The jungle that is the universe

Flying, again. These days a much less frequent occasion. Nonetheless, I return to a place long needed, but not long forgotten. My mind. It speaks . . . in a way it is incapable of doing so day to day. I am different here. I wonder if it is the expanse that lays below, the miles of land that are seemingly untouched, where a single being fails to make an impression, our creations, yes, but our physicality so insignificant.

A couple things happen. Two opposing emotions. One where my worries, my stresses melt into the selfishness from which they were bore, a realization that I am much too stuck in my own head. Ironically, the same head I don’t often visit. Quite, a preoccupying affair.

The other, a concoction. Emotions that should have been dealt and deserve to be felt. A hint of numbness mixed with a deep-seeded tenderness produces tears. Two drops. As in the horrible movie watched this weekend. The speed of which they took matched the speed I said was clearly fake. Either I am elementary in my emotional delivery or these tears were long waiting their speedy delivery, an escape from myself. Satiated with stresses. Time to let go.

And that’s where I reach a depth that requires words I don’t know. My mind dances around descriptions, defeating, failure, lucky, confused, undirected, and ultimately, what the fuck. Years ago I adopted an unfailing belief in the universe, the notion that things happen for a reason. That my life, the lessons learned were the greatest gifts. That hardships are signals to change. To adopt. Should you pay attention, wonderful warnings to follow, protection. Roads to the future destination much preferred. But here I am again. Transition, I feel. And all I can think about is exhaustion. That I am missing something for my heart seems at the end of its enduring.

The trip here was a recanting of many stories, while humorous and poignant and I, fortunate for them to be mine, to realize that I, such a simple individual, is really quite colored. I do love. But these stories tear. I feel for the girl who lived them. The feeling of stuck is definitely my biggest fear, capable of being my undoing and is my worst fear. I don’t want to have to untangle anymore. My strength is dwindling. And that’s why I write now. Because somehow, someway, here I am, again.

I felt that we sought the right things. Freedom. Passion. Ideas. And we are teased with that genuine success. From belief. From focus. But to me, who ponies up, takes the problems as mine to fix, I am zapped, I succeed but all while numbing. An unhealthy emotional dealing for I don’t take inside so well. More lessons, and my insides scream. I really am untethered.

And I want to say fuck. Question, why. I am not even sure if I believe anymore in a right path. I always thought the majority failed to consider, failed to listen to the lessons dealt. To grow, to change. That if we stayed persistence and real and had hearts that were kind, we would stumble upon our own unpaved path. Untamed, idiosyncratic, jungle adorned paths- both dangerous and beautiful, uniquely us. And most importantly, fulfilling.

So I am at more than a fork in the road. A fractured path.

N e x t  S t e p s

I believe we pay attention to that which we can control. So, my actions should I ignore, are to numb, to fix, to press on. Broken tires, A destroyed car. An experience, the result.

And if I attempt to listen. To believe in the universe would be to think the following. To believe in the need to stay persistent. That my dreams are being tested. Edison’s notion that so many great ideas die before properly explored.

Or conversely that I am meant to switch gears. The challenges that continue to confront are life’s directions. Reroute.

Or the option to change one’s mentality. A life that is much more simple. Smile. Dance. Laugh. And enjoy. Be simple. Discard this dialogue, this need to be someone, grow, challenged, the dialogue that is my worst enemy, I purport. This option the most unlike me. A character I don’t have. But I don’t believe in holding on to that of which doesn’t work.

The problem is how does one decipher?

Arrivederci. And a hello in 5.2 hours that I could long prolong.

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History Repeats

Written December 19th flying back to New York:

This is where I was a year ago. I know what happens next, because I have been here before. The difference is only that this time, I am only uneasy, not scared.

When history repeats itself, there is a common source. “The teacher comes when the student is ready to learn.” While, I may have always known the truth, this is the first time I am letting it in. This is the first time, I can entertain the truth, unbury it from the confines of my being. Despite this, I still don’t feel ready. My nerves heightened. My personality’s edge sharpened. An easy route is tempting, but the recurrence of events, cements that this truth, this conflict, is me. Not an egotistical boss or an inequitable situation.

I mention that my world may be changing to those close few. I refrain from saying, “It’s just like last year. “ It’s impossible to not feel as though I failed. I check my integrity. I check the truth. I scan my ethic. I dissect my focus. I review my hours.

I am good at what I do, but I still miss the mark. JR. The name, eh. A silly third party borker who dramatizes my faults, an act beyond highlighting. While his statements are an exaggeration, I suppose exaggerations are disproportionate truths. Even a lie, must have a conception. That seedling further validated by my ongoing review of my procrastination. . . .

And so it is. I know, this isn’t what I am supposed to be doing, this isn’t my passion, my career destination. At 25, err 26 in 27 hours, I have gotten so many things right, learned so much. I have adapted.

I review my last year’s resolutions, the majority of them, now true. Balance. Travel. My salary. My goals then are now the reality in which I live. If we all have a journey, a life that is aligned with who we are, I consistently get much closer. I know I am aware of the secret behind this elusive thing called legacy or passion.

Every event in my life has been a lesson that has lead me closer to such. Always a gift. Redirecting my path were it not the right one. Jim. Robbie. P. My disease. And the many lessons that have taught my empathy. I smile now for life provided me with my own equivalents for everything I couldn’t relate to:

My belief that my mother was weak, naïve.
My intolerance for drugs., alcohol.
My narrow world of ambition.

Life upset that of which I held true.

I now am intimate with loyalty, addiction, and distraction.

This flight is the first time which I have internally vocalized that there is a disparity between my career and my identity. I hate the typed words. Erase? Breathe. It is December 19th and I know something is going to change.