Folded thought of the day:

I received a bottle of tears in the mail.  Leaving me to 
wonder if I was the cause of these tears or if it was a 
gesture of pure sharing.  Something of mine, along with 
a lock of hair.  A piece of me to keep with you.  

Human beings are tough to figure and life is sure a 
challenge.  I've done my best to be comfortable being 
alone, to never feel lonely with myself.  But as soon 
as you open yourself to someone you're in big trouble, 
buddy.  The stakes are high and you don't know from 
moment to moment how those odds are shaping up.

But what's the alternative.  Is the pain worth the 
moments of happiness?  Can you build an immunity 
to love?  Is it so terrible to walk this world 
alone?  I've certainly seen my share of couples who 
seem to be together for less than honest and 
inspiring reasons.  

Comfort is a poison.  Yeah, it might keep the tears 
from flowing but it kills the spirit and lessens 
the possibility of life.  

Don't you love it when you see somebody really 
shaking the dance floor without a partner?  
Now, that's inspiring.  

What's my point here?  I don't really need one, do I?  

How about that tragic love?  That love that is so 
pure and honest and full of a promise that can never 
be fulfilled.  That'll keep you up at night.  

A lazy afternoon along a river of dreams.  Diving 
in and getting pulled under.  Boom!  Just like that, 
you're sinking and you can't breathe and everyone 
who could save you is on shore, or headed back to 
higher ground.  Safe.  

Place yer bets... clean shirts for the Daily Double.  
the longshot is looking a little long in the face.  
Did he ever stand a chance?  And who's that scruffy 
looking dude in the back who's holding his ticket.  
Pulling all the way.  Beyond hope.  Setting himself 
up for the big fall.  Just to confirm his tragic 
nature.  

And the music builds.  Something sad and sweet.  
As the freeze-frame comes into focus, revealing 
the winner... alone, wrapped now in accolades 
and confirmation, looking so proper, safe, warm..  

And our attention shifts to the limping longshot, 
carrying himself off the field, heading into 
the dark tunnel.. alone.  And the music begins 
to fade.  A sad, sweet tune.  

Not a dry eye in the house..