A Fool in Hunger

Stop. Stop pretending. Stop lying quietly to the voices in your head. Stop consuming the convenient junk. Stop filling the void with so much baggage Delta wouldn't even allow you to upgrade. In a world flooded with repetitive mundane mimics, float.

Those who know me, or even off me, know, I eat like a bird, am slightly neurotic, crave 2-a-days and base my shopping cart contents on labels. I answer to Bones, Bits & Slim and enjoy salad. Lots and lots of salad. Even if I made Big Tony happy and devoured a hamburger every once in awhile, I'd still be hungry.

The past 5 days have sent me over the edge. Relax. I'm eating. The source of energy is not the problem. I've been stopped in my tracks, literally, doing what I obsess over, squatting heavy. Sunshine is envious of this new-found enlightenment.

The center of us all holds the power to break us wide open. Strengthen your center. Love it obsessively. Devote time you think you don't have to protect your core. Float. Stay still for long enough to discover who you are.

If you've ever floated, you know this is not the easy way out. So fight. Fight with the current. It takes practice to just be. It takes strength to hold yourself together, hold yourself apart, hold on to the you. Cut yourself some slack, but only the self that has your back. Stop. Stop excusing yourself. I'm practicing with you, not next to you, but focusing on the back to build the strength to move forward. This isn't a game. There's no prize at the end. Your name won't be echoed across courts or fields or PA's. The experience doesn't have a start button or a stop watch.

Life is not hard, we all just make it that way by trying relentlessly to be the voice in our head scripted by outsiders to fit in perfected little boxes. Stop. Stop suffocating. Bend. Put your back into it. Drive them all mad. If you fit in, you can't stand out. How incredibly excruciating it is to be who we're not.

You can't be hungry and satisfied at the same time. Continuously challenge yourself. Only the dead go with the flow. Live your dreams no matter where in life you are. You're still living.

Repeat after me.....Dream it. Believe it. Do it. Time spent wondering what others will say, think or do as they watch you dive off a cliff is time wasted on your dreams. Don't for one minute, one nano second, think you have the luxury of time. Imagine how many of your dreams could come true if you acted wildly, responding to passion calling.

It's easy to talk about it. It's easy to preach. It's not easy to do. Insert clique here. If we all spent half the time we do drowning in social media, and even this blog, we'd be on our way. The more you do, the more you do. Insert clique deux.

The point. Invest in yourself. Manage your dreams instead of your profile. The likes impact have nothing on the growing possibility of loving- not liking- your center, your whole, your pains.
 
Be hungry. The pains are worth it. Be foolish. Floating happily.

Don't Ask. Just Do It.

If I hear one more time, "why are you still single?", I may stab the poor soul with my pen. I will find a pen and kill the messenger. Dramatics roar too loud sometimes to starve. I want meaning. I want crazy, vibrator in route, passionate intimacy. All the time. I want an actual connection, mentally and physically. I won't settle. 

Trouble is, it's all good until you get too close. I feel it coming and my running shoes are laced up before my mind realizes what my hands have done. I've been a gypsy wanderer for so long I don't know how to be in the meaning. This is a problem. I'm aware. Long couches clothed in silence emptying savings wouldn't find themselves home without this quality. The crowd doesn't help. So how do you fix it. The connection has to be so powerful, the fix is worth it. A lightening bolt once spawn a prodigy. Validation.

Hurts like hell when the rarity happens and you discover freedom's grasp has crippled the possibility of love falling. We spend our entire lives trying to find something we can't define. Being something, someone, somebody we think someone, somewhere, somehow will love.

Whatever that is.

Complicated. It's always complicated. If only we all said what we meant the exact moment we felt it. Letting go and holding on would be a complications foe.

Love must be a verb some book, some other perplexed analytical type, not even grandmothers can define. Love is what you make. I tend to lean towards the side believing we'd all be a little happier if we made it daily. Well, for those conservative types.

Only you should ask the questions when they start to keep you up at night. Seek answers at your pace. It takes some of us practice to live both fast and slow, capturing the whole picture, the moments that lead to answers and definitions.  

Love and life is simply what you make. The goal is to discover our meaning to answer the voices in our heads. To learn what we want and challenge our fears to seek it. To create meaning in the things that simply make us happy. Wherever, however, with what we have, and hopefully with those whom show us our meaning of love.

