The West
I’ve never quite understood the call of the West, a siren song so strong that some will risk—and lose—their lives to follow it.
I’ve never quite understood the call of the West, a siren song so strong that some will risk—and lose—their lives to follow it.
The sun keeps rising everyday, whether you wake early to see it or not. (Every now and then, you should wake early.)
Seagulls—by land, sea or any other name—are seagulls. They’re annoying birds, but they’re honest ones.
At every milestone I’ve consciously met in this life, I’ve supposed that I’ll feel somehow different on the other side.
Because when it comes to people I know who are both 1. my age and 2. genuinely proud of our country, the list grows thin.
I have no advanced skill in any area of life that lends me to glory or even mild recognition. You would be writing to a very ordinary woman of meager talent.
In the evening we venture out into the city that she has called “the armpit of California” and find a place to procure some burritos. As we eat, Aunt Ellen tells me about her world travels.
When I tell people that the high schoolers painted a building, cleaned up weeds and replaced broken doors, people ask me what the building is for. “Nothing,” I say.
So on back. Back to the music video. Back to the lyrics that make the video all worthwhile. It’s not that I’m expecting everyone to get this.
I forgot that figuring out life does not always mean getting a job or going to grad school.