Where to Begin (Random Musings from a Coffee Shop, pt. 1)

Why is it that the most romanticized notions of what should constitute “life” exist so far outside the realm of practicality? Why is it that a comfortably employed (relatively speaking, as in, not unemployed), middle aged honky living in the the Rocky Mountains feels the need to try to reinvent a life that never was and which, in reality, would likely have sucked up to this point had alternative aspirations actually come to fruition? Why is it that people like me (and, admittedly, I’m desperately hoping I’m not the only poor schmuck suffering from this “Bohemian Peter Pan Complex”) waste their mid-life crises-inspired thoughts on such pointless folly? Why can’t we just max out our credit and stupidly sink $800/month into a Porsche in order to allow us to believe that we are now what we always should have been?

If I had it to do over, I would have studied harder in school, gotten into some place like Stanford or Cal, studied my ass off and worked my way into film school at USC or NYU. I guess. Or maybe I would have studied harder in school while continuing to study music equally rigorously so that I could ultimately study music in college. Or not. Hell, I don’t know.

The ugly fact of the matter is that I didn’t manage to reach some semblance of what could reasonably be considered maturity until my mid 30s or so. No matter what I wish for now or how hard I try to convince myself of what I “could have done”, it simply doesn’t jibe with the ugly truth that I was not mature enough when I was younger to actually *study harder* in school. Damn, that was actually cathartic.

Well, there’s always this “writing” thing…

But here’s the problem: I never know where/how the hell to actually….start. The merciless, unending pressure of having to initiate whatever it is I’m attempting to communicate with some monumental, thought-provoking first sentence doesn’t frighten me so much as it irritates me. When running meetings at work, I frequently tend to immediately dive right in like an Arizona dust devil and attempt to tackle the issue and identify someone who can devise a solution without first framing the problem and giving people a chance to at least understand why I seek to waste 30–60 minutes of their time. It’s a trait and it’s one that continues to haunt me while annoying the poor souls around me.

So here I sit, stabbing away at the keyboard of a tablet (Vonnegut rolls in his grave), hopelessly grasping at any fleeting thought which might float into my consciousness. God, what a pretentious statement. While I’m at it, perhaps I should haul my faux hipster ass out to the road, stick out my thumb and work my way back east to Columbia where, at age (withheld), I can start life anew as a romantically struggling, wannabe beatnik writer who slogs his days away pretending to navigate the halls of high brow academia while occupying his nights waiting tables just to eek out some unattainable future living as a writer.

Yeah, that’s pretty much not gonna happen. None of the above is, save for, hopefully, a decent opening sentence with my next entry.

Until then…

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