Maybe that's where we all go wrong. Maybe that's why all the questions linger, cast out to others because its not easy. We're all living under the impression that love should just happen, just be. We shouldn't have to work at it, seek it, give it a chance. If it was easy to answer, we wouldn't ask the questions hoping, just maybe, someone will say something we wanted to hear.

So what do you do other than keep pretending you believe the independence is worth it for all the outsiders to idolize. The display worthy surety they wrap you in giving them the proof needed to live in a world where having your cake and eating it too exists. If I've learned anything at all, it's cake is bad for you. It looks pretty and tastes good, but if you let it disgust and analyze bite, by bite, the truth remains. Cake makes you fat and nobody likes to be fat.

We all learn something from everyone. Even if it's not what to do.

Silly Boxes

Generation what. What do us 80's babies call ourselves these days? As a wanderlust addict, it's hard to stay in the box, between the lines, on the road, grounded focused on the they-isms. Pardon the french, but who the hell are they. Note, h-e-double hockey stick is far from the french within. D'accord.

Hold on to the edges, shock is about to rattle those strategically cut corners, blur those lines and split that road. It feels good to be home on a Saturday night. Alone. On a balcony with wide open grateful eyes and no boxes. Less stuff breads more happiness.

Calmly chaotic crazy fantasies dance from my head to my finger tips. The believer in, and on me doesn't accept what they say. We spend our whole lives trying to find something we can't define listening to them pretending.

I've heard them say, "When you know, you know. You'll be certain of it.". Well, the certainty boxes should be rather roomy these days. All this certainty roaming around dragging enough cardboard to jail The Big House justifies ideologies running wildly in the south of France felt by finger tips.

Some will only understand you when you fit in their box, keep pushing them away until they listen or stay there.

Be you, waiting for someone to meet you half way. Those on your half crowd the walls guarding the voices screaming replies without ever understanding the words you communicate in the way you can. Don't do it. Hold your line, drawn in your favorite color, crafted by the images floating around the world characterized by the perceptions that matter. Yours.

The perceptions of others should not reflect the perception of you. You know you. All the communication, or lack there of, still doesn't grant the outsider the power to choose what box you sit in. Be the box sending invitations to construct just enough room for those who make your soul happy.

So, I'll live by the tickings of my desires, not some clock they keep telling me I should hear. Running fast as hell, stopping to intensify the small things, having soul sex, pushing heavy objects, releasing weight, loosing hesitations to gut wrenches, defying logic, arguing with fate, knowing my definition of a happy place is no longer the ideal version they taught us all to cling to like a dirty rag trying to make the glass glisten.

Hell, Toys' R' Us kids don't grow up and they play with clocks instead of watching them.

Thoughtless Caress

If you felt it, it was real.

The feeling may be cloudy chaos wrapped in a quickness blown away or lite up with a blinding ray, but the feeling happened. It's an addictive taste even the immune can't toast.

What do you do for a fix other than keep searching for the dealers replica. No matter how hard, far or willed, replica's will always show their tell. Unless the feeling strikes, learn to enjoy your own company. The education is priceless in a world of pretends.

What do they say, "Nothing worth having is easy." blah, blah, blah. Believe it.

The easy scapegoats take up space. To shun them is just not the cool thing to do. Be totally uncool. The thing that caught you blows them away. The space left behind lies waiting to feel ok with the void.

Be an outsider looking in, party of one. 

I'm in it. Living it. History repeating itself won't fit in this mold. Who knew one quarter life crisis topped with a big ol epiphany Marciano cherry could force a completed, done, checked off the bucket list crazed audience to halt during intermission. It's not at all about the ending, the magic happens in the getting there. The end, is literally death and who's going to write for your cleared mind then....

When you find someone to sit quietly with, you miss their touch when they go wash away the intimacy even the morning light can't change, don't keep it all in for just your heart to feel. Feel it. Let them feel it too, even if it happens in an instant. Those instants are what make life worth living.

It's easier to be lost than found. When something gets you, catches you, leaves you rather thoughtless utterly stuck in the moment, it's easier to escape back into your mind, the chaotic mess filled with the overwhelming distractions circling every inch. It's easier to be consumed by careless caress.