Long enough since some remnants of my fleeting existence have found their way onto paper via pen wielded by an overworked hand -- OR perhaps just text -- an infinite number of ones and zeros arranged in such away that it might mean something to someone.
I find that it's easier to write when I am overwhelmed with an excess of emotional energy. Over the past few months, I've been juggling two jobs, a relationship, and a fairly regimented drinking schedule. I've learned I can't do anything in moderation. Since I moved back to this fair state of Deseret, I've lived about 20 lives. I've gone trail running, traveled 70 hours on a greyhound bus, dabbled in a few substances, learned how to play the melodica, perfected my dough-tossing skills, practiced my French and Spanish with native speakers, and made a heaping ton of mistakes. The question I get asked most frequently is this:
"Are you happy?"
I've come to realize that it's usually myself doing the asking.
I ask myself when I reach the bottom of those bottles, the taste of whiskey fighting with the question on the tip of my tongue. I ask myself when I walk through that looming shadow cast by the temple, when I'm faced every day with a macabre family history masked by a legacy. I ask myself on days like today, when it's overcast and the mountains roar as the thunder tears through the desert heat.
Time to get back to work.
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