Living On The Edge Of Everything

There's a version of life most men settle for. It's not bad. It's just not theirs. It's the version that keeps everyone comfortable. It's the version that doesn't ruffle feathers. It's the version their parents would approve of.

It's also the version they'll regret on their deathbed. Every time.

Living dangerous doesn't mean reckless. It doesn't mean stupid. It doesn't mean burning your life down for the hell of it. I've done that. I don't recommend it.

Living dangerous means refusing to ask for permission to be the man you're capable of being. It means making decisions other people don't understand because they're not the ones living your life. It means saying yes to the hard road when the easy one is right there.

"Safe is the most expensive thing you'll ever buy. It costs you the life you were meant to live."

The man who lives dangerous wakes up scared sometimes. He doesn't know if the bet will pay off. He doesn't know if the marriage will hold. He doesn't know if the body will keep cooperating. He just knows that pretending to know — pretending to be in control — is what got him stuck in the first place.

So he moves. Imperfectly. Loudly. With his hands shaking sometimes. But he moves.

That's living dangerous. Not the bar fight. Not the speeding ticket. The decision, made in private, that you're done waiting for someone else's go-ahead.

You already have the green light. You always did. You just kept asking the wrong people if you could use it.