At one time I worked in forestry. You could plan and execute. Problems could be solved, and situations avoided, with speed, or quiet violence.
Each night, you slept as if four miles of ocean pressed you down.
And there was a productivity cadence which I just don’t get these days.
These days, I get hung up on nothing.
Amber alerts are going off all over.
The mildest melodrama seeds high-beta emotional drop kicks in so-called colleagues.
This, while fightorflight.exe stays sandboxed.
It’s a recipe for cortisol gone bad.
The eternal unease. Sub-surface tension.
A perpetual meniscus on your cup of woe.
Hence the need for outlet, a need to reframe, a need to change perspective, by adding something bigger in.
A life on nature’s terms.
Where you can have mastery of real situations, or pay the price.
Yes, it’s a lack of/control thing.
A forced reduction of the parameters. A foreshortening of horizons.
The world moves with you.
Your key metrics are: core temperature.
Time of useful consciousness.
Right now, you’re at once a rank amateur, and the hero of the hour.
Moving with confidence and ease.
Mobile in any medium.
Smiling fuckin through.