Some weeks, the days seemingly run into one another like a stream of water pouring out of a facet and flowing down the drain. One minute the water is in your hands, the next minute it's gone. Poof. Vanished. Never coming back. You can reach as far as you want down that drain, but you aren't going to pull anything back up. That's what days can feel like. Here one minute, gone the next. Unless. . . .
Unless you focus on the small things that might not matter but somehow still do--like the guy standing on the street corner this morning wearing an old farmer's hat and sweet-ass bib overalls. He was waiting for the bus, I assume, and he was holding what looked to be a bag of groceries. All these hours later, I'm still wondering what was in that bag.
Or the short, middle-aged man hitting golf balls back and forth at the park during lunch. Hit and retrieve. Hit and retrieve. His back swing was atrocious. His follow-through was even worse. But damn if his ball didn't fly straight and true, and better, he looked like he was having fun. Whatever it takes, man.
Or the guy dressed all in black who flew by me doing a million miles an hour on his Harley, engine roaring, hair blowing in the wind, sunglasses on tight reflecting the sun like a face in a mirror. Man, I wanted to switch places with him so badly. Wanted to hear that roar up close and personal.
Or the sunflower seeds I popped in my mouth during my 3 o'clock walk this afternoon. Seed after seed after glorious, salty seed, Crack, shovel, spit, chew. Repeat. Sunflower seeds practically define "simplicity."
Or the funky, faded tattoos on the man standing in front of me at the gas station. I see him there pretty much every morning, yet he's still a mystery. I like to make up different histories and realities for him. Give him a different name depending on my mood, how he's dressed, and how much beer he's buying already at 8 a.m. I like to think he's taking that beer home to sit on a lawn chair in his garage and watch cars pass all day with no place to go himself. No responsibilities. No worries. Just beer and sun. Chuckling at all the monkeys coming and going. That's what I would do if I was Jonesy. Or should I call him Dusty or Fred or Mac?
I hear people say all the time, "I'm so bored" or "there's nothing to do." Drives me mad each time. Your life, my friend, has reached a mundane state because you're mundane. It doesn't take much to change that.
Unless you focus on the small things that might not matter but somehow still do--like the guy standing on the street corner this morning wearing an old farmer's hat and sweet-ass bib overalls. He was waiting for the bus, I assume, and he was holding what looked to be a bag of groceries. All these hours later, I'm still wondering what was in that bag.
Or the short, middle-aged man hitting golf balls back and forth at the park during lunch. Hit and retrieve. Hit and retrieve. His back swing was atrocious. His follow-through was even worse. But damn if his ball didn't fly straight and true, and better, he looked like he was having fun. Whatever it takes, man.
Or the guy dressed all in black who flew by me doing a million miles an hour on his Harley, engine roaring, hair blowing in the wind, sunglasses on tight reflecting the sun like a face in a mirror. Man, I wanted to switch places with him so badly. Wanted to hear that roar up close and personal.
Or the sunflower seeds I popped in my mouth during my 3 o'clock walk this afternoon. Seed after seed after glorious, salty seed, Crack, shovel, spit, chew. Repeat. Sunflower seeds practically define "simplicity."
Or the funky, faded tattoos on the man standing in front of me at the gas station. I see him there pretty much every morning, yet he's still a mystery. I like to make up different histories and realities for him. Give him a different name depending on my mood, how he's dressed, and how much beer he's buying already at 8 a.m. I like to think he's taking that beer home to sit on a lawn chair in his garage and watch cars pass all day with no place to go himself. No responsibilities. No worries. Just beer and sun. Chuckling at all the monkeys coming and going. That's what I would do if I was Jonesy. Or should I call him Dusty or Fred or Mac?
I hear people say all the time, "I'm so bored" or "there's nothing to do." Drives me mad each time. Your life, my friend, has reached a mundane state because you're mundane. It doesn't take much to change that.
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