into the wild

happiness isn’t real unless it’s shared

i was trying to think when my confrontation with myself happened.  99?  perhaps.  2001? pretty likely.  right now?  probably not.  the idea of utter aloneness has never been a fear i’ve needed to conquer.  i sort of live alone all the time anyways.  i’m a loner, dottie.  a rebel.

do i need to spend two years with nothing in order to conquer something?  i don’t think so.  in fact, i think it’s pretty selfish.  the thing that keeps me from living alone in the wild is that i value the few connections i have too much.  i’m not afraid of dying alone in a wilderness or of not knowing what to do when i run out of food or anything like that.  i’m afraid that my happiness in that situation will leave me like every happiness i’ve encountered recently: wanting to share it with someone.  not just type it on some page that no one reads, but to see them dismiss it or politely nod as i put too much passion into how awesome it is to go to the grocery store and see two big dudes buy a 24 pack of budweiser.  or to drive for 16 hours one way and walk ten miles in a town just to get a burrito.  or to put my fingers in the puget sound and touch them to my tongue, regardless of the levels of fecal coliform bacteria.  or the performance of hal holbrook, when i thought i was watching a documentary instead of a fictionalized version of a true story.

i should have done this more.  but i can’t make people understand what i’m saying.  that’s why it always ends up like this.  me in a magic bus, staring at the sky until i can’t see any more.

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