Life is like an orange.
You begin with a ball that is fragile and soft.
If you squeeze it too hard, you ruin it.
But squeeze it just right and you savor a flavor.
And if you dare to squeeze and heed the consequences, you learn -this round, fragile ball can take some heat, if you handle it just right.
Then you peel it, one slice at a time.
The taste can be sour and dry, or sweet and juicy.
But you won’t know until you try.
Sure, not everyone has the same slice.
Some are better than others, some are bigger than most.
But you must accept what you have because, after all, you have a fruit, at least for now.
Because before you know it, that fruit is gone.
You don’t have a ball.
You don’t have a slice.
You just have sticky hands, and a feeling.
A feeling of sadness, I want more.
A feeling of content, I’m fulfilled.
It depends on your appetite, or perhaps it depends on the orange.
Or maybe, just maybe, it depends on how you savored the flavor and handled the ball.
Either way, you begin with something capable of quenching a thirst and ending a hunger. But ending with nothing more than sticky hands. A taste of what you had, a memory of what you ate.