it’s not so much in looking for a happy medium as it is just retrieving a glimpse of where you’ve been happiest.

There is no doubt that we’ve all had times when our lives seeme to be on course. Steady as she goes. And from time to time we wander, wondering, listless for a while…or in my case, busy enough for a team of people…and forget who I am. Who I want to be.

I’m looking for that even ground. Where my head wasn’t in the clouds nor my feet spiked to the asphalt. The times when writing meant so much. When hanging out with friends wasn’t an intrusion on the other life I live (work). I see so many people trying to grab hold of those times. They’re the people you see at happy hour. Not the ones who are greeted with laughter and beers, but the ones who get there early, they wait, smoke and try to look around with an expression of work-induced exhaustion. Their eyes dart from behind the sheaf of papers or their glasses searching the room for a familiar face. That happy hour patron is the one who leaves as alone as they arrived, but could smell the happiness for a brief moment.

I hope that at some point I’ll regain even again. Where everyday was about learning and being a more approachable human. When the stories of life outweigh the tales of my livelihood. I smirk to think about it, then realize with some chagrin, that I’m older than my parents were when they had a full-grown family. I’m still living the dream of boyhood. I work at home, drink beer when I want, listen to my music at any given interval (and at top volume) and can download as much porn as I want. Who says I’m not living the American dream. Someone got confused by mixing up the “2.3 kids” remark when they truly meant to say “2.3 hours of debauchery per day”.

Most days I am a boy trapped in the body of a teen with the mind of an adult and the depth of saucepan. Then there’s tomorrow to worry about.