A few weeks ago, I had an intriguing conversation with a high school girl.

Leah was trying to convince me I should be a teacher. And that she’d take my class.

Kýrie, eléison.

Leah is a senior this year. A gorgeous 18-year-old brunette with brown eyes.

Christé, eléison.

I have a weakness for brown-eyed girls. Being placed in a position of “authority” over a room of underaged ones with raging hormones? Well, isn’t that a recipe for disaster?

Kýrie, eléison.

Then again…

Maybe she’s not wrong. Over the last thirteen weeks, I have taken a course and discovered a group of men I respect and admire very much. I am learning to reclaim my masculinity within a society that rejects it… in a way that respects all femininity. And one (of many) insights that jump out from the experience is this: “In order to understand, teach.”

Perhaps I don’t need to teach in school. Or become that eccentric adjunct in university that clearly does it because he loves it. Perhaps this student of life should become a teacher. Of life.

This morning, in my inbox, was an invitation. To become. A teacher.

Do you believe in serendipity? I am not certain I do.

Yet, it cannot hurt to follow up… can it?

Do I have anything to teach? Do I have anything to share? After all, my life has mostly been a series of failures… and avoidance.

Ladies and gentleman, it appears we have something to discuss.

Regret is a sin.

Then there are those days I just want toast.

With butter. And a li’l jelly.

And there are others I’d like a tasty snack. To sit. On my face.

Why am I still thinking of her?

I guess we’re all struggling toward Utopia, a good place yet also a place that cannot be.

Tonight I'm crawling out from in it
And though we're livin' on the brink
Second by second by minute by minute

What i'm listening to:

Love Is Alright Tonite
Rick Springfield
Working Class Dog

I am not a legend. I’m a fraud.

Three recent reads have torn the veil around my soul… such that it is. After all, I have blue eyes, and blue-eyed people have no soul.

In her second book, Langley re-introduced me to the idea of limbo—yet with a fresh take on it.

Limbo is an unconscious state. When people are in limbo they believe they have no control over their feelings, which is why their feelings can be so easily manipulated.

So, limbo is like a holding pattern. And like many… I am content to stay there. And do nothing.

Often, I find solitude therapeutic. However, this time I’m being hounded by my saboteur. She’s calling me a “Viejo.” She’s reminding me just how unworthy I usually feel. Which is where Chapman’s book attacks.

To request a toy was to receive a lecture on the sad state of family finances. The child went away feeling guilty for having the desire, and he quickly learned not to express his desires.

Hence the fog I find myself living in most days. At least the days when I am between purposes. My desires have been suppressed to the point where I don’t even believe I have desires. And I don’t know how to express them. And they simply evaporate when the lovely lady the expressions are directed toward… evaporates.

And here I sit. In my cottage. In the woods. Between purposes.

I set a handful of goals over the summer. All have been achieved, or at least run their course. And I enjoyed a thirteen week course designed to change my life.

In many ways it did. I am not the same person I was before… yet…

We’re at the end of the thirteen weeks. My mind has returned to neutral.

You can see why happiness can be so elusive. The mind is only “happy” when attention is focused on something, because otherwise it has nothing to do. When the mind has nothing to do it seeks out and creates problems in order to find something to do. This is why people are constantly striving for things, as well as why they become restless and unhappy after they get the things for which they have been striving. Therefore, the final attainment of a pursuit can never bring happiness, because our attention is only focused during the attainment process.

This. Is what my mind is doing. It is reminding me of my wasted youth. Reminding me I am unworthy. That I am not funny. It is taking me to some very dark places… void of desire. And beauty.

I’m not writing. I’m not exercising. I’m not running, nor walking. I’m not fucking. I’m not even drinking. Nor eating.

Old legends never die. They just lose weight.

Looks like a legend and an out-of-work bum look a lot alike…

It’s like I’m simply waiting. Yet what I am waiting for will not find me. In my cottage. In the woods.

I must go for a run. Kelly is right when she says a run in the morning makes the day better. Being one with nature. And defeating your internal saboteur.

And I must remember to seek beauty. Every. Day. Witnessing beauty lights me up. And I clearly light her up when we meet.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t.

Soda does not belong in this drink… ever.

I may not belong here.

Then, suddenly, I have nothing to say.

