Here I am—battered not beaten.
I know something is wrong because it’s nine o’clock in the morning and I’m still in bed. I find it odd that the only thing I want to do is share this with you, which is why I’m typing right now rather than sleeping.
My head is throbbing, and I’m wondering why I let those random girls seduce me into buying tequila shots last night. And then buying more, again and again. Seduction is a powerful thing. You see, I’m still alone. Now this is all I’m left with. A fraction of the man I thought I was. My subconscious reminds me that I should be grateful, though. I can only fight back with, Really?
Most times, you’d hear me share some clever thought, story, or anecdote. Today, all I’m worried about is survival. I’ve been reduced down to my most primal state, protecting my wounded ego and just trying to find the courage to say what I want to say. Believe me, though, when I tell you I’m no victim. This is the human condition. A constant push ‘n’ pull between rain and sunshine. You never know when either will come. They just happen, and you’re left to deal with the consequences. Tequila or no tequila. We all wake up like this.
Eventually, one way or another, we finally reach the precipice. The inflection point of our souls. In a strangled state, we’re left to consider what actually matters.
Why does it even matter that I’m compelled to share this with you? Write? Publish? Whatever you want to call this muse. I’m doing it. But why? Why does it matter?
I can read a thousand books, research why humans do what they do, think I’m more important than I am, and have high-brow conversations about ideas with people I don’t know, but does it even matter? It sounds shitty when you write it. Doesn’t it? But just like you, only I can define what I do and why I do it. Only I know the answer.
This is life.