Thursday, November 19, 2015

It gives me no small joy to look at what I've written in the past; it's like finding an old journal, which I have around the house somewhere. Probably in the basement..

So now I'm 30 years old and I sell insurance. Rather, I will sell insurance; as of this post I'm still in training. Looks pretty lucrative AND it is a good product. Helps people out.

Oh, and I have 2 kids now. Audrey and Isaac. Good kids. Christina stays home with them while I drive all over tarnation. Tarnation is Beaver Falls this week. I miss them all... Good to get back to typing. I remember when I wanted to be a writer at one point in my life. ha ha Suppose I never did reconcile the craft with the amount of personal honesty needed to make it interesting enough for anyone other than myself to read whatever would have been written. Practice makes perfect but lack of use leads to atrophy.

It's late and I should sleep but for some reason the clock is ticking just so and it's the yellowish shade of night that I dream about and feel peaceful and I sit here and type to my future self a snapshot of his past and there really is no reason to stop because when I do I'll see what time it really is and know that morning is coming fast and it's another long day on my leather ass riding all over tarnation to learn how to give people's families peace of mind when it comes to death. You probably know this better than I do, future Seth, but it's really expensive to die.

Likely by the time I get back here, Audrey will read along with me. That thought gives me a proud, satisfied, happy feeling. For all the words in English, there's not one I know that encompasses that feeling. Satisfied, maybe. But more of a future satisfied. Like how parents feel at Christmas. Or when their daughters read their blog posts from 2 years ago. 

Shantih, shantih, shantih and Good night