In bed on a Friday night in this god-forsaken desert as a sand storm threatens to uproot the tomato plants I sowed a few weeks ago. Rolling like a suppressed memory, the wind dares me to break the mold and try my hand, once more, at this old habit. Staring at this blank screen in the safety of a warm bed, my sick snoring wife next to me, I search for remnants of fading youth.
I just watched Breakfast with Hunter a documentary about my childhood hero. I type the word childhood referring to the time before I was a father, a husband, a teacher, or much of a man. Free and rudderless, I was lost and directionless. Both the young and old romanticize these feelings of disorientation and autonomy; I am here tonight contemplating the gonzo fist inked onto my chest. The emblem engraved onto my flesh from the child to the man was meant to remind me to never forget the promises that were made those lonely nights in dark smoky rooms, those early mornings shrouded in fog, terror, loneliness and love. No matter how hard the world tries to break you and snuff out the fires that keep you alive, no matter how sedated you feel after being force-fed the dream of consumptive glee; it is vital that you recall the vows you made: no amount of stability or security is worth the fear and loathing brought about by looking into a mirror and realizing that you have disappeared. Another faceless sheep mesmerized by the very machine you despised.
In memory of HST