I walked down to the shore tonight so I could look up upon the stars and marvel in wonderment at the feeling of connecting to something eternal. I walked down here so I could look up at the sky tonight and ask the universe if I’m living it right.
To my mild disappointment I can see no stars, their shine obscured from my vision by a concrete sky of clouds, their presence above me is foreboding, as if their purpose were to keep me grounded in this California town tonight, unable to dream about another California town, unable to dream about another time.
The Native American streak in my soul tells me this is a metaphor, a lens through which I may see my situation in a different light – should I choose to interpret it so.
I have no doubt that man has found life’s deeper meaning in nature since man’s beginning – and while I’m faraway from the dawn of man, clouds and sunsets remain unchanged. They reflect upon oceans and lakes in an eternal mirage of something unreachable yet deeply familiar. They center and calm like warm milk or a tender lover.
I bask in nature’s glory as often as possible, and almost always on a good day; however, tonight’s drab sky feels like a cheap painting – far from glorious.
But these thoughts are little more than my way of avoiding that Native American metaphor, the idea that the universe has fated for my thoughts to remain grounded under this inglorious sky. For tonight I cannot wistfully look to the stars to find the answers I seek. Tonight I must be here now.
(Sits up straight, breathes deeply, changes music on phone, stretches.)
So I’m here, now.
I’ve got a lot of work to do, a lot to think over. I need to be decisive about exactly where I am going to invest my time this year. Inaction is action nonetheless.
I believe I’ve finally found some strong overlap between my business experience and my passion, but it’s not my passion, that of course being writing – and, more and more lately, reading.
Back home, thinking about some medical cannabis and some vanilla ice cream to go with this James Vincent McMorrrow I’m listening to. This is what my single life has come down to. My joys have been reduced to your typical single twenty something’s favorite mind adulterants. But, I shouldn’t be so austere. After all, I’m not thirty yet (thank you metabolism).
Ice cream or no ice cream, that is the question. Alright, ice cream, but asleep by three, and up for a run before getting to work tomorrow. Everything in moderation, that is the challenge.
Fat, high, happy. Listening to Drake’s “Now and Forever” off If You’re Reading This it’s Too Late.
It’s nice to enjoy some Hip Hop, having been turned off from much of it after Reading John Gardner’s On Moral Fiction, where Gardner posited that art should seek to enhance life, rather than debase it. An idea subsequently bolstered after reading Ayn Rand’s The Romantic Manifesto. However not all Hip Hop is about mindlessness, just the popular stuff.
That being said, I’m back again listening to Van Morrisson’s Astral Weeks (a masterpiece).
I just took a pause from writing this to mindlessly peruse my Facebook feed, ironically, or rather, serendipitously, I came across this image:
Sometimes things are too clear to ignore – too obvious.
My soul tells me that I can’t smoke enough weed, or eat enough ice cream to silence it. It speaks whether I listen or not. It speaks in the small fistful of anxiety jostling the pit of my stomach, and it speaks in the lack of inner peace that has disturbed me all day. I just sometimes don’t want to listen to it. I sometimes don’t want to face the truth. Sometimes I’d rather get high and eat ice cream. Sometimes I’d rather look to the stars and my books for answers. But all those things offer is the solace of escape, the reminder that all this is somehow temporary.
Unlike the stars and my books, my soul sometimes tells me things I don’t want to hear, but must.
My soul tells me that I’m worried about my father, that I’m not living life right on all accounts, and that I need to work harder to progress towards my goals. Its no wonder I don’t care to listen to it. Sigh. But I must. For too many men place their fate in the stars and not in themselves. And no book but the one I write can speak for me.