Life is something that cannot be summed up in a treatment, storyboarded, scripted, nor planned...

It's a work of art - a movie, or call it what you wish, which wasn't made for editing. And the sheer truth is, it's so goddamn fucking beautiful that way.

the definition of exhaustion.

I hit the mat again today, OFFICIALLY.

After a month long absence from Bikram due to my unforgiving schedule, today I decided to turn up the heat and go balls to the wall with my practice. I had it clear in my head: "I'm going to own the next 90 minutes in this 105 degree sauna!"

A pat on the back for me for thinking positive... well put little grasshopper! But nooooo... in actuality, the minute I stepped in the room, the next hour and a half of heat ended up owning me! Today was perhaps the shittiest of all my practices. I quit and found myself in child's pose halfway through the standing series.

Struggle was the word of the day. I don't know how I survived that class, but I left the studio with happy endorphins racing through my veins. It didn't last long, however. I had to go to work right after my yoga class.

So now, after my eight hour shift, I can barely move because most of my bits and pieces are sore and achy. I feel like a steamroller ran me over. I want to say I had the most fulfilling day with my yoga practice in place.

But no... at day 1, my mat whooped me.

people need something to look forward to...

I'm amazingly sad tonight. My friend, Billie, finally decided to leave Las Vegas.

No, I'm not sad to the point where I would bawl my eyes out. I'm sad, as if i suffered a bad papercut when she told me the news. I don't know which is worse, but the bottomline is, there is no smiling for me to-night. NO SIR!

The thing that struck me the most was when she said she couldn't stand how trapped she feels in her career. According to her, the higher she went, the more she lost herself. She said something to this effect:

"I am not going to work, then going home to crash, and then I wake up the next day only to do it all over again."

What she said absolutely killed me.

I have been growing restless ever since my last plane trip a few weeks ago. How could I possibly recover from my great experiences? I've been all over. I've been without sleep. I've mananged to peel a few layers off my calloused self, and I enjoyed my own frailty as a human being. I went to Mexico, ALONE. I stayed at a hostel (something that I would not do under normal circumstances). I base jumped a bottomless cenote,

and I survived.

I spent a day boating in Central Park, taking photos of a rubber duck like there is no tomorrow. I ate Pork Buns at Momofuku. I got excited at the sight of monster squirrels (seriously, when was the last time a bushy tailed creature turned you on?). I charmed my way into getting a late night appointment at one of the finest tattoo parlors EVER.

I got a tattoo.

I went home. I showed my tattoo to my mother, and she liