I slept at Cockroach last night. I woke up with an ear full of something that won’t let me listen to anyone other than myself. Fabulous.
I’ve run out of motivation for making logical arguments—wait have I actually made such a thing? Ever? I don’t think that I have made a logical move in the entirety of my life. The meaning of my existence is to be that apple which spoils the rest, to be an upset in the stomach that is life, to take the path that isn’t chosen but only when it fits my needs.
It’s funny to think of how much control one actually has over their life. I say something today, it impacts me tomorrow. It’s the Buddhist way of thinking. Such thoughts seem to infect most of my free minutes, the ones in between the thoughts of Daniel or that stupid letter to the editor that’s due tomorrow. And although at times it appears I have ultimate control, something happens which tries to make me doubt my newfound level of enlightenment. But I suppose it’s in those situations where one must find the one thing they can control and go forth. Move into the night not weary or unaware, but knowing that your own self is all you need.
I want to travel alone. Far away from the comforts of Colorado or California to a place that makes me thankful for our winters and lack of bitter cold. BJ has invited me to Alaska before he embarks on his nine month journey. I find myself entertaining thoughts of bundling up and the absent need for sunglasses. I don’t want warmth anymore. Warmth only turns to cold and vice versa. Can’t there be something in the middle, some lukewarm melancholy that stays stagnant and calm?
A shadow is approaching.
