The sum of it all

Life ain’t nothin’ but the grind of habit,
the same weed bunts, same whiskey mornings,
each drag a line etched in the ledger of your soul.
It's the push and pull of moments—
those tired bones rolling out of bed,
your boots scraping the pavement of another day.

But habits alone?
No, it’s the gut-punch actions that matter,
the swing you throw, the woman you chase,
the job you quit without a goddamn plan.
It’s your habit’s bastard offspring,
born from repetition and fired by chaos,
each step shaped by the unpredictable slap of reality,
the external factors—the rains that drown,
the sun that blinds, and the love that burns.

And then there’s belief—
the crooked lens through which you see the whole rotten show.
It's the lie you tell yourself just to keep moving,
or the truth you cling to when the night grows too cold.
Belief takes your habits, twists 'em,
makes you think you can do better than you did yesterday,
or makes you sure you can’t.

But the big joke is physics—
the final line you can't cross.
The goddamn boundaries you were born into,
the way your fist feels like nothing against a brick wall,
the way dreams crash down at the speed of gravity.
It’s the cruel math of the universe:
all your efforts, all your intentions,
slammed against the hard rules of this indifferent cosmos.

So here’s the sum:
it’s two times your habits, soaked in the sweat of action,
multiplied by the lies you believe,
and all of it held down by gravity,
by death, by inevitability.
The formula of existence isn’t elegant—
it’s messy, it's cruel, and it's got whiskey on its breath.
But goddamn, it's life, and it's all you've got.