I trust by now the stupor of Cinco de Mayo has subsided. Cinco de Mayo. Mexicans don't even celebrate the holiday in the way Americans do. I've often wondered if that joy of food and drink would be seen differently if, for example the Germans and the Japanese celebrated Pearl Harbor day by stuffing themselves stupid with hot dogs and Miller High Life, you know to keep it authentic.
Transitions, transitions. Everybody seems to like a bit of change.
When on the eve of your birthday like I am, transitioning to a more wiser state of being and thinking naturally takes hold. Why can't every birthday after 25 feel just like turning 25? Maybe for some of you that one age of "possibility" may have come earlier, or later and maybe for some of you, not at all. Turning 25 for me was supposed to be that age where the world opened to me like a flower. All of my dreams would simply come true: well known and respected writer, you got it. That one movie with Keanu Reeves that births two Academy Awards, covered. But somewhere between the champagne and the trip to Holland to finish my last semester of my post graduate studies reality erased those can't miss ideals of success with saran wrap. Mafia style. Then, my father died.
Admittedly, every year from 26 to the day before my 32nd birthday has been like a smoke-filled haze. Sometimes I think I may never fully awaken from it.
How does purpose find those covered in fog? Like, is my dream to write that fog? I can't help but wonder. But at least for now this here and whoever of you these words reach feels like a step in the right direction.
As a token of my optimism, please feel free to enjoy copious amounts of food and drink on my behalf. If we are traveling a path to nowhere we'd might as well treat it like a holiday we just don't understand.
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