It seems that peace should not be such a difficult thing to find. I mean, I’ve got everything going for me in this life. I’m free, employed, loved, sheltered, fed, fueled, fucked, befriended. I’ve got money in the bank and things around me that bring me pleasure. I’ve got goals and things I can enjoy thinking about getting in the future. I’m healthy and whole. The list of things that aren’t wrong is too long to imagine. I’m creative. Loving. Loved. Goofy. Engaged. Curious. I meditate and do yoga and go on long walks and do art and read and write and paint and on and on.

And yet I pace. I want another beer. I sit in my parked truck and cry. I grit my teeth.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of my face in a mirror or a window and I’m scared of the guy looking back at me. He’s so fucking mean looking. Like he’d love nothing better than to knock your teeth down your throat.

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That’s not who I want to be.

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It’s elusive, peace. A sense of balance, a sweet joy for the simple act of breathing in and out.

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It’s okay, though.

I’ll find my way to it again.

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I know I will.

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