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I've done some things I'm not proud of. Actually, I'm not proud of most of the things I've done. I did them under duress. I didn't want to do anything. I just wanted to find a chemical that made life bearable. Which is doing something to do nothing. Stupid? Yep. And it didn't work. The chemicals turned on me. Now, I read books like I'm drowning. Like ideas will save my life. Like pretty words will calm the riot in my brain. 

I'm not proud, but that doesn't mean I haven't done anything to be proud of. I don't trust people who go around feeling proud. I don't vibe with people who wrap themselves in self-congratulation. You're a human. Part angel, part devil - just like the rest of us. I'm gonna look at myself honestly, even if that means I hate me. 

I don't understand the folks who go around feeling proud for no reason. It's toxic. It's not conducive to conversation. It doesn't make you a good member of the pack. It's not all about you, see, it's about all of us. 

Some people live lives of quiet desperation. Not me. My despair is loud and clear, though I try to keep it to myself - I know you have your own heartaches to deal with. 

You gotta do what you gotta do, but not if it hurts others. That seems like basic common sense. That's what my parents taught me. What their parents taught them.

Who raised you?

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We are made for the chase. We are not falcons or leopards or snakes. We are warm blooded, but toothless. No talons. No claws. What we do have is a body made for running. A cheetah will always win in a sprint, but we can outrun them. Chase them down. Get organized. Stay limber and moving. We have sweat glands to aid our efforts. We have long legs with strong muscles, and we can go for miles and miles. 

We are smart enough to sharpen sticks. We can pick up a rock and throw it. Not like a monkey with its offhand tossing. We can throw with accuracy and velocity. But more importantly, we can invent. We can make things harder than rocks and throw them clear across the world. We try not to, but we can. 

Go ahead and start running. You’ll feel exhilarated for a few minutes as the slow bipeds lope behind you, turning into barely visible specks. When the prey stops to rest, we will gain ground. Then, you will begin to feel panic - you will make poor decisions under stress. You will realize what every animal realizes eventually. You may beat humans in the short run, but we’ll keep coming, and we won’t stop until all your kind are dead.

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The skin comes off easily. His knife work is strong. His hands are strong, too. Butcher hands, made for blade and meat. It is early morning, and the hunt was successful. His people will eat well today. He puts his hands under the skin, peels it back. He takes small bites of the heart, raw, to hush the agony in his stomach. He will not eat more before returning to the village. He is strong in this way.

There is a soft glow coming from the east. It unsettles the man, and his uneasiness is revealed in the way that he hunches to his work. There is a frantic need to hurry. He can feel it. He doesn't know why, but he trusts these feelings. He always has, and he has lived when others have not. He knows he must listen to his intuition.

The carrion birds are in the tops of the trees, awaiting their feast. They will not come near until the man leaves. They know what his arrows can do. The ravens respect the man, but they also fear him. They are grateful for the scraps he leaves behind.

He pulls dried mushrooms from the leather sack around his neck. He munches a few and then waits for his vision to sharpen, for his eyes to be opened wide. This is communion. He did not have to use the mushrooms for the hunt. Instead, they will speed the process that gets him back home.

These are just natural things. You don't need to be upset. The man kills his own kind? So, what? Many animals do this. This is part of the natural way. And the ravens have come to love the distinct taste of human meat. 

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Maybe it's the promise of happiness that dooms us. A bunch of gangly creatures stumbling around feeling like we deserve to be happy. Rabbits don't think they deserve to be happy. Wolves don't think they should spend all their time smiling. We're set up with unrealistic expectations. It's the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Not a guarantee. It seems like it's a fairly recent thing, this notion that we should be constantly cheery. 

What if we were taught that we had to find happiness? What if that was the first, most important thing we learned? 

Finding what makes you happy is probably more important than knowing how you divide fractions. It probably matters more than the periodic table. It's more relevant for most people that mitochondria. 

