Fragile

The Preakness is over, and Barbaro, the favorite to win, will soon be in surgery to try to save his life after he suffered a severe fracture of his right rear ankle. My heart is with him; I hope he makes it. I hate it when animals are injured, and I especially feel for racehorses. Bred for one thing and one thing only--they don't really have much of a life, if you think about it. Or maybe their lives are the embodiment of that whole success/failure mentality. When you win, you win big and no one can get enough of you. But that success, like the horse himself, is so fragile. You can lose it in an instant.

Reminds me of what we're all really here for. Maybe our successes as writers won't necessarily be measured by whether we make the NYT bestseller list, but by whether we write our hearts out anyway and give it everything we are. Maybe if we do that every day rain or shine, someone someday will remember. Just maybe.

Sure would like that blanket of flowers, though. Some of them are at least edible.