Seventy-Eight Holes

A tank full of water, seventy-eight holes. One hole patched, six holes appears. This is how I feel.

I’m starting to wonder why I’m chasing success. I keep saying to myself that I want to be successful, and have money, and have this, and have that. But is that what I truly want? I feel like a pretender, on stage, dancing like a puppet. Maybe—just maybe—success is merely a way to patch my deep-seated insecurities. And, of course, one hole patched, six holes appear.

A tank full of water, seventy-eight holes…

(Replace the word “success” with “relationship” and “money” with “love,” and this writing will still be true.)