Every few days I sit down and write a bit until the pen trails off and…I’ve come up with a shit ton of great starts but for some reason coming to a conclusion with any of these essays seems ridiculous.
“How dare I assume I know what is right?”
“Who am I to have such a strong opinion?”
And another week passes on…
For a brief spell I thought it was possible I was having a spiritual awakening because I wasn’t attached to my own ego and ideas in a way that was foreign and liberating to me. But then I realized that having the thought that you might be having an awakening means most likely you’re not.
Here are a list of the titles of the half cooked essays I’ve written over the past month.
If You Call Someone a Hipster, You are Old and Lame: This essay was nixed as I have a lot of friends who use the term “hipster” and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. Although, it’s absolutely true that if you call someone a hipster, all it means is that you have no idea about contemporary culture, you are out of date and you might as well be complaining about “beatniks.”
It’s Okay to be Depressed: This essay was left unfinished because I assumed that if I posted it, people would think I was depressed and in fact I’m really happy right now and I don’t want people to think I’m not- which then made me realize “I guess I don’t think it’s okay to be depressed” even though I totally do think that. So I got confused…
Abundance is Another Word for Greed: This is a dangerous topic because when I lay down my wrathful guts about the darkness of gluttony tearing at the insides of our spiritual communities- I challenge all the abundance teachers out there. I start a war against the light/bright/rainbow camp and these heartfelt fuckers are powerful and vast so I’m a bit scared, but holy shit, if I could rev up…this one would feel damn good to get out.
Pigeons. A Love Story: This is a true story about a couple of pigeons who lived in my rafters. They were married and very happy together. One got trapped inside the attic when the roofers fixed the hole and the other is STILL, like right this minute, outside the hole waiting for his mate to return six months later. It took her three weeks to die inside the walls of the house. It was a fucking horror show but also incredibly romantic. Is this the kind of story one wants to hear about while scrolling through my website on a coffee break?
How Deeply Can You Rest: That’s all I wrote. Then I took a nap.
It’s been quite lovely to have the “should” and “have to” and “it’ll be good for you” voices quiet for the first time in my life. I’ve been spending time:
But I also want you to know that I really want to know what you want — so the game is — if any of these essay teasers make you want more — tell me in the comments and I will pick the most popular to extrapolate on further.
Mainly, I wanted you all to know that even though I haven’t been saying much lately.
I’m right here.
And it feels really good.