Ideas of things are much more frightening than things proper.

I don't know if or when I'll escape the impulse to rebel against myself. I'm not even sure if it's good or bad: on the one hand self-sabotage, on the other true freedom.

As I navigate these questions of company kept, "who do I want to be?" becomes perhaps less vital than "who do I want to be seen as?" since I am of course everything, dependent on situation.


Found myself at the AT, PCT, and CDT this year—I think that's a good measure of how much I've gotten around. I'd be interested to see the total number of miles I traveled in 2017 and a breakdown by mode of transport, especially as compared to previous years. The extra thousand miles walked would make this year an outlier in that domain... but nothing international this time around.

I got home yesterday from a three-week trip and after 24 hours in Charlottesville I'm raring to get back on the road.


Montana, 2016.


I want to de-categorize. Nothing expected of me, no rules.
With relationships come expectations.
I want something expected of me; I want to reassure.


It is now 2018 and I am 28 and this being is moving into the future.

Trying to stay heartbroken but this shit is fertile and I grow out of it.

I remember how alive I'd rather be.
Screens are lovely in that you can delete, delete, delete, delete.

That said, I fetishize the inevitability of the page.

I got a little missive from circa 2013 today, and contrary to my typical response to evidence of the past, I'm nothing but charmed and pleased by it.

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