Paper Slip Overalls

A diminutive man in heavily-stained overalls handed me a tattered piece of paper with the following written on it: "Enter the awarity feeling open to completion." I thanked him and walked away, only to be chased down by the man who demanded his precious paper be returned. I obliged. He stood and stared.

"Enter the awarity feeling open to completion."  Et vous aussi, mon ami.

Awarity is not a word. Agreed. How then must I enter it? Buy it dinner first? Ask nicely? Or perhaps the awarity itself must enter. Enter the awarity stage right. And so it has, now residing in my speech. Awarity abounds. Awarity all around. Awarity Jones and his Magnificent Monster Machine. As far as I can surmise, awarity means the abaility to achieve awareness. It must be a word that achieves itself in the very knowledge of itself. I know naivete means, that gets me off the hook. I know what awarity means, therefore I am it. I have entered the awarity. The awarity has entered.

Feeling open to completion. A range this could be, beginning with open and moving straight through to completion. The spectrum of feeling when a person resides in awarity. Today I feel open, tomorrow completion. Maybe a thousand tomorrows from now completion comes. Open all day and all night, the 7-11 of awarity. But no. Looking at it directly, feel open to completion. Allow the completion to come. Feel open. Be open. All day and all night. Namaste Master Big Gulp. Soon it will all be done. Thank you, Mr. Long Pants.

What sort of man wears overalls? This man. It would do a disservice to the cryptic keeper of the paper to objectify him, place him into the category of those sickly, overall-wearing mutants that emerge from their holes every nine years to deliver messages. Granted, categories can err towards the positive. Let us not forget the angelic overalls of Liliput, patron saint of farmers' daughters. Who am I to judge a man his choice of pants? Pants with built in shoulder straps, no belt required. We should all be so clever to avoid our belts without resorting to gluttony or twine. Overalls. Over all. All what? All who?

More disturbing than the overalls were the stains. What stains befall such a man? The stains of time. A hard-lived life. Lunch, perhaps. Bleachy splots mark mistakes and make me think that this little man has found his repentance passing notes to strangers on the street. Learn from him for he has lived the wrong and returned with nothing but lessons and pants. Overalls are the official pants of life's lessons. Bleach, paint, coffee, and other unmentionables mar the man's pants, announcing to everyone the slips of time's past, and he is doomed to wear them all because overalls are all-encompassing pants. The Pants Omnipresent, no belt required.

And I walked away.  God is in the pants and I left him staring, standing in his stained overalls, and clutching his tattered scrap of paper, extolling truth to all who would receive it.  Understand, though, awarity is not a word.