When I returned from my time in Africa a few months back I made a point to write write write. There were other points of course. Wake up early, yoga more often, hike once a week, trip as often as I could find the time–process the steps needed to abandon my day to day retail life at Trader Joe’s and embark on the adventures that really spark that thing inside. But writing was the big one. Well, it sort of happened. If I could plot it on a graph you’d see a spike for the two weeks after I got back. Early mornings, vegetables, reading, writing, planning future trips, and maybe best of all, almost zero bitching or talking shit. I remember that quite well. Follow the graph another few weeks and the bitching begins, the drinking increases, my anger rises to a daily simmer. I eat more shit food. I go on more sub-quality dates. My wake up time rises from six to seven to eight to 10 and 11AM. And all that writing I wanted to do? Nah.
All of this seems to have settled for the moment. Wake up time at 8 instead of 10. Vegetables AND cheese. I never did finish my work about Africa. I wrote one long article but was sidetracked when my website went down. And now I’m at an impasse. My trip ended three months ago. Five months from now I will start another. I reserved my permit to begin hiking the John Muir Trail in July. 30 days alone in the wild. I want to write about the trip that was but I can only think about the new one. This can happen. We can become so enamored with the past–what we have done, who we have loved, choices we made or passed by–that we can forget what is happening or what is about to come. It sounds cheesy to write it like that but it’s true. Africa was three months ago, but it might as well be a lifetime away. All we have is the future. And the future is something else.
© 2014 Christopher Dart