land
with respect to All that Is, was and ever shall be.
And prayed in all languages you knew.
That you would make it another day.
And that day,
when you walked up the hill
to the Mary of the Red,
and told her the story,
you have told, a million times already..
And you saw she gets it.
And how it all went uphill from there.
Though it all fell apart
again.
and again
and again.
And then coming back.
Graduating and meeting, what you were sure.,
was the love of your life.
And the magic and Universe that opened.
And all the madness and darkness,
that followed after.
That you are stil
finding your way out.
And yet.
still
It always worked out.
Even when it didn't.
And there is more madness and liberation,
you could write about,
but that is for another novel.
The point is little one:
It always worked out
when you allowed it.
The only question is really:
Why did you have to make it so hard for yourself?
And you can,
as the Beattles sang: :
Make it
better.
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