When We Can't See A Pattern, We

This Is The One Thing I Hope: That She Never Stopped. I Hope When Her Body Couldn't Run Any Farther She Left It Behind Like Everything Else That Tried To Hold Her Down, She Floored The Pedal And She Went Like Wildfire, Streamed Down Night Freeways With Both Hands Off The Wheel And Her Head Back Screaming To The Sky Like A Lynx, White Lines And Green Lights Whipping Away Into The Dark, Her Tires Inches Off The Ground And Freedom Crashing Up Her Spine.

I Had Been Right: Freedom Smelled Like Ozone And Thunderstorms And Gunpowder All At Once, Like Snow And Bonfires And Cut Grass, It Tasted Like Seawater And Oranges.

Now That's A Concept That's Always Fascinated Me: The Real World. Only A Very Specific Subset Of People Use The Term, Have You Noticed? To Me, It Seems Self-evident That Everyone Lives In The Real World - We All Breathe Real Oxygen, Eat Real Food, The Earth Under Our Feet Feels Equally Solid To All Of Us. But Clearly These People Have A Far More Tightly Circumscribed Definition Of Reality, One That I Find Deeply Mysterious, And An Almost Pathologically Intense Need To Bring Others Into Line With That Definition.

Our Entire Society Is Based On Discontent. People Wanting More And More And More. Being Constantly Dissatisfied With Their Homes, Their Bodies, Their Décor, Their Clothes, Everything – Taking It For Granted That That’s The Whole Point Of Life. Never To Be Satisfied. If You Are Perfectly Happy With What You Got, Especially If What You Got Isn’t Even All The Spectacular Then You’re Dangerous. You’re Breaking All The Rules. You’re Undermining The Sacred Economy. You’re Challenging Every Assumption That Society Is Built On.

I'm Still Very Much In The Apprentice Stage Of Writing. I Read Somewhere That You Need To Write A Million Words Before You Know What You're Doing - So I'm Headed That Way, But I'm Nowhere Near There.