Hall of mirrors

I’m sitting here, hungry for the pizza I’m about to prepare, trying to remember how to say “I’m hungry” in Spanish (I supposedly learned that this morning), and gradually coming down from a late afternoon caffeine buzz. Life is swirling and I can’t seem to wrap my mind around anything solid and stable. I don’t know what the sweet fuck I’m doing, and… wait… here’s a thought: Hole in the sky, on the fourth of July, on the fourth of July.

I’m trying to do too many things at once, but there are so many things to do, and everything takes time, and there’s just not much time, so I have to let so many things go. I want to be Ken Wilber and Bruce Lee and Ze Frank and Thomas Hanna and Alan Watts and Bill Hicks and Henry Miller, when the truth is, they’re not even them, I mean, they’re just ideas I have in my head, symbols of some ideal state of being, projections of squandered potentials and buried intentions. They are hallucinations in a hall of mirrors, dreams in a sleepless, moonless night.