Two years have passed. I thought I would have written and accomplished so much more. I suppose I was only dreaming, fantasizing, hopeful, and nieve.
I began enthusiastically, with a straight back and driven toward… something.
I was focused.
At least I felt this way. I thought I had… something.
Still, I guess we’re exactly where we need to be: Collecting debt, patrolling property, pushing produce, hitting publish — somehow still moving; progressing.
Then, the sudden return of anxiety, I watch as it settles itself into my life once again. This leads to more depressing stories. Like a fat cow on my shoulders, sciatica flaring through my right thigh, I begin to think of all the wasted time. The potential. The past.
I want to do better. I do. Improvements can be made in almost every area. Including the physical, mental, and spiritual.
“I just wanna be happy. Don’t you wanna be happy?” — Gary Vee
Don’t we all want to better ourselves? Improve somewhere? I thought I had these things figured out. Then I compare myself and realize I’m just like everyone else. But I’m not average. My height is slightly under, but fortunately I’m well above in other areas. A good reminder when I’m feeling down.
Our world needs balance. Both in an individual and broader sense of the word. Too much of my time is glued to my phone. Little is spared to my writing. This is a big reason for the inconsistency.
Note to self: We need my full attention, 100 percent. To push forward like film, moving pictures, memories — morning, sunset on the waves of cocoa beach, shooting stars, the fading moonlight, blades of sunlight through your cracked shades.
When I’m tired I don’t wash my face with faucet water. I drink coffee and fall back to sleep.
I’m caught in big, blue clouds of forgetfulness, I fall on my knees in a ball of shame, guilt, and confusion: where did I go wrong? I search with all that I have, but still, I can’t find my way home. Exhausted, now all I want to do is sleep. Because today will pass, and maybe tomorrow I’ll be closer than I was yesterday.
Selfish and always hungry. I quench my thirst in repetition. The cycle continues.
Sometime last week: Forgive the timing and excuse the scatter-brain. I could do better, today I have not done that. I’ve gotten high and I notice I do not like this feeling.
You’re asleep and I can hear the keyboard click and clack in the background. It’s loud. Too loud? Maybe. Fuck it. ONWARD!
With all this time on my hands, you would think I would write more, that more would get done. Unfortunately, that hasn’t happened and some part of me feels that it is too late. Third strike and I’m out. I need to make this one count. I need to hit a home run.
If I continue to drift, like a hollow coconut, I fear I’ll never make it back to solid ground. Above me, the sky is falling and the clouds are fleeting. Sunlight is blackened and my faith is fading. I need to return to the homeland, dry land under my toes. The shores of Florida. Key Biscayne.
The purpose was and always has been to write something relevant. What is this relevant to? I can’t tell, truly, I have no idea. I need a cigarette. Something to ease my mind. Maybe not. Maybe I need to chill the fuck out and get out of my head. I spend way too much time there.
I decided that I would stay up and write something around 1,000 words. In hopes that it would be insightful and perhaps persuade you to return sometime.
I’ve been writing for hours, banging my fingertips into a sea of alphabet, occasionally looking away, distracted, clouded. I think I’ve conjured the equivalent of mashed potatoes. Soup. Pollo guisado.
The strange thing is that clarity revealed itself in the silence. The moment I stopped, looked away and shut my eyes, tempo and direction began to settle in. Distractions can take a toll, an arm and a leg. Too much robs of an important currency: time, the equivalent to precious gold, our soul.
I wish I could stretch the good days infinitely, to circle around the globe 100 times and more. I wish the bad times were only a flash, a fleeting moment of chaos.
Still, the wave continues in its rise and fall, to match everything else, in balance. And who am I to stop the current? Forever, I’m caught on impact, in my little world, recovering from the last set of waves, and swimming toward another.
Suddenly, I’m back on my feet. Native waters, familiar faces, warm embraces. Full circles, never-ending conclusions — the hopeful rise and the inevitable fall.