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The Pressure of Not Wasting a Minute of this Precious Life

Pressure

I lay atop my bed, back as flat as a board, outstretched arms lying above my head, legs bent ninety degrees at the knee hanging off the edge. I’m not asleep, but I’m not entirely conscious; or I’m too conscious. I can’t tell the difference between the two.

I’m stuck in limbo between two worlds.

A million and one thoughts run through my head as I struggle to comprehend any of them. The idea of acting upon even a single one frightens me to the point in which I continue doing nothing. Ten, fifteen, then forty-five minutes pass with only minuscule movements indicating to any outsider that I’m not dead.

To most, myself included, it would appear I’m wasting time. I’m not being productive. I’m not heading in the direction of my goals. I’ve read it and heard it thousands of times, “Don’t waste a minute of this precious life.”

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Why I Live The Way I Live

My Life

The night air is cool as three balloons violently flail in the wind, entangling their ribbon tails into a tight knit corkscrew. Attached to that corkscrew is a backpack and strapped to that backpack is me. The black carrying vessel is filled with clothes, a mixed CD, one of a dozen tubs of hummus, ten pink roses, and three cards; the spoils of growing one year older.

I’m riding my bicycle home from the theater I perform improv at every single week. Only this time is different. Balloons and gifts aside, it is one of the most unforgettable evenings I’ve ever experienced and I am instantly reminded why I am one of the most fortunate individuals on this planet….

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Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas

I look out my window this morning to see the sun rising into the cold Colorado air. Clear skies, a light dusting of snow sitting atop tree branches, and the subtle chirping of birds just waking bring a smile to my face.

As a child, I would be racing toward the Christmas tree with unbridled joy eager to see what Santa had brought me in his giant red sack of toys. As an adult, I sit before this screen writing. Despite the obvious physical differences and altered belief system regarding mythical characters, I still share that unbridled joy with my adolescent self.

Only now it’s not for toys or money or shredding open presents. I’m simply thrilled to be alive…

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Cherish

Cherish

Partially packed boxes bursting at the seams clutter the hardwood floors like oversized Legos in a child’s room. Every poster, picture, and dry erase board has been taken down exposing the eerily tall, asylum-like white walls.

I quickly remember why moving sucks.

All that remains constructed is my bed frame and desk. It’s chaotic but simple and I feel a small sense of relief knowing I’m ahead of the game with my official move-out date a couple days away.

But there is a different feeling underlying my sense of accomplishment…

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