I’ve managed, for the most part, to keep my location undisclosed. But yesterday, it felt wise to pin my coordinates because I found myself in a sea of men who have nothing else to talk bout other than sales, sex, and stocks.
While boiling oats, I let the steam enter my hands, and the first light of a cold, crisp December morning softly moves through the trees.
I take a sip of my coffee and remember the men I read about who conversed over farming, fighting, and fishing and become further curious because I cannot squarely find myself in either archetype of the current or the previous.
The oats are done, as are the stories of who I think I should be.
very few of us have the bravery to be nothing, and so the cycle continues.
we intuit that there is no arrival but we chomp and chomp toppling forward toward who knows what, hoping, even praying to find happiness and along the way, simultaneously pleasured and sorrowed by such small, little things.
what if we stopped all that chasing and craving?
this is the question that millions are willing to look away from to prolong a movie that masquerades as reality.