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Iron Price

“Paying the iron price” has become a recent joke that passes between my brother and I. Pulled from (albeit nerdy) pop culture, the iron price signifies that nothing comes easy. This is a particularly handy mantra to repeat to yourself at the gym.

Not much comes easy these days. New city, new people, new challenges. Iron price.

steel, not iron.


It lives

It breathes

Like a beast awaking from the cold depths of winter slumber, so too does this.

Objectivism flawed

A random thought has been floating in my head.

I haven’t drank alcohol in over a decade.  I am not yet 30.

No, I’m not religions and the older I get the less I identify with the straight edge subculture.

Recently I picked up my phone and found a text from someone who I used to know.  The extent of the conversation basically was:

“Hey someone saw you playing horseshoes in your front lawn the other day.  Were you drinking?”

To which my response was, “nope”.

“Yeah, I won that bet”

“No shit”

In fact, the only argument I can think of in favor of the consumption of alcohol would be to complete the James Bond-esque allure of a man that can conduct international espionage, fuck your wife, and enjoy a cocktail (preferably at the same time).

Sadly, I have never met anyone who even comes close to this aesthetic in real life.  Ever. Rather, I tend to encounter Coors swilling frat boys, microbrew beard-wearing townies and rambling shoeless-whores stumbling home.  These people do not provide a convincing argument to start drinking.  I probably just attend the wrong parties.

Also, I have been reading this book.  I could draw parallels between the main character and myself.  Talk about absurd convictions.


Thousands of open ears

My view every morning.  With not a word, I pick myself up.

Wake Me When the World Ends

My new fall set up.  I’m riding this bike straight to hell.  See you there.

The March Hare

Enough with the abstraction and vague prose.  I’m sitting comfortably at the kitchen table, fully decompressed from two and a half weeks of travel, fluctuating somewhere between complete contented enlightenment and red-line panic attack.

I use travel as an crutch to support my broken view on my adult life.  After several discussions with a person very close to me, I waver on the edge of completely swallowing the red pill and willingly falling down the rabbit hole (so to say).    The question becomes whether I am willing to accept a certain level of detachment from ordinary life (insomuch as a 9-5 job, house in the suburbs and a wife that I inevitably cheat on).  I must admit some regularity (and steady income) would be welcome, but the American Dream tends to sicken me.

Recently an acquaintance ask if I was ready to “settle down”.  After a few moments of contemplation, I shook my head in disagreement and responded, “No, I hope I never do.”  When asked why, I asserted that settling down implies a certain level of acceptance that I “settled” for something less.  Actively seeking a depressing state such as that isn’t appealing at all.

The world that broke my heart

Over the past several years I’ve been haunted by an internal struggle.  Answering the difficult questions of who I am, what I want and what it will take to get it has become an arduous mountain to climb.  Rather than sit and wait for life to give you what you deserve (it won’t), you must stand up and take it.  Uncompromisingly.  Constantly.  Brutally.  This breaks my heart.

Sculpture Urbana

And so I have become my own idol.  Envious of no man, indebted to none.  I live the life I’ve dreamed of since I was young; one free of compromise.  And I fight the hollow feeling that accompanies it.  Life is never enough.  It never has been.

bridging the gap