Coming to terms with the realization that dreams my be to far fetched is hard, but realizing that the stories you built your world upon, the same ones that inspired you to tell your own stories, are now nothing more then campfire babble. No longer are these stories relevant, the sites have been see by thousand, the mountains now have paved roads, the bars are closing.  The stories are lost to the reaper of time.

Time keeps moving, the the funny part of life.  No matter how hard you try you can’t stop the sun from orbiting the world again and again.  We gave time labels so that we could plan ahead, but that gave birth to a new set of demons that haunt us today.  I heard one person say that they have calendar anorexia, where they only have the minimum in their calendar as possible.  I want to have calendar amnesia where I refuse to let the idea that Friday is the only good day of the week and where Monday’s suck.  A day would be counted as a good day if I woke up, drank a beer and went to sleep.

Time has leveled my world recently.  After having the foundation blocks of my father’s stories of being within the the golden era of the dirtbags I felt proud as my creation grew, taking mementos of my own to lay on a shelf in good health and good times.  But even these where not enough when time turned perception into dust.  As the landmarks, once unknown became crowded, the biker bars got makeovers, and the people began to pass, my world could not hold.


Time, I know you will keep moving, I know that you are not made to stop, but why are you a ruthless bitch?


I wasn’t 25 years behind the pack, but rather I am 25 years to late.  Time has land her touch upon the people I admired, some are left home ridden, no longer able to leave.  Other’s have evaded her grasp, but still show scars of close encounters.  

As I grow its seems my friends have all gotten real jobs and tell me to stop leaving the Peter Pan life style.  But I can’t walk away as easy as them.  As I shift through the rubble I come along pieces of the stories that I have built myself, they are not sky scrapers, but their foundations run deep and strong.  Stories of running through the sideways snow, getting lost on fire roads, smelling the perfume of the pines, swearing my life away to the art of storytelling.  

I used to think that to fulfill my story I would have to hike miles along the PCT or AT to be allowed into the world of the adventurers.  I thought that I would have to climb the unclimbed, the conquer the most useless, just to be looked by my peers. 

I am here to say that my journey my not be full with endless miles of hiking, nor would I be the first to summit new peaks, but I am a dirtbag and proud to stand for it.  25 years late, Time can not burn my cities or stop me from rebuilding, being a dirtbag is the mindset of understanding you do not have every solution, but duct tape will patch it up enough.