You woke up today. That’s the miracle. Right there.
Blood still moves. Brain still fires. The machine’s still rattling along despite every cigarette, heartbreak, lie, and bottle you threw at it. You’ve been chewed on. Spit out. Left in alleys, maybe not literal, maybe just emotional. But you’re still here, motherfucker. Still breathing. Still able to drag beauty out of the filth. That’s your superpower.
Not hope. Not some feel-good mantra. Alchemy. You turn hell into fuel. Rage into art. Loneliness into clarity. People love to talk about “manifestation” and “vibes.” Fuck that. You build your life with busted knuckles and cracked teeth. You decide to love this mess. That’s the poetry. That’s the grind. Gratitude isn’t just saying thanks when things are good, it’s lighting a candle in a fucking hurricane and laughing as the wind screams.
It’s looking life dead in the eyes, mid-breakdown, and whispering, “More.” Yeah, you got hit. Hard. We all do.
Divorce. Death. Addiction. Bankruptcy. Betrayal.
Name your poison, life's got a whole shelf of it.
But here's the trick: don't sip it. Distill it. Make art. Make love. Make noise. Make that shit lemonade and pour a round for the survivors. This world owes you nothing. And yet,
You get sunsets.
You get dog licks and belly laughs and songs that stop you mid-step in the grocery store.
You get strangers holding doors. You get one last breath, and maybe ten more if you're lucky. So be lucky. Be loud. Be alive like it means something. Squeeze every fucking lemon.
Make that shit lemonade.
Drink deep.
And keep walking.
