Today I fixed a door handle and installed the corresponding dead bolt lock, save for the strike plate, which will require smooth talking on my part to borrow an awl without the guy I borrow it from insisting on doing it for me. This is a big deal because it means I consciously noticed part of my environment (the handle has been wiggly for three weeks, but whatever) and decided to change it. And then, I
actually did.
It's hard to admit that you live in a dream world—that people and hours are just shadows flitting by. And when they ask, how do you muster the energy to explain that you are going through the motions while the
real you is somewhere else self-actualizing? How do you tell them that you don't care how much you make as long as you can eat enough to keep your mind alive and that you don't care where you sleep as long as you can dream?
How do you forgive someone when what they did was your only relief from pure mediocrity? How do you tell everyone that if they stopped doing what was safe and started doing what was lisible, maybe you wouldn't have to pretend that they already had?
How do you regain your heart from the flesh-and-blood shadow of your glorious, multi-dimensional soulmate? When he tosses it and runs, how do you settle into comfortable acquiescence with another man who likes to watch the ocean, but has no idea why?
Once you admit it, how do you convince yourself to change?
For years, I believed that one world would catch up with the other, that adventure would come as I grew more independent: I knew that one more sheepskin, one more excursion, would tempt Life into opening up to me like a morning glory swarming with honeybees.
The naïve are
so happy, though they know not what they have.
