What have you gone and muted because someone said it wasn’t welcomed?
How many years have you lived with the volume of your life at a level so low that it became an annoying tickle, like the neighbor’s dubstep poking through shittily-constructed walls?
When you look at the people you love, do you think, “I wish I could take the leap that will feed my heart without putting life as we know it at risk”?
We’re not made with mute buttons. They’re bullshit red-tag items we grab off the endcap at Target because we see everyone else using theirs and think, “Well, shitfuck howdy — I gotta git me oneadem!”
We take it home. We press the button. We turn up the volume on what everyone else in our life is telling us
we should want
And all the while, there’s this thing called the Volume knob sitting there like a lonely kitten named Ambition, begging for a moment of our time.
It gently mews. “Remember me? Pick me up. I will love you.”
We hit mute.
Ambition cries (probably pissed because it’s a kitten named Ambition), “Hey, I’m still here. Can we haz life together now?”
We hit mute.
So today, I’ll ask: What you’ll do when you’ve hit the mute button so many times that it breaks, and all you’re left with is that knob called Volume and a kitten named Ambition?
Will you turn up the volume or go in search of a new mute button?
PS: today’s post image is licensed under Creative Commons and meant for sharing. Right click that motherfucker or grab it here from my Flickr gallery and share it. That is, if you’re willing to turn up the volume.