How many times have I started a journal? I know I could ransack my apartment right now for probably half a dozen journals I made the special errand for and with fresh fervor decided this was the day I became a daily writer. What’s even more terrifying to think about is how many I have lost? Have they ever been found? By a friend? An ex? A family member? It makes me shiver to think about the self loathing diatribes I’ve slathered all over those sorry bits of paper. More often than not, it was always about a girl. Missing one, wanting one, hating one, being hurt, regretting. It’s been a while since I’ve let someone be that important to me. I do miss that. But at least for the time being I am not being controlled by anyone specifically. I am free. Free in so many ways. I’m 31. I’m single. I have a stable career with a decent salary. I don’t even have a goldfish to take care of. Yet, every day I still wake up and there is this paralysis that grabs hold of me. As if I’m standing at an intersection of 5,000 roads, and I just stand there. I suppose that’s why I’ve decided to start this journal. Already it feels good to let it out, to think of words to describe my thoughts, instead of just bottling them up. Because this is public it does change my perspective a bit. If someone stumbles upon it and begins to follow my writing, then it will change why I write, will it not? I’ll try it for now, and if it bothers me I will change it. But I guess, if that’s the case. I’ll lay out who I am.
31 year old male from Chicagoland. Traveling IT trainer. Musician. Absolutely confused, unfulfilled, serial relapser of existential crises trying desperately to find my place in this world. Have moved to Asia twice. Have moved back. Have stumbled through gobs of failed relationships. Still want to move back to Asia. No I don’t do weird sex stuff in Asia, and no I am not obsessed with Asian women, though I do not mind them.
Lived in Thailand and worked as a writer. Best time of my life. Feel like I found my purpose. Made no money. Have student debt. Forced back home to pay my bills. Work in software again, travel around North America to law firms. Pretending. Pretending. To be someone else.
I think about writing. I don’t know what to write. I think about Thailand, beautiful places around the world. Why do I love them so much? Why do I hate home? What do I do with this feeling? It’s not even a talent, or a skill, its not a career, wanderlust, is it. Don’t want to be a stupid travel blogger. I loathe them. They steal the world, all moments, they rob them, they ruin the moment, they can’t live in the moment.
Zen. Buddhism. Meditation. Yoga.
Things that help me focus.
Plants.
Hiking.
Green.
Mountains.
Then it ends.
Just came back from Utah. Hiked Zion for days. Was in the clouds, built a cairn on the edge of the cliff, on Angel’s Landing. Stared at it, into the clouds, felt the expanse.
Came back.
Felt the void. Felt the crushing weight of my world. Couldn’t sleep last night. Felt it coming back. It was all just a distraction.
How do I build something? How do I stop wandering? How do I fall in love again?
When do I stop worrying about my life and just be?
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