I’m not reading. I’m not writing. I’m certainly not fucking. Hell, I’m not even drinking.

What’s the matter with me? And what have I been doing?

Well, I feel caught up on sleep for the first time in ages. And I have been sitting on the futon and staring at the wall.

Once again, I find myself not knowing what I want. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. I don’t (necessarily) want to stay. And the miser inside doesn’t want to spend the money to go anywhere.

Yet, he’s okay with collecting again. In the middle of a purge. Bastard.

People keep stealing my pens. And I walked away from a perfectly good set of glasses. And measuring cups.

And there are always books. Books that sit on the shelf. Never getting read.

Okay, never isn’t the right word. For I know I’ll read again. I just can’t get into the book I’m currently reading.

Perhaps, because I still don’t believe in love. Pleasures of the flesh? Yes. And the chemical high that produces? Yes. But love? True love? No. I don’t think so.

To the point where I don’t even want to meet some beauty and have some fun. This. This is my tragedy. Because girls just want to have fun. So, why shouldn’t I?

Instead, I appease my monkey-mind by collecting. And consuming. More. MoRe. MORE. MOAR!!

I had a list of goals for the summer. I hit all but one, which was beyond my control. Maybe not entirely.

I like things easy. I wanted to be in Bucharest. Right. Now. Along came Delta, and increased flight times. And increased flight budgets. So I postponed. Again.

It was during my “rational” explanation of this to a friend that I discovered “I don’t want…” a lot.

It’s true. I don’t want to do anything. Often, I don’t. Do I like my life? Most of the time, I think I do.

I only question when the Amazon packages arrive. In the middle of the purge.

And when I’m not reading. Nor writing. Nor fucking. Nor even drinking.

It’s okay though. Everything will be okay.

What i'm listening to:

Mood Swings
Pop Smoke, Lil Tjay
Shoot for the Stars, Aim for the Moon

I needed to see you, so I rolled up in front of your house. You saw me and ran across the street and into my arms.

It’s only been six weeks, since we last saw each other, yet this time was… different.

Your eyes were so bright as you chattered on and on about what’s been going on this summer. We shared pictures on our phones of our respective summers. And we finally filled the void of having no photos together.

You looked so fucking incredible, and I told you. And I still can’t get over how excited you were. You confessed you want me to come back. That life isn’t the same without me. You even inquired about the logistics of coming to see me.

Over the summer, you even reconnected with your crazy ex, out of a moment of desperation and loneliness. I reminded you that you can call me anytime—even if it’s to tell you to, “Stay away from him, you dumb bitch.”

Then I had to go. Since, we have messaged a little. We’ve exchanged the selfies we took. Then nothing.

I may never understand why there’s so much electricity when we’re together, yet so much disinterest when we’re apart. Why is ghosting our norm? We only play games when we’re away from each other. I don’t understand why.

And then, there’s you…

You were so excited about seeing me. You’re sending selfies in a cute pink dress while I’m still three cities away. You’re messaging me about food and logistics and where I’m staying.

You came over to my flat. I discovered you weren’t wearing a bra or panties under your dress. I discovered your ticklish spots. And you stayed the night.

You told me about your entire summer. And I told you about mine. We shared photos on our phones, while consuming a Sonic cream slush and a couple of beers.

Yet, in your case, the rapport acts as a fire extinguisher. There’s no fire. No passion. We’re going through the motions. And I don’t know why. Well, maybe I do.

Perhaps, my ability to see the Matrix after taking that red pill is truly making me tragically single. Perhaps.

Or, perhaps there is still a girl out there that is truly my girl. One who is looking for an adventure and an evolution, in addition to an extraordinary experience. One who understands my life and where I am in my journey.

For now, I’ll just enjoy my experiences with my sweethearts as well as my periods of solitude.

For now. I just wish the signals were more... consistent.

What i'm listening to:

I Feel It Coming
The Weeknd, Daft Punk
Starboy

Why do girls keeps touching my stomach?

Tonight, if the world is falling down
Put your best dress on
'Cause after rain there's always sun
Let's go out for some fun
If it's the last thing that we do
And it all ends tomorrow
I wanna be with you tonight
Tonight, tonight

What i'm listening to:

Tonight
Alice Chater
Tonight