Monday, September 19, 2011


Civilization is a mild torture mechanism, a Harrison Bergeron-style device constantly preventing us from fully experiencing moments like the moments we were evolved to thrive in. We become so accustomed to this subtle soul-upsetting buzz that we embrace it as the new normal; until, when an unexpected reprieve grants us the time to float back to equilibrium, we fleetingly glimpse how much energy we've been expending just to tread the water of our day to day lives.

In Golden Gate park is a particular tree. In the middle of millions of people you can reclaim a piece of your peace of mind, by only climbing sixty feet or so above the hobos and traffic and power suits and jogging ipods. Leave behind the torture device, lay out on the branches, and listen to the wind gradually drown out the bustle below.

This is what it's supposed to feel like to breathe.

It's an imperfect fix, and far too short of a break, but any opportunity to set foot on solid ground, for however long, is a valuable relief. And when it's over, carry with you that reminder of what is really important. You'll know which one I'm talking about.

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