Malade? Maladroite?

There's that feeling again, where the chicken I've actually been trying to catch among the millions and millions in the 'Chicken of Happiness' cage has been following me, pecking at my heels all along. The satisfaction that it was looking for me, too. I don't see much a compromise there. It's unhealthy, I know, to give up everything, turn down the white chicken, the pig dressed as a chicken, and all the baby chickens, just for the chance at spotting that one brown spotted chicken, but what if...What if you can't be happy, without that one chicken? What if, by compromising and settling for the lesser chickens, you are rendered disappointed and have the mindset of a tragic hero and can never truly be happy with the dilapidated chicken?

Chickens are not smart animals.


There will be compromises. There are going to be myriads of compromises, matching the tears rolling down the stuffy noses, the kisses on necks, stomachs, fingernails, the promises and the commas in our voices where they are being made. Nobody likes to worry. Nobody likes to think about the future. It comes soon enough as is. But when I'm falling, falling, falling into dangerous freckled places and I'm taking the risk and I'm willing to...compromise...
You'll step up. You're awful strong.