Sometimes we plan our lives around our dreams and sometimes we’re willing to risk everything to make those dreams happen.
The worst part of this process, this getting ready to change, is the passivity of the process. I’m supposed to go into this effectively fat and dumb so I’ve been gaining weight and acting stupidly. I feel like I move from couch to couch, beach to beach, bar to bar, thinking as little possible about… anything. Details, details, everyone wants details. I’ve spent my cushion, my safety in this drawn out process of going to the bottom, deep enough and strange enough to attempt to forget who I am. I’ve got my fear for the future left and that’s not a lot. It’s almost all I have remaining, almost all I have of the life I led before. I can’t wait to let go of it.
Stuff. The books and papers and sundry sentimentals that we gather to us… I’ve left it all behind. Drifting into poverty to lose my attachment to comfort, I’ve come to the end of my resources. From here on, Life, the thing that living is, is my sole possession, the only treasure, the only curio on my knick-knack shelf.
I’m afraid, yeah. But I’m afraid in a joyful way. I think it’s the fear that accompanies creation, that hold hands with art. It sets my hands shaking,