The craziest thing to me is that some people just give up on being happy. Decide it isn't in the cards for them. Decide that you shouldn't be happy in life. I know I can be happy. It's in the Declaration of Independence, for Christ's sake - it's just up to me to make it happen.

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I’m tired of comparisons, but I can’t stop. Do you have more money than me? A better car? Are you thinner? Better dressed? Do you appear confident at all times, not like someone about to be found out? Do you thrill to your colleagues mortgage stories instead of awkwardly nodding? Do you see everything about me as a reflection of me? You do? Cool, me, too...about you.

I’m tired of feeling like an imposter. I’m not one, but I feel like one. Like everyone understands better than me. Like everyone remembers the stupid acronyms they’re supposed to remember. I feel like an emotional fake as well. That’s a weird one. I’m sincerely not as sincere as many of my peers. Or at least it seems that way. I’m no seer.

I don’t want to be scared all the time. Of people's actions or perceptions. Because it wasn’t always that way. I used to care less. Now, I care more. Frankly, the whole thing is careless. 

Risky. Ill-advised. 

I want to have genuine conversations. I want to feel connections. I want to care about the little things on your mind, even if I don’t share the little things on mine. I want to laugh at the right times. 

I’m tired of overthinking things. I’m sick of this hamster wheel. I’ll give you a dollar, please tell me how to feel. 

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I'm not a perfect man, but I'm trying. Sometimes, I feel like a turkey, staring up at the clouds, wondering where the water is coming from. Better close my mouth, so I don't die. Better find myself some shelter. 

I have memories that like to fuck with me. Which, maybe is fair, because I fucked with them first. 

There are cravings. Appetites that can never be quenched. Maybe they would better be described as thirsts. There are sirens who pull me toward the sharp rocks, but, with discipline, hand on the rudder, I can block out the noise. 

Look at the blue jay. Feel the warm sun. Be in this moment. 

In the moment, I'm never thirsty. 

David Foster Wallace wrote, “... no single, individual moment is in and of itself unendurable.” I tattooed a reminder on my hand. Then, he killed himself. So, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

'Cause here’s the problem. Those moments stack up. It’s easy to fight one moment, but it’s damn hard to fight an army of them. It’s like quicksand; the more you struggle, the deeper you go. 

There’s a part of addiction that no one likes to talk about. Junkies aren’t worried about politics. Drunks don’t care about global warming. Tweakers could give a shit about tiger populations. They have more pressing priorities and, fuck, if there isn’t some relief to be found there. The world is full of things to trouble the sober mind. 

Addiction can be a moat. A pretty effective one.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t try or that you should bury your head in chemicals. I’m just saying I see you. I see your struggle. I see you beating yourself up, and it doesn’t do a damn bit of good. It’s just more addiction.

There is nothing worse than being addicted to making yourself the victim. 

And, hell, have you sat and listened to birdsong, lately? Have you felt the sun on your skin? Have you seen a little kid laughing, dancing? You can’t expect to face the world without those simple pleasures, and you have to be present to see that shit. 

I’m not a perfect man, but I’m better than I used to be. That’s something. That’s not nothing. 

I’m trying.

2 Minutes. Go!

When he wakes up, he takes stock. Not of what he has, but of what he has lost. He imagines a tail waving behind him like a kite, pulling wayward possessions, old epiphanies, and even misplaced relationships - a billowing train for an abandoned bride; it follows him everywhere. 

There is a certain uneasiness when he realizes he has lost so much that he can no longer calculate the losses. His memory isn't strong enough. The most recent indignation takes priority. The tail is always shedding its hide, but it always feels the same to him.

He asks questions. He expects answers, but how can you tell a man that is barely holding on that there is no point to it. Nothing lost matters. Man, he's hanging on by fingertips as it is. 

It is what it is. One more desperate human doing desperate human things. Smile as you walk past, or avert your eyes. Don't look too close, or you might turn your stock-taking inward.

And who wants that?