The Decline

I am aware all too much of my recent decline. It is not necessarily a bad thing to discover one day that you are in a steady recession. It will often inspire exciting change. I believe it comes from being too comfortable in one setting -- a sort of content humdrum that reflects in your personality or your work, as well as in your projects or your relationships. You are aware of your own potential and there are months and seasons where we keep the bar steady and shine our brightest. Inspiring others to do the same is what exhilarates the concept. Then one day, you notice that certain areas of your life have become sloppy but in repairable and tolerable ways, yet still leaving you with that next day feeling of having slept on someone’s couch. My decline started the instant I thought I had no more tasks of immediate importance. Once I had all my ducks waddling around my happy gazebo, I settled in to a slide of contentment and where I may be giving all my genuine gusto around my work and my loved ones, I am definitely not giving it my all in the areas that are supposed to make up my soul. With the home front nicely manicured, a reckless and irresponsible change of scenery is the only sensible option at this point. I will soon board a plane headed for scattered parts that include Chicago, Alabama and Nashville all in the spirit of living as the ceaseless houseguest for two weeks. With nothing in disorder and the spirit of a small town youth bound for a big city college, I am saying no to contentment, choosing to wonder once again, and live out of a suitcase among loved ones for the ushering of the New Year. Switching off the lights, locking the door and returning to a thin layer of dust over the pause placed on the contemporary. The luxury of stability almost insists on the liberty of temporary vagabond status. To shake the feeling of sleeping on someone’s couch is actually to sleep on someone’s couch. My decline reflects not just in the confession of this column, but also in the column itself. Ordinarily, I enjoy writing personally and publicly to feel what I am unable to feel when I am alone. My passion and sincerity has become my vapid practice. I find that I am clicking away, paying little attention, trying to look busy at Starbucks. It makes no sense whatsoever to be so absent from your passion when you truly have the world on a string. I am pecking away with little or no emotion, simply writing because I know I love it -- because I still have to eat. I could not be bothered to do more than run a brush through my hair and pile windbreaker layers over my plaid pajamas for the nonchalant stroll to Starbucks. Sitting at a sidewalk table with dead eyes in the approach of Christmas, I am seeing the jostling tension growing in the usually lax main street. The hostile exchanges between pedestrians and motorists, and the occasional barfly gloom among the Dean Martin Christmas classics have nothing to do with me. My inability to feel emotionally affected by the sneers of housewives dragging a couple of tiny apes in their tow reveals the dissention of passion. The decline is unfounded and downright socialist. It is the American way to desire more and outwardly live an insatiable desire for life. Time is the one commodity unable to replace and foolish to negotiate, and I am deeply troubled with the decline. And so must begin the vagabond furlough. Perhaps the life of a tramp in satirical fashion is what is necessary to make the keys clack for a good reason. Perhaps with things so tidy and organized in California, there is nothing outrageous to observe and wonder, or any zany obstacles to offer new life realizations. I want what I love to have purpose. I do not wish to mechanically love just anything and allow myself to spin monotonously. My daydreams and my expressions, my creation with passion are all on the decline. It would only sadden me if I did not care. Noticing and concerning are steps to ensure the seasons of change soften into the next. I am all too aware of my senseless decline. It seems that only the dramatic are able to thrive and progress in the hassles of life. For them, their wonder is the child’s captivation in a theater -- blooming only in the most spellbinding of circumstances. Others are taking the plunge as well. Although only some of their thrusts are relatable in travel, many are spontaneously pulling triggers on all forms of impulsive personal advancements. Mine has become a peculiar way to reinvent ones own position, but my circumstances necessitate a blasé wander in order to fixate again on story and expression. The laptop my bindle and the likelihood of an actual can of beans, revamped are the rustic boxcars for the mile-high happy hours soaring towards a blank leave of absence. The spirit is heading towards a boom against the recession that was on the verge of depleting my senses. In the fight against your decline, I hope that you find the senseless and impulsive action that raises the bar back to its proper setting. Pursuit of American excellence; the impulses entice while encouraging the old notion that something crazy might just be crazy enough to work. From here, I can only pack…