Just Try and Follow
Very recently, I realized that the last year - the almost 14 months I've been in Los Angeles - have been among the least traumatic, the most stable, the overall happiest of my adult existence so far.
This comforts, relieves, and worries me. What kind of a sicko is worried that he's been too happy for too long?
But questions of wellness aside, I can't shake it, that lingering memory of how exciting, and terrifying, and difficult, and necessary growth through struggle disguised as adventure really is.
Last weekend's exhausting trip to DC to partake in the National Equality March was glorious and illustrative of this fact. Excellent friends, a beautiful city, and that rush when you know you are actively participating on the right side of history - perhaps one day I will be a college professor and be able to regale my students with powerful stories of being a part of my generation's great civil rights struggle, thereby gaining instant credibility for being both wise and awesome.
But I reiterate - it was exhausting. My time in the capital stood at somewhere around 36 hours, into which was crammed a gayborhood, a ghetto, a march, a rally, two flourescent pink signs, three bottles of wine, and all the monuments save Lincoln's. Who, in the midst of all that, could actually have time or energy to be motivated for more? Since I've been back, I've been sleeping 12 hours a night and fighting off a cold acquired, I suspect, while circling the Minneapolis airport for an hour and a half waiting to land for a layover in the middle of a coming snowstorm.
Still that nameless ache persists, buried under all these months of contentment and predictability.
Something is coming. Something is calling. Something is changing...
Omnia mutantur, nihil interit.
This comforts, relieves, and worries me. What kind of a sicko is worried that he's been too happy for too long?
But questions of wellness aside, I can't shake it, that lingering memory of how exciting, and terrifying, and difficult, and necessary growth through struggle disguised as adventure really is.
Last weekend's exhausting trip to DC to partake in the National Equality March was glorious and illustrative of this fact. Excellent friends, a beautiful city, and that rush when you know you are actively participating on the right side of history - perhaps one day I will be a college professor and be able to regale my students with powerful stories of being a part of my generation's great civil rights struggle, thereby gaining instant credibility for being both wise and awesome.
But I reiterate - it was exhausting. My time in the capital stood at somewhere around 36 hours, into which was crammed a gayborhood, a ghetto, a march, a rally, two flourescent pink signs, three bottles of wine, and all the monuments save Lincoln's. Who, in the midst of all that, could actually have time or energy to be motivated for more? Since I've been back, I've been sleeping 12 hours a night and fighting off a cold acquired, I suspect, while circling the Minneapolis airport for an hour and a half waiting to land for a layover in the middle of a coming snowstorm.
Still that nameless ache persists, buried under all these months of contentment and predictability.
Something is coming. Something is calling. Something is changing...
Omnia mutantur, nihil interit.