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lucky onion.

the lucky onion is the forever onion. the one that keeps shedding a layer, with more layers underneath. the lucky onion doesn’t run out. there’s always more onion when you’re a lucky onion. nevermind that each layer looks the same as the one before. nevermind the sting and the weeping. there’s not always enough heat to draw out the sweetness in the shedding. it’s bitter but you get used to the taste.

you’re a lucky onion because you keep going. you’re not worried you might get to the end, that you might peel and peel until there’s nothing left. until your hands are empty —and you’ve run out— and all you’ve left is a mess. no.

the lucky onion always has more to give. more to live. more to love. more to learn. more to let go. and we keep going like that, through the pain and tedium.

there’s nothing to do but see how you get more and more even as the onion looks less and less.

the lucky onion keeps going because the threat of annihilation doesn’t seem to register. what does it matter if all of the peeling ends up a pile of nothing? can’t be worse than waking up an onion. at least you found out what it was all about.