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Deeper Appreciation Comes from Traveling On Foot · 3:44am May 28th

I don't know what it was that compelled me to go outside for the first time without an objective in mind. To simply take to the streets and wander and wonder how such an act could be productive. Those first two sentences currently establish me perfectly as being a twat with something special being shoved up his ass.

But when life gets busy, one weighs every decision, what they choose to dedicate their time on.

And then proceed to fluff about doing nothing for a bulk of that period.

But I had decided to go outside because something compelled me to. Like how something compelled me to go out and sit on my balcony, have a smoke, and give my mother a ring. We talked about nearly everything. It's funny for how long you can stay out of touch with someone once important.

I never really saw much of my brother after I moved away from my mother. He's always eight in my head. Now he's 18—and though I've seen him, much older and much taller, it's almost as though the version I see now isn't real. Like that previous, little version of him is the real reality—and what I'm seeing now is but a mirage.

(Yes. I know. Mirage isn't a suitable synonym to the metaphor: but the mind doesn't work like how it used to.)

I haven't been writing as much. And when I do—it's commissions or obligations. It's been a long time since I sat down to write something spontaneous. You always want what's on the other side. Too many spontaneous works, and you think they're all the same. Plan and plot, but all that feeling of spontaneous ingenuity is gone.

What makes one a proper writer? The fact that they write well-structured ideas or stories, or someone who uses the form to process all that within? I have no idea of the thesis of this article. It's merely a tool, a mirror for the consciousness within, allowing the invisible but felt to become manifest through a sequence of logic developed with the typing of these words.

The saying is that form follows function.

Perhaps that is the truth here. There are some stories and blogs that you plot before because they are those stories. Then there are the writings that you write because you simply must. That's the trick when writing has developed into something more for you. When it is both a means to process and produce.

I struggled with that for a while. I think the desire to be as perfect as possible is good if that standard doesn't defeat the drive. I'm learning to drive a truck for 40 to 60-foot containers at work. You have to drive, reverse, and park them in tight quarters with a hundred other trucks and mobile cranes in a train yard.

When I get something, I get it, and I feel the bliss of getting it. But when I didn't get it. When I held the angle of a 45-degree reverse for too long or, even if I get it in, got it mostly out of luck—I don't let myself feel too good on it. I want to get it to the level I think it should be done at. That desire then deepens the drive. It's within the realm of possibility, so it doesn't discourage me.

But then there's the matter of something like this. It isn't structured or built toward a point or has any high moral to sell to you. Same with some of the stories that I write. I think I have to accept that not everything you write, say, or do will matter or have to matter. Sometimes it's okay to write a story that is just a story. Where things happen in the prose that contains it, and that is it.

There are a lot of artists you see and that post a lot of amazing things. Maybe I've always held myself against that. The desire to be a proper content creator has been there, but each time I follow it, my pen lifts from the page. I simply cannot be that restrained, refined thing that produces good things. I'm a messy person with the occasional whiff of organization.

But I went for a walk today; the craving to live had struck me.

Instead of doing the routines and the chores and playing games and all of that other stuff, I decided to break the cycle and do something called living. And that involves sitting outside and giving your mother a call, then going for a walk in your area. I liked what I saw of the places near me. I looked into a bar and wondered if I should get a drink—only to remember that I had work tomorrow.

But I think I'll give that place a try tomorrow.

I will pay the when it comes to work. I'll be tired and drained for my shift but, at the same time, I'll bring with me a different appreciation for the air that I breathe. Part of my mind drifts to Soul Sister. That title doesn't do much anymore. Like a glass portrait with a golden engraving covered in dust. It's when you wipe it off and read the text does the desire to weep again return.

She used to write blogs as she liked. They're the only testament to who she was at those times—or what a certain facet of her expressed. We're so neatly contained even within the most messily put together sentences. These words can never capture the life that happens once my fingers lift from the keys.

But I think that, in writing ourselves into words, that we form the idea of what we would like to be.

I don't know what life will hold. I'm twenty-four. I work a good job with weird hours and even weirder days off. Even with that, I make enough to both get by and put a little to the side. My rent is outrageous and wouldn't be possible without my roommate.

And with how the world is looking, I doubt that the future will look kind.

I've also stopped taking care of myself. I know I should. Brush my teeth and show and all that. But I just... don't. I do it enough to have them still be white. I barely eat. Sleep on and off. The world has returned to feeling like a simulation again. I can feel the wind on my skin, but even then it somehow feels like a fan is blowing it.

I've become more comfortable with the idea of death. I'm more okay with suicide as time goes by with how the world is turning out. Maybe that's why I went for that walk. To break the simulation and recall what it's like to have a life. It was good. To go out there and breathe.

But so little of life is like that. I'm not too fond of my life. If the writing went well and I could travel and write and be okay, then I would go to various places across the world, exploring as much as I could on foot. Getting a feel for the land and the people while using writing as the medium to bring out that which is within.

But I don't think life is going to go that way.

I think that something may happen, or something may not. I think that I would end up saving enough money that, after leaving my job and getting rid of my things, I would travel the places that I would want to travel—and then call it that. Death is a scary thing once truly felt. But when the days are already dimming... well, there's no need to finish that sentence.

All of these are plans for the future and not in the present. I've already been awarded a mobile crane job at my work, so that, once I'm done training to drive a truck, I'll be shortly thrown back into training for the crane. They pay will be slightly better but, since two-year beginning deductions are a thing everywhere, I won't see much of that increase.

I would like to get my life sorted first. Try my luck at being a writer to see where it goes. Successor failure, I'll have enough money to quit and travel. I don't know where it is that I'll take that last breath or that final plunge. But I don't want you to worry about that.

There is nothing you can do to save someone that is cursed. We wear out that care reatilivily quick. All you can do to our benefit is be distantly amused by the stories that we told—and the ultimate story that composed our lives. Read it, hear it, nod at its conclusion, then go along with us being that odd thought months or years down.

I hope that everything is going as well as it can for you.

And that you break your cycles to remember what life is about.

From time to time, of course.

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Comments ( 2 )

Holy shimata that was deep...All I can say is: Good luck

You may be cursed, but that won't stop me from rooting for you.

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