Sometimes I read stories late at night about brave people who do amazing things like climbing excitingly dangerous mountains or trekking across the USA’s Triple Crown or sailing around the world in a $3000.00 sail boat and for nights and for days and for weeks after my encounter with the story I’ll evaluate my goals and my life-intentions and my inner-dialogue about my desires for adventure or my family and their need for me or my girlfriend and this new relationship or my inane and meaningless spending habits will drown out the alarm that wakes me up at 6AM and muffles my co-worker’s weekend recaps which I receive just before I walk into my morning meetings (the contents of which are also silenced by my self-assessment) and then after weeks of fixation I’ll experience something exceptionally real like a moment with life or love or death (or all) that makes me blink hard and the story in which I’ve cast myself as the adventurous lead will dissipate into this reality where my ego isn’t the loudest voice in the room (but the silent elephant instead) and then the relentless and unpunctuated cycle repeats itself again and I wake up at 6AM with bags under my eyes and the realization that maybe I am calloused enough to pull something like that off.
1 year ago • Notes
February 22, 2011
