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It happens to all of us eventually.

You take a sip from your coffee cup, open your mailbox, and think, “What’s the worst that could happen, spiders?”.

You reach inside.

Nope, just junk mail and advertisements today.

Sigh. You remove those paper abominations from whence they came, you pull them close to your chest.

That’s when you notice the spider inside your mailbox.

You poke a stick inside the black void and hope the spider climbs on top.

You hope there are no baby spiders left in its web.

You’re in luck.

 You rush back inside, feeling a strange mixture of emotions.

You spend the next few years of your life hammering out song, after song, that mostly only close friends will listen to and enjoy.

“F$&@ it,” you say. “I mean, I like it.”

You stare into the void, you suddenly realize you were the spider all along, and someone is trying to poke you with a stick.

But y’know, it’s okay because you just made up this entire story.

  - Franz Kafka

maybe

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