© 2015 Josh Drinks

I’m Still Alive

It’s the last day of 2015.
I’m a few hours away from another plane ride, this time back to Los Angeles.

I wish I had something profound to say, some wonder of cohesive thought that somehow makes sense of all my time on this planet.  Here’s all I got:

I’ve never worried about dying, really. Even in the handful of legitimately scary situations I’ve been in, there’s no fear of death. Maybe I had it when I was a kid, I think I remember the mortal realization. Now I just don’t see it as a big deal.  I’m not in a hurry to die, I’d prefer to postpone it for as long as is reasonable. I’d like more time to sharpen this brain and make it do something significant, not for my own sake, but for someone else who might benefit from all the time I’ve spent thinking in here.

I guess I’m one of those people that remembers mistakes and errors rather than triumphs and joy, which is dumb, because i don’t think I need to keep remembering the bad shit, learning the lesson is enough without the constant reinforcement of regretted memories. It seems at odds with my otherwise detached identity. I know a lot about myself, but not enough, because I don’t behave as I expect I will and I do things I’ve specifically instructed myself not to. I must have been hell for my teachers.

I’m kind of proud of the fact that I can be counted on to be rational and level headed, something I was awful at in the first half of my life, but I’ve gotten a handle on now.  I don’t want to be one of those old guys that’s self-analytical to the point of neurosis, but being a human is pretty fucking weird, because you don’t get a lot of time to figure it out before it’s over; and if you spend too much time thinking about how it works, you don’t really get to do anything.

The really good stuff happens when you don’t hold anything in the tank, when you just go burning out into the night, really hot, and when you use it all up… well that’s that. I’ve already wasted a lot of time not wasting enough of myself.  Every year I make the resolution to drink more, do more drugs, have more sex, and do more stupid and dangerous things, but I always end up caving in to sensibility. Maybe this year I’ll get to be the madman I’ve always hoped I was, write more, do more, get a little of that childlike fear of death back in my system.

Maybe i should be homeless a little, for a few months; maybe try asceticism.  I’m not really sure that I’m supposed to be doing anything with this life in particular, but I definitely like being me, and I’d probably do it again, maybe a little better next time, less regret, more volume.  We’ll see how it shakes out in the end I guess.


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