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📓 Wednesday, August 6, 2025 · 7:25 a.m.
This morning, I sit beneath the patio umbrella, sipping the heat of last night’s Starbucks tea—warmed in my dented microwave.
Last night, I didn’t want to be home.
I needed to escape.
My thoughts were racing—fast, fast, faster—the acceleration roared.
Too fast to sit with, too heavy to ignore.
And yet… last night was beautiful.
Unexpectedly beautiful.
Why?
Because I needed that drive.
I needed to move through the streets of L.A.—windows down, silence in the cabin, letting the city hold me while my mind unraveled.
My thoughts felt like ghosts from Christmas—past, present, and future.
And of course, the question rose again:
“What if?”
But this time, I didn’t shove it away.
I let it ride beside me.
Let it speak. Let it burn off in the streetlight haze.
In the past, I’d cage thoughts like that.
Let them loop and thicken until they warped my mood—until the fog became a structure, and I was stuck inside it.
It always led to the same place:
Doubt turned to despair.
Silence turned to shame.
And I’d become the man walking a desert of his own making—
climbing invisible sand dunes in his mind,
gasping for air that never came.
But I’ve learned something:
The sand dune is real…
and it’s also a state.
A state I can prepare for.
A terrain I can train to walk without collapsing.
Last night, I drove to survive.
This morning, I sit to reinforce that survival.
Because stillness—earned stillness—
could be a breath of fresh air.
⸻
And maybe something else showed up last night, too.
As I drove through the city, my mom stepped outside to throw away the trash. It was late. The driveway was dark.
She told me that as she neared the trash cans, something above caught her eye.
At first, she thought it was just a big bird.
But when she stepped closer, and the streetlamp hit it—
she realized it was an owl.
A big one.
We’ve never seen an owl in South Central.
Never seen one in person—ever.
Strange timing.
Coincidence? Maybe.
But sometimes, I think we’re meant to notice more than we explain.
Maybe some things aren’t just “weird.”
Maybe some things are witnesses.
⸻
So my day will begin soon:
Clean the studio.
Give Simba (my tabby cat) his respiratory medication.
Load the van with plastic bag cases.
Begin the routine.
And thankfully, this morning—he’s better.
He finally ate, after two full days.
I’ll be more strict with his medication now.
That’s part of the reinforcement, too.
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