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By Kevin Alan Lamb

I used to write my words in a black book; I miss it, it was more existential, more Gonzo. Though impractical; writing, retyping; I impress myself just to be writing these errant thoughts at all. They seem to be what’s mine in this world. Not a system that I am a part of, rather the system itself. My functionality depends on this release.

Every moment of every day I distract myself into thinking there’s something I want out of this lifetime. Yet every moment, of every day, I find myself with the same discontent, seeking the ailment of expression. It probably does little to better my cause, but the key words there however: my cause. Whatever it may be; if it is at all?

Perhaps just a room filled with maddening darkness, and a typewriter. How crazy will you choose to be today? The crazy have it good: No explanation for thoughts or actions: Not a trace of rationality in sight. Madness is ultimate freedom. But it’s not my solution, at least not yet. Greatness is a prerequisite for madness.

Hunter Thompson put a gun to his head and had the gumption to pull the trigger. He was a great man, did great things. It would be self-absorbed to believe I deserved a one way trip to la-la-land just yet. Unfortunately my painful road has just begun. There is no doubt it will be interesting, and fortunately for the rest of you my cause includes documentation, and picturesque memory.

Memories are obviously the greatest pain and pleasure in this world and the next. I have a memory that haunts me with details: The dress you were wearing, the scent of your perfume on a spring day. Everything you’d hope gets lost in translation from one moment to the next.

Rather than loath my becoming, I choose an obscure, sinful, and story worthy life. I can’t contend that it suits me well: rather it is me. I am my words. A story you may or may not remember; Maybe even one you’ll tell to your friends, co-workers, certainly never your family.

There is, and isn’t a place for me in this life of mine. Often I wish autopilot were an option. Sit back while the predictable, yet lively moments pan out. Seeing the future is no luxury. It gets old. Being right, anticipating what lies ahead. A younger version of myself didn’t believe in such foresight: Believed I could change things: Ignored obvious tells. It was devastating, obnoxious, and futile.

I have let that fight fade quietly into a distinct past. None of this is to suggest I live uninspired; that would be tragic. I have my moments, fewer and further in-between. Less idealistic, simpler: sights: the ocean that I’ve neglected for this reason or that.

The good is still out there and I will seek it; tell of my failures, falsified expectations, hopes, and yes, dreams. My, how dreams have changed. Dreams have been replaced by our perception of what we can tolerate; a trade-off. Maintain some identifiable level of sanity and enjoy the occasional free sample of a dream you once had.

A lot of people think their happiness will be found at the end of a rainbow in this place or that. Let me save you some time and money; if you’re not happy, look inward, not out. External variables are like Hershey’s syrup on ice cream: if the ice cream sucks, all the syrup in the world won’t do a damn thing.

It’s not necessarily an easy thing to be – happy. Very relative, displaced, and confused. But even so, if you don’t know whether you’re happy at the end of a day, you’ve wasted a lot of valuable time neglecting the most important thing in your world – yourself.

 

Hunter S. Thompson on Facebook

hunter_thompson

RIP

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