The Beach Ball Effect

I swear, this is not going to be a pity party post. Or PPP. 

I have this theory about my life. I call it The Beach Ball Effect. There is this wonderful, colorful beach ball floating in a refreshing, clear pool. I want that beach ball, but I don't know how to swim. So I wait by the side until the gentle breeze floats it towards me.

I reach out to touch it, wanting to hold it. To possess it. But only my fingertips get to touch it. The very act of contact pushes the ball back to the middle of the water, out if reach. 

The beach ball is my happiness. I can see it, I can even touch it. But I can never, ever capture it.

The two most vital components of myself are incredibly scarred. My brain and my heart. But, I am incredibly proud of both of them. They have been played, stabbed, cheated, burned, and broken. But somehow, they still work. 

This was on my Facebook feed this morning.

As if the universe was trying to remind me that the point of life is not to capture the beach ball. Maybe the point is to just let the beach ball float away and enjoy a Piña Colada by the side of the pool. 

Or maybe the whole point of life is to learn that I can take a hit. And another. And another. And stand up and say "Is that all you got?"