on Existential Crisis

You ever go fire up a joint on your back porch at sunset, throw on some music, and look up at all that beauty? There have been so many times when I do exactly that in search of perspective, trying to make sense of this clusterfuck of a life I’ve lived. It never works, but by the last toke I usually find some semblance of relief.

At age 20, I hated my job. I finagled my way to the rooftop of my apartment building and grabbed the spliff tucked behind my right ear. I fired her up and took a long drag while staring at this beautiful, indifferent city of mine. At least I wasn’t broke.

At 25, I had just spent the last $40 to my name on some Oxy. Recently over a back surgery and very much out of prescriptions, I was desperate. I grabbed a coat, my keys, a one-hitter, and went for a walk. At least I wasn’t homeless.

At 27, just before going to sleep in a van in Fucksville, Texas, I realized how incredibly lonely I was. I didn’t have anyone. I ate a gummy edible and shut my eyes. At least I wasn’t heartbroken.

At 33, I’m sitting on my back porch on a surprisingly warm winter day. That loneliness is still there, but in a very different way. I’ve had two relationships blow up in spectacular fashion over the course of two years. Clusters of bliss, now just ripples in the folds of time. It feels like losing your favorite book that no one else has a copy of.

I don’t smoke anymore, so I pour myself a little sangria. Sangria is fun. You can’t be sad while drinking sangria like you can with a shitty wine. I take a sip and look up at the purples and blues of the sky. The sangria is working, because I can feel myself smile at the only positive from all of this: At least I didn’t disappoint them.

@joepera discusses the complexities of the universe.