Abroristicratic musings.

Some days I’m taken by this whimsical fantasy. I see myself in third person sitting alone in a log cabin. A stack of firewood to my left. The walls are graced by tokens of a life lived: Paintings, pelts, old firearms and macabre artifacts. A simple fire is cracking away and I’m whittling, settled by the certainty of life’s simplicity. The fantasy expands to days spent roaming frozen tundra in snow shoes. Ice fishing, wood chopping, preparing food for the evening. These activities fill the sunlit hours. As the moon gains its foothold in the sky I return to the house for simple but satisfying meal. Soup heated over the stove. Whittling is put aside for the night as a guitar is brought out. Lightly strummed strings drift through the air in the cosy reverberation of dull wood. Quiet nights to find myself in calming seclusion.

The seasons shift and warmth embodies existence. The sun tarries in the sky and birds fill the verdant surrounds with song. Picking fruit, hunting game, long hikes in the wilderness. Portage, traversing rivers and absorbing the beauty in all directions. Shedding clothes to feel the coolness of water against my naked form. Skin browned by the ever-present light of day. Nights are balmy, easy. Stars spread above like the cityscape left long behind. There’s a romance inherent to everyday life, satisfaction in simplicity. Finding my best self, my true self. A peace only dreamed of. Idealism made real.

The edges of this vision warp and fray as the cracks show. This isn’t my fantasy to admire. It’s nice, I’m sure, but it’s made for someone else. My nature is too scattered and frenetic to find gratification in simplicity. Relaxation for me is tantamount to stress. I want people, experiences, stimulation to drive me. I’ll rest when my body can no longer keep me going. For now life has too much promise to sit back and observe alone.

My dreams are anything but tame.

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