Stress is self made, sure. But it's also firmly part of inner and outer space. Blaming oneself for worries is a stretch fraught with more stress.
Seen from outer space to view each labor cum love's a life lesson, yeah. Why fret? Yet every concern turned turn-on lies not far from more promising dread informed by the experience of stress, but far enough that navigating between such experience's another art of stress upon the unforgiving entirety of it all.
I've gone enough aloud with the cliché of being spiritual not religious only to realize the reverse is so. Might I have that backward, too? Well, it's the shoe, a superstition, and what is that but a glue on a view to religion?
If there's a mantra it's always be grateful and don't take for granted, couched in the would-be, something more akin to be ever aware of the got, so as to be not unawares of the not. Should that then suddenly drop.
A walk recently concealed the result of what one might say was the walk itself. Or a shoe or something in it. It was the latter was true, but it wasn't the shoe. No dried disc of blood in a sock should serve as exhibit to jump to false convictions.
Two toes have served long together more closely than the rest. One could really nearly regard them as one, were it not for their having individual concerns, and the fact of an infraction committed by the ring against the middle.
It might be the offender was tired of having the victim draped over & upon it so familiar & snug, so it took a nail and stabbed it just as ad nauseam as the offense that'd caused the crime, not too many times to count but innumerably nonetheless, for there'd be one tiny wound repeatedly offended.
Seeing that dot at the end of it all, one'd think at most there'd been but one drop.
