On being afraid of slowing down

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Often times I am unabashedly who I am. Sometimes, I am a bit afraid. It is not often that I am this way, with fear in my hand. But sometimes, I am quite afraid.
I’m not afraid of the things that most people are such as monogamy, family, marriage or death. Death isn’t really something to be afraid of. I mean, it is what it is.
I feel like we cling to fad diets and exersize in efforts to feel like we are prolonging the inevitable: death. Death is inevitable. I choose to live deliciously, and not be afraid of death. I may get sick, I may recieve news that makes me feel my mortality all the more, but I am not afraid of death, I am actually just afraid of being sick. I hate being sick. I almost never get sick, and I when I do I detest it. I do not enjoy being slowed down, or feeling like I have to stop what I’m doing. But sometimes you work and work and work at the things you love that life, or the universe or whatever you call it, decides to tell you,
“Hold up. Slow the fuck down, okay?” And of course, it is much to my chagrin.
But that’s the way life is. The universe teaches you lessons that you need to learn, and will continue to do so until you finally realize that you can’t live wide awake 24/7. Sometimes you just need to rest. Sometimes you just need to slow the fuck down and smell the roses. Or the coffee. Or whatever. Just stop and slow down.

Currently listening to:

The Craftaholic
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” 

-Jack Kerouac
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