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My Fucking Feelings 9/14/’17

I’ve been wrestling with the word peace lately. As in I don’t want it. Internal peace. Peace with who I am. Peace with what I have. Peace with where I’m at. I’ve had peace for a while now. They say before happy, before the universe gives you more, before you hit your next level shit, you have to find peace. Without it, happy will feel hallow and purpose flimsy. Great, I’ve found it. And it’s amazing like a warm bath but a warm bath can feel gross after a while.

I feel like it’s time to get out of my tub.

I want to be a simple man.

Because when you’re a simple man, life doesn’t have power over you. You don’t need much shit. You’re good. You’re happy. You give less fucks.

But I’m not.

Fancy coffee in the morning. Motorcycle rides to the gym. Writing books and blogs. Doing sessions. Producing content. Sharing meals with friends. Building a start up. I am truly grateful for all these things.

But I’m a dreamer.

I never wanted the moon. I want the sun. I’m ready for growth. I’m ready to be scaled. I don’t want peace. Peace is my little cozy Cape Cod Los Feliz bubble. I want to go to war. I want to fight. I want someone to shatter my heart. Punch me in the face. I want to experience round 12. The pressure of loaded bases. The 4th down. Tied with ten seconds left in the game.

Calm isn’t calm when you’ve been there for too long.

I’m tired of washing the fire truck and playing cards with the boys. I want the sirens to go off. I want to feel panic again. The rush. Give me a stage. Make me a deal. Put me on a fucking plane.

I don’t have dreams anymore.

I lost them when I started sleeping again.

So I want to live them now.

  • Angry
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