When you’re a child, you measure yourself on the door frame. See how much you’ve grown. You don’t know yet that you will remain a child inside no matter how high the line drawn with the pencil on the door frame would reach.
When you grow up, you measure yourself around your bust and waist. See if you fit the rules given by magazines. You don’t know yet that those magazines are written by some fluffy beautiful people who know that it doesn’t really matter how much you measure around your waist if you know how to laugh.
As a boy, you measure yourself in inches long. To see if you’re the best. You’re trying to cheat on the measurement. You don’t know yet that it’s not just the length that matters.
You grow tall like a fir tree, you make a perfect 90-60-90 figure at least once in your life or, as a boy, a sham 21cm. You go to college. You finish it. You get a job. Get married. House. Car. With installments. All-inclusive holidays. Measure again. You ticked everything. Yours are proud. The neighbors are envious. And you think the fight is over. You are the best. Now you’re waiting to retire. Bravo!
But the most hardcore measurement is the one that you do only with yourself, at night, before you fall asleep, and in the morning when you just opened your eyes. Units of measurement change radically when they are no longer witnesses. There are no centimeters, no bank balance, square meters, or horsepower.
Measure on the only scale that matters: a peaceful soul. And if here you get minus, you’re fucked! You did your best, but is your best good enough for you? Ask yourself more often!
