Bill Murray-ed


The constant ache to write a something so worthwhile, speeding toward greatness, feels like a dull pressure in my heart and it invites a haze over my daily comings -and -goings.

It feels like my  hubble contacts rubbing on my rounded blue and blind irises wrongly.

I’m sick of thinking about thinking.

My nightmares revolve around my teeth lately and how I once read that if you dream of teeth falling out it meant that your fears are chasing you and you are hiding from them in a way that makes them stronger. 

But what if I hit them so hard snowboarding or lived without health insurance through those years of rocks and tents and backpacks and starry nights and sweat-covered hikes that my body will eventually pack her bags and walk out, without a glance backward at the young vibrant hopes she left behind.

These fears of mine follow me from state to state. I find them in a dust-filled bin of gear or the Sorel shoebox filled with old journals and ski pass employee id tags and photos and old letters from the past fifteen years. 

Then I think of the weird lizard people and of not giving a real ingestion of any of it. I think of the lunatic hearts I admire and of the real bonobos out there who never understand it.  I think of Hunter Thompson and my mind calms back to the essence of what it means to do something. Of liking yourself, and doing something of passion…of knowing everything is going to work out. Even if it does not. And it might not. But it will move you forward. 

I remember that my mind thinks like a writer, without force, pretension, or proverbial action of my own. 

It visualizes the stories and fills in narratives of the hues. The memories drift in and out the my present like an interstellar dimension where linear time loses its edges.  What is left is a circle of questions and lazy and big thoughts all living in unbalanced equality.

Being alive is a beautiful mindfuckery.

Maybe detesting and denying mental mediocrity is a man-made water pressure hose.

Turn it off. Be yourself.

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