En La Disco Va A Empezar El Escarseo

I've been spinning a lot of reggaeton tunes since the summer and I guess on this hour of writing, I will attempt to mirror the past with the present. 

Reggaeton has been a source of navigation for me to pick up on things of my younger self because lately I feel fucking lost. This feeling of directionless is nothing I'm unfamiliar with. Constant experimentation with my life sometimes leaves me with more unanswered questions than what I began two-stepping to. This feeling of opening a door only to find 7 more doors behind is humorous to me. I smile and finger-paint over all 7 when I can. 

I have become an archeologist digging through my childhood memories, and using the hypnotizing boom-daboom-da, boom-daboom-da, boom-daboom-da to concentrate. I'm deconstructing life's complexities into simple 4/4 sections. I'm trying to see my perceived universe from another perception of myself. What do all these memories mean to me? I find myself trying to study all the forking paths I have taken like an investigator looking for a fugitive who will never be found. Perhaps it's time to step away from that time.

Whoever you are, 

Valentino

I Was Dancing When I Was Twelve

 I would like to formally address that today was a beautiful day. 3 months of stretching in humidity and getting killed 5 minutes have come to a close end. I've been suffocating, but today was a breath exhaled. Today I woke up before the sun like nothing. No weight physically or mentally was holding me down. My warm-up felt extra good. My workout went freaky-deeky. It was perfect. For about 4 months now, I have made W. Leather Dr. my go-to guillotine because the tracks closest to me are closed for construction. My apologies if I have ever slowed you down on your way to work. I have to find the best alternatives and the upper-class have the smoothest roads.

I am embracing these near death experiences. I am water that is slowly starting to boil. I am drinking out of a metal straw from Lethe. 

This morning I breathed,

E.T. El Pinche Mudo

Hey! Dale Tranqui, Tu Hora Llega Por Que Lllega

I have written very little on here, and even less on paper. I am not sure why it has been so difficult for me to pick up a pen or type on a keyboard. The future and past don't trigger me the way they used to, and so the urge to reflect has been non-existent. This apathetic feeling has been living in me since last summer, and up until a month or so ago I started to revolt against it through my work with running. The last few months have been shit, but I've been trying my best to get through them while remaining as healthy as possible. As I type this, I'm beginning to think that perhaps I stopped writing because I'm scared to confront the shit I went through at full volume. Hm.

Fortunately, the last few months have been dedicated to realizing when something scares me, and going head on with it. Preliminary findings suggest a courageous future.

I continue on my quest to be free. To realize who I am. Not so much where I belong in this world, but to see who the fuck I am without family, friends, career, running, writing, painting. Nothing! I want to know who I am if the world around me was free space. 

Key days this week:

Thursday 9/15/21:

5 x (600 + 500 + 400 + 300 + 200) w/ 1:30 rest.

Saturday 9/18/21: 

6.6 mile tempo @ 6:00/mi o hasta morrir. 

 Same theme, different post,

 ET

Too Early, Maybe Later You Can Show Me Things

As I begin to write, the traffic in my head spreads out so thin that it now becomes difficult for me to describe every detail that is so easily observed when I am doing measly tasks like washing dishes or scrubbing my toilet. I'm not sure why this happens. Perhaps it is a fear of the abstract becoming representational. Reflection is an important facet of all my life enjoyments like running, friendships, music, data, art, and writing. When I am unable to make something out of these reflections, it is difficult for me to be at peace with myself knowing a particular flower bloomed violently quick, and I missed it. The thought of missing or forgetting something has turned me into an information hoarder. 

I am 15 minutes away from having to make a few burritos so my time here will end soon. Maybe I'll bring my notebook near the counter for chorizo notetaking. 

When I grow up from all this insignificant data I've collected, I trust that it will help me be me in this particular time I am living in. In the end, I just want to make sure that on the last run I do, I will have cultivated a memory of myself so thick and kaleidoscopic that it sits independently in the archives.

Taking a million first steps, 

Erik