Just Jump, Goddamn It!
(Listening to Wake Me Up by Avicii on repeat. Not saying you should when you read this, but maybe the ambience will seep into your brain. Here we go.)
Horses gallop across a golden field that feels like a felt tip pen caressing the soft pages of a leather bound journal beside you. You can smell it as you wake up that morning, that rustic smell somewhere between the floorboards of an old wood-heated cabin. The smell of fire and pine and dirt and incense and lavender and weed and a hot shower and your grandmother’s dish soap.
You stand at the top of the snow covered mountain in nothing but your wedding dress and jump off, feeling the wind rush past your ears. You see red, but not because of your anger. You see red because of your passion. You see red where your hands let go of the safety rope. You left your lifeline. You decided to jump.
Here you go. The ground is rushing up to meet your blissful face and you fall through it, enveloped in the senses that tingle at your ears and at your frostbitten nose. You are warm again in that wood-heated cabin, waking up under your mountain of home-sewn blankets, sitting at the table with that leather journal and a warm cup of coffee in a blue aluminum camping mug that’s too hot for you to touch. You grasp it anyway; it feels good in your cold hands, just waking up from the night.
You look outside to the horses.
The mountains are snowy, but here the golden waves of the fields run free.
Here there are no mundane details to hold you down. Here there are no limits. You can take your showers in the sprinklers of the mint fields and live off the bounty in your own back yard. Here, you can live between the floorboards. For underneath the floorboards is where you keep your residence. You’re nothing but a spirit. You’re nothing but me. You are nothing. You are the air that rushes down the mountains and spirals over the tops of wood-smoked chimneys, coursing through the veins of every festival-goer that doesn’t understand why the music moves her in the way that it does but knowing that she loves it and keeps going. It isn’t understandable. It’s music, goddamn it. It’s music.
And here you are, riding on the vibrations and the waves elicited from the depths of your earbuds in the middle of a forest, in a wood-heated cabin, underneath the floorboards, underneath your covers. Here you are, looking out your window at the horses in the golden field.
Here you are, standing atop your mountain in your wedding dress, not knowing how you got here but knowing that better things await you at the bottom of the hill.
Your dress has been cut, your hair has been dyed, your fingers have calloused over, your home has burned to the ground.
And here you are, you wild badass.
You have sticks in your hair and coffee stains on your shirt and blood on your legs and cuts on your wrists and you’re not proud of some of the things you did.
Life’s not an opera, it’s a mosh pit.
This is what music does to your soul.
It pulls you through the madness and helps you see out the other side of the mountain.
And you need not carve a tunnel, nor ride the explosions to come out the other side unscathed and unafraid. I’d tell you to go back and do it again if you came out in front of me with no scars, no stars in your eyes, no shadows in your mind, no stories to tell. Go back and do it again!
You weren’t meant to live life taking all of these politics with unwavering numbness. You weren’t meant to live life accepting other people’s opinions as your own. You weren’t meant to follow. You weren’t meant to lead. You are here to move forward, that is all.
So what the hell are you doing standing there on top of a snowy mountain in your wedding dress? What the hell are you doing? Don’t you know it’s freezing out? Don’t you know this isn’t where it ends?
What the hell are you waiting for?
Jump, goddamn it.