Peak lyricism at its best, I welcome you all to LiAngelo Ball himself.
There’s something deliciously imperfect about LiAngelo Ball’s lyric, “I might swerve bend that corner.” It’s not polished. It doesn’t try too hard. It just is—much like life itself. And maybe that’s why it stuck with me. The words feel like the verbal equivalent of a stray brushstroke in a minimalist painting: unplanned, yet perfect.
Wabi-sabi, the Japanese philosophy of finding beauty in imperfection, fits this lyric like a favorite old sweatshirt. It celebrates the cracks, the asymmetry, the off-beat moments that make life real. And for me, “I might swerve, bend that corner” became more than a lyric—it became a mantra for embracing the messiness of living.
Swerving: The Art of Deviating on Purpose
To swerve is to abandon the straight and narrow. It’s the detour you didn’t plan, the yes you said before logic could stop you. In a world obsessed with productivity hacks and five-year plans, swerving is beautifully reckless.
I swerved last Tuesday when I skipped my meticulously crafted to-do list to spend the morning drinking bad coffee on a park bench. I told myself it was a waste of time, but the sun hit the frost on the grass just right, and I realized: this is why we swerve. It’s not about the destination; it’s about letting the world surprise you.
When LiAngelo says he might swerve, it’s not indecision. It’s freedom. Freedom to follow the offbeat rhythm of his own life, and in that moment, it felt like permission for me to do the same.
Bending the Corner: The Beauty of Imperfect Motion
Bending the corner isn’t a clean pivot. It’s not a military turn or an elegant pirouette. It’s messy—an arm sticking out, a sneaker squeaking on the pavement. But it’s also full of life. It says, I’m moving, even if it’s not graceful, even if I’m not entirely sure where this road leads.
I bent the corner last month when I abandoned a perfectly good plan to move to another city. It didn’t make sense, but something inside me said it was time. Now, I’m in a new apartment that smells faintly of paint and possibility. I don’t know if it’s the right choice, but it’s mine—and that’s enough.
Life’s Messy Corners and the Wabi-Sabi Lens
Wabi-sabi encourages us to find beauty not in the flawless, but in the flawed. In the context of “I might swerve, bend that corner,” the act of swerving becomes a metaphor for the unpredictability of life. Wabi-sabi reminds us that life is not a straight, perfect line; it’s a mosaic of curves, detours, and unexpected corners. These imperfections are not errors to be corrected but opportunities to embrace the beauty of the unplanned.
In modern culture, we are often pressured to follow predetermined paths—ones that promise success, stability, or social approval. The straight line represents conformity, control, and predictability. But life rarely adheres to such neat trajectories. The rawness of “swerving” acknowledges the courage it takes to deviate from expectations, to lean into the unknown. Like the cracked surface of a ceramic bowl mended with gold in the Japanese art of kintsugi, these deviations are not blemishes but marks of resilience and individuality.
Embracing the Impermanence of Direction
One of wabi-sabi’s central tenets is the acceptance of impermanence. Just as seasons change, flowers bloom and wither, and the tides ebb and flow, our paths in life are subject to constant shifts. The decision to “swerve” or “bend a corner” reflects an intuitive understanding that permanence is an illusion. What feels like a solid, straight path can dissolve in an instant. And that’s not just okay—it’s beautiful.
By embracing this impermanence, we allow ourselves to live more authentically. We stop clinging to rigid plans or worrying about where the path will lead. Instead, we trust the process, even when it’s messy, even when it doesn’t make sense to anyone else. In doing so, we connect with what wabi-sabi calls yūgen, the profound grace of subtle, fleeting experiences that cannot be fully articulated but are deeply felt.
The Courage to Abandon Perfection
The unpolished essence of “I might swerve, bend that corner” also rejects the notion of perfection. Wabi-sabi teaches us that striving for perfection is a futile endeavor, one that distances us from our humanity. Perfection is rigid, sterile, and, ultimately, lifeless. In contrast, the imperfect swerve—the decision to pivot or detour, even without a clear destination—is vibrant and alive.
In this sense, swerving becomes an act of rebellion against the culture of perfectionism. It’s a declaration that it’s okay to abandon the well-paved path, to let intuition, curiosity, or even chaos guide us. It’s a reminder that beauty lies not in polished exteriors but in the authenticity of the journey itself.
Wabi-Sabi and the Art of Living
At its core, wabi-sabi isn’t just a philosophy; it’s an art of living. It teaches us to be present, to find meaning in the imperfect and the incomplete. When we allow ourselves to swerve, to bend corners, to meander through life rather than march in a straight line, we open ourselves to the serendipity and wonder that rigid paths often deny us.
In practice, this might mean embracing a career pivot that feels uncertain, letting go of relationships that no longer serve us, or simply pausing to take a detour on a daily walk. These swerves may seem insignificant, even frivolous, but they are the essence of what makes life real and meaningful.
Finding Truth in the Raw and Real
Ultimately, “I might swerve, bend that corner” resonates because it taps into a universal truth: life is not a destination but a series of moments, each imperfect yet precious. By framing this truth through the lens of wabi-sabi, we’re reminded to celebrate the cracks and the swerves, the raw and the real. In the imperfection of the phrase itself, we find not chaos but clarity—a rare glimpse of the beauty in simply being human.
Living the Lyric
LiAngelo Ball’s lyric may not have been written to change lives. But that’s the beauty of it. Its power lies in its imperfection, its off-the-cuff energy. It reminds us that life isn’t about getting it all right; it’s about being willing to move—messy, awkward, beautifully incomplete.
So here’s to swerving. Here’s to bending that corner. And here’s to doing it all with the grace of a stray brushstroke, the charm of an offbeat rhyme, and the unapologetic spirit of LiAngelo Ball.
Leave a Reply