There are those who would tell you that “a man’s gonna do what a man’s gonna do“. Smoke, drink, cuss, fight, argue, over-eat, whore around, raise hell. And there are, of course, men who fit that mold and revel in it. Men who would beat their chests and exclaim, “I’m a real man!”
But, what if being a real man means practicing and defending all the right things?
Maybe a real man actually gives a damn. About what he does to himself, and to others. Cares about his own self-worth, and his reputation in the eyes of those who care about him.
Maybe a real man yearns to separate truth from deception, in order to follow the honest path.
Maybe a real man wants to protect his body like treasure, not mistreat it like trash.
Maybe a real man knows that self-inflicted sick-acide is the worst insult of all.
And maybe a real man knows that his victory here is linked to the triumphs of all his fellow men, each of whom want to be greater men than they were, and want to stand proudly in the ranks of men who know better and do better.
So, maybe being real is being recovered. And reverent. And damn honored to be both.
To be real.
STORM; 257
