I stopped writing about relationships. I stopped writing about finding love. Because it happened. And at first I was disappointed with myself. Had I lost my passion? Had I settled for something less than I imagined? Had I gotten too comfortable in my own skin too quickly?
But in truth, I am the well fed man no longer hungering after food. It was easy to daydream about candy and pizza while I was ravenously empty. It was easy to write a book about all the meals I didn’t have. But upon being satiated and satisfied– the target moved. I had inadvertently stumbled up the staircase of Maslow’s hierarchy.
And when I dusted myself off I was working on my credit score. And repainting the guest room. And trying to figure out how to cut branches from the tangerine tree without it dripping acid sap on me again. So bundled up in gloves and linens like some wilderness man on a stepladder with pruning sheers in hand… I took a look around, and realized this is who I am now.
And I’m happy.
Bump it with: