Archive for January, 2014

What Matters Most…

Posted: January 25, 2014 in Uncategorized

Quotes piss me off.  I don’t even know if this is actually a quote.  I saw it on a meme and also think it is the title of a book I saw on a shelf once.   Google has the answer to this, I’m sure of it.  Also sure I’d rather just write about it than research it.

“What matters most is how well we walk through the fire.” -Charles Bukowski (or according to the reliability of the internet sometimes, Abraham Lincoln or Liam Neeson or Pink or God)

What matters most to me just moved back to Scotland for the next half a year, so that someday we might enjoy the conveniences of living out our dreams in an earthbag house in the Scandinavian countryside.  The thing that matters second most to me, is how I plan to navigate this tundra of fuckery.  This barren whiteout of half an empty bed with the pillow cases I’ll refuse to wash until the final fading fragrance of her hair becomes a thing of the past.  At that point I’ll begin using her shampoo and keep my hair draped over her half of the bed so that in the moments of waking between faltering dreams and open eyes, one fifth of my senses will know that she is there with me still.  I’ll turn to look at a picture of her.  And pet, feed, amuse and water her cats.  I’ll put her favorite Watain song on as I wipe the momentary death of night from my face, stand up, process the pain that would keep most people in bed for a week, put my shoes on and run until the fire goes out.

Or until my legs go out and I only have it in me to walk through the fire as it burns the world around me.  This is what I do better than anything else in my life.  Proceed through the dying of ambition and the decay of possibility.  In this frame of existence I no longer have any external motivator.  No more speeches to cull from or quotes to give a shit about.  External motivation seems now to be a burdensome shadow of achievement that will sit still as the sun rolls over is and kills it one day at a time.  It’s cheesy and flimsy and serves only as a God for us to look to when we need some sort of answer to something that probably isn’t even a question.  I choose to answer the questions on my own.  Can I run 20 miles after frequent lapses in running that have my annual mileage stuck in the mud at 70 or 80 and the weighted vest of fat that I wear so awkwardly after such vacations from reality?  Yes.  I can.  And I’m off to do so.