Success is earned. Quite true, success is indeed earned; yet, strangely enough, success must also be accepted – accepted by the individual, by society; by anyone capable of thinking.
I could plant a Cerebral Palsy patient to witness air hockey, and even that twisted cat would find one reason or another to say about a contestant, “This dude sucks.”
Millions of novels have been written, and there are more unread novels in the world than there are price-tagged ones. And while they may follow the path of a dying breed, they also follow a survivor’s path.
There are people in the real world that love to turn a page; written word will never die, it’ll just get digitized while continuing homogenization, paving the way for continued newness; but we'll still be bored, mainly because Destiny hasn't presented itself and Fate hasn't killed us. But we still choose to walk that numbered middle trail; the one that stretches from six o' clock to twelve-thirty, nine-fifteen to three-fortyfive, and two names for every six. Some people are addicted to it.
Success has more than two names. Success always beats the clock.
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