Life is a risk. To become, or not to become, is a risk. To perform, or not to perform, is a risk. Life is just always about risks.

Every decision one takes at every point in time is a risk—a risk of disappointment or breakthrough; of failure or success; of bankruptcy or profit; of life or death; of promotion or demotion; for the better or for the worse…

And just as it believed by many, even though not practiced by all, the risk of not taking risk is the riskiest!

To remain in the harbours of safety for the fear of venturing into unknown seas, is not a guaranty for safety in itself—for even that which seem to be safe at the present moment may turn otherwise at the next tick of the second.

Apropos the aforementioned, to have penned these lines amid many options is a risk—a risk which even if I had done otherwise, is nonetheless a risk.

And to have made this move, I risked being showcased, proofread, misinterpreted, criticized, insulted, and perhaps stigmatized. Yet by undoing I’d have risked the feelings of cowardice, mediocrity, complacency, incompetency, and perhaps incompleteness.

Ipso facto, I suppose any time the consequences of risk taking are juxtaposed, the obvious one with the most bearable traits of regrets should fairly win the contest.

On what basis would I have based this supposition if not that every choice and action once made or done, add a memoralabia to the portfolio of one’s memory—from which one would someday be compelled to behold the map of the journey so far.