I just came back from a walk around my yard, checking to see if there might be any surprises for me to address that have occurred over the winter season—a carcass, a fallen tree—whatever. At five acres, I'm not completely alone, but I'm not standing outside my neighbor's living room either. Living here is far removed from those convenient days of suburbia, Midtown, and East Memphis. Don't mistake my desire for hi-speed Internet access and Chinese / pizza delivery to be a longing: I don't mind running across the occasional snake or aardvark in the yard compared to the roaming horde of Memphis streets—a bit of a The Walking Dead vibe, I know. Cities are unnatural places, but I appreciate them for that aesthetic, not unlike my interest in science fiction and the current trend of dystopian cinematography. I can only watch so much rom-com before it is becomes that much maligned last doughnut—you know the one.

I forget how much I enjoyed—no, need to float through nature. As an introvert, it's a great place to recharge. I do a lot of talking to myself there—well, I do a lot of talking to myself everywhere, but alone in nature is where I can make a conversation of it.

The realization came unto me that it is time to part and share a goodbye embrace with my old friend of the Past. Though it is no longer what it once was, the Past has an amiable feel of old leather; this should not be. What's the point—am I forever to be reminded of the death throes of potential or living in Arizona or Alaska or all that was once the awesome promise of a rocket ride in those days through and past the Czech Republic and grad studies? I completely skipped my MA graduation because I thought it was small potatoes compared to what was on the horizon. I can't keep living back there. I'm reminded of Sisko in DS9 attempting to explain linear time to the wormhole aliens, when all the while "living" in his own specific moment in time, in essence like the Duran Duran lyric, "lonely in (his) nightmare."

There are moments when I find the quiet getaway of the Past to develop a keener vision of spiritual truth and direction on an intuitive level that I did not casually possess. But, I fail to find it today...and if I'm honest with myself, it is a portal of embers to the vestibule of a once raging blaze.

Somewhere along the way, I've malformed my relationship with the Past into this hideous Rocky figure who can take an inordinate amount of liver shots until we collapse together onto the canvas. It is no longer about a path of humility while pursuing greater truths, but just...a silly facade of American consumerism. "Does this make me feel good right now?" Me, me, me...again with the ex-Agent Smith.

So, somehow, someway, I release the Past into the great deep.

The INTJ was never built for the past, but forged in steely-eyed resolve in the marrow of the morrow.

Not everything exists in this convergence of darkness and light, summer breeze and winter gust or like the Def Leppard lyric, where "love and hate collide." I love a good story; I long to be its protagonist. I love to be swept up into a story. There was once a time when it was the mindset I maintained, this great battle all around me. I loved the swelling of the orchestra, the pounding of the taiko drums, all and everything reaching to the final conflict, the chief end of existence...

...but I began to lose it and recognize that much of our lives is largely...laundry. To do lists and such.

And where I don't disagree with this and I'll use humor to deflect the deep ache, the longing to engage the Call to Adventure, I am recognizing that embracing the epic, that which makes us feel the most alive, is a...soul surge.

In the silent lucidity of solitude, my voice rings out across a chasm into the stratus cloud that creeps across the rim. Oh, Internet, how you gave rise to The Sound of Silence!

This leads us to a fundamental question posed by Queensryche:

Is there anybody listening?
Is there anyone who smiles without a mask?

My reply...

Shouts to the finite,
Whispers to the infinite,
All and in all
With not a laugh track,
But a child's chalk.

Am I Qui-Gon? Darth Maul? The Duality of the Fates.

I start fasting...I quit fasting...I start...I quit...I start...

Yes, with this fast, its principle focus is health. But which health? The knee-jerk reaction would be physical, since the vehicle itself and its effects are readily apparent. Bam, check that answer off. Yet, the body is but a puppet on the string and for this puppeteer; it dances for me. No, this fast is much more about my soul, for the body will follow me down whatever path I choose to go. Now as to the puppeteer of my soul, well, that makes for an intriguing discussion that falls by a wide margin outside the purview of this post—my perspective generally falls into a realm where the whole matter is out of our hands anyway...

Let's reel it back from the deep waters...don't get me wrong, I've never been one to play on the beach, whether literally or figuratively, but sometimes when I go deep sea fishing, my writing gets esoteric and someone else is at the helm. I dunno, maybe he's a better guy than me...or I'm him and this other moron keeps pawing for the throttle.

Fasting is about correcting spiritual health. When the soul is sick, the body will fail. That said, sometimes nachos are just nachos. And sometimes entropy ravages. But with the macro, widescale (or more directly "heavy-scale") obesity isn't due to nachos—even copious amounts of barbecue nachos that we'd shovel into a wheelbarrow. There is something more entrenched within us that no closet smacking of spandex straight out of 1982 could ever resolve.

Throwing cash at the problem won't solve it. I don't care how many parks, greenlines, or bicycle paths you create, intrinsically, the methods of methheads are methheads.

If you want to become a better writer, read more. If you want to have a better physique, amplify your soul.