For Granted

I suppose there comes a time where you take things for granted. Perhaps become ungrateful.

That is not to say things were great to start with, but they could have been worse.

I also suppose, when all the damage that life does comes around again, you start to feel sorry for yourself.

You try to pick up the pieces, sew up the wounds, and pretend like scars never existed.

But it doesn’t turn into a perfect picture.

No. Instead, you falter at other things; neglect some things while you're too busy trying to make up for all the little broken things. Like when they tell you in school you got a poor grade, so you try to make up for it by studying hard. Or you needed to do better on a project at work, so you focus to improve, but because you're so worried and sleepless, you get a driving ticket for missing a stop light. You got your A+ or pat on the back, sure, but you also got a $150 fine. Or something like that.

But the only person you can blame is yourself.

And then another piece of you breaks off.

And then you put it back together.

And all the while, you forget how much worse it could be because you are sympathizing in your own stew of misfortune.

But I suppose that’s life.

And this is how it goes. If anyone doesn’t get this, (surprise) you’re not Anonymous, but I suppose everyone, even if it’s merely turning for a spoon to mix the tomato sauce just as the pasta begins to over boils, makes those calls. One choice creates a mistake. But it also saved the sauce. Tomato, tomahto.

The only thing is, it just gets messier when other people are around. Sort of. People spill the sauce, but they also don’t want you to grate too much cheese like they did on the last plate of pasta they made.

I suppose that’s expectation coming in. Like, everyone wants you to be perfect...or the people that care. They don’t want you to make the mistakes they did, or even the ones they didn’t. And you try to be that person.

And if you became that person, bonus marks. Points. Balloons. Whatever.

But if you don’t...you let people down.

And let me tell you, it’s harder to sew someone else together when you break off a piece of them. Frankly it’s because you’ll never understand how the piece fit. Not to mention, you’ll be lucky enough if they let you fix it to begin with. It’s hard to get that close.

The point is: you are not them. You don’t know how you affected them. And, frankly, if you fix it, there is still a scar left; a memory of their disappointment in your thread work.

Some people, perhaps the optimistic ones, might call that a quilt of life’s experiences. It is true—life changes you. You change you. Others change you. Patchwork ensues.

But then again, the minute you turn away, you might take something else for granted.