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My thoughts come quickly. One or two sentences at a time. Frustrated. Feeling as though I'm the only one aware that none of this is going to last. That whatever you want is not worth it's weight in whiskey. That you should acquire experiences - be them good or bad - and not all the accouterments. All that excess. Surfing seems to help. And perhaps all this is the result of me not having surfed for what feels like forever (two weeks?!). But even the best wave, the one you chalked up as your finest work that weekend, fades from memory faster than the time you spent on the tip. Flickering. Because if you're lucky, you might remember a moment of that moment.
Or maybe it's that I'm surrounded by people that I have little in common with. Preoccupied with house wives and house work and all the other shit that you're supposed to do following those few years you're allowed to say "what the fuck." Is it age? Or is it that I'm wholly unwilling to let the little shit stop me from pursuing some sense of serenity? Why the fuck do I feel this way?
For whatever reason I think of a conversation I had with a woman I once worked with. She was in her late fifties and well aware of the fact that those with a lot almost always want more than those with very little. She said to me one morning, after a beautiful young woman had walked past our window - husband hanging back a few feet, obviously uninterested in what was right in front of him - "Show me a beautiful woman and I'll show you a man that's tired of fucking her."