Don’t white-knuckle life like it’s the steering wheel on a runaway clown car. The tighter you squeeze, the more the clowns cry in the backseat.

**

Everything’s on its way to becoming something else.

Grip too hard, and it wriggles free just to spite you.

Love, time, sanity … they’re all feral animals that hate being caged.

So loosen your fists.

Let the wind rearrange your garden.

Let your neighbor borrow your new running shoes.

Let the door swing open and let the cats out.

Nothing stays.

Not the light, not the laughter, not the way your coffee tasted on that one good morning.

Try to pin it down, and it turns to smoke.

Float instead.

Float and watch what floats back.

**

You can’t outrun the past. It follows, sure, but not just like a shadow.

More like a version of yourself with too many arms and legs.

But here’s the trick: stop running. Turn around.

Let the ghastly thing catch you.

Let it crawl into your house and whisper its terrible lullabies.

Because it’s you, it always was.

When you stop fleeing, the awful thing becomes your friend.

And that’s where peace lives.

In the strange reunion between who you were and who you’re still becoming.

**

Ever notice how some spiritual advice sounds deeply profound until you think about it for more than five seconds?

Take this one: “Wherever you go, there you are.”

At first, it hits like a wave of timeless wisdom.

But then your rational brain kicks in and goes, “Well, yeah. No shit.” 

**

Lately, the itch to vanish from the digital hive-mind has become unbearable. Social media, the news, the endless scroll of shrieking pixels.

Outrage drips from every screen like sour milk.

Reality itself, also like sour milk, seems past its expiration date.

And somewhere, deep in Zuckerberg’s brain, a mechanical oracle whispers nonsense that’s racking up likes on Instagram.

Sometimes, I daydream about slipping out the side door of modern life.

No goodbye. Just boots crunching leaves, on my way to a cabin that doesn’t exist on any map. Something wild, foolish.

But then I remember the body still needs feeding.

And I’d never make it in the wilderness.

Who the hell am I kidding?

So instead, I construct a tiny shrine in the eye of the storm.

I power down the screens. I sit and breathe like I mean it.

I furiously scribble thoughts onto paper. I read words that smell like ink, not computer code. I devour a paperback book.

It’s not an escape, not really. But it’s a break from it all.

Most days, it’s just enough to keep the madness from taking over.

**

If the fates allow, this December will mark three years since my wife and I tumbled into Tennessee.

She’s a native of these parts, born under pine trees and Southern stars.

I, on the other hand, am one of those “damn Yankees” who left the Northeast in body but not in spirit.

I miss it. The Northeast, that is.

Its bone-deep cynicism, its cold mercy.

Down here, the air is thick with faith and football, sermons and sweet tea. There’s a friendliness to it, but also a coded language I still can’t quite translate.

I didn’t expect the cultural gravity to be so strong. The weight of evangelical Christianity, the consensus of conservative values.

It’s in the small things.

The way people talk at the grocery store.

The Bible verses mentioned in casual conversation.

It’s not bad, exactly. It’s just sideways.

And I feel like a trout tossed into a birdbath, gasping for air.

I’m tired of the culture wars. Tired of trying to decode the ideological weather report. Let people be. Let them chant their truths and fry their pickles. I’m not here to start fires or change the world.

I keep circling back to that stupid saying: Wherever you go, there you are. That smug self-help truth I often scoff at.

But damn it, it sticks.

Maybe if I’d stayed up north, I’d still feel adrift. 

Maybe it’s not the South that’s strange. 

Maybe it’s me. 

Maybe I’m the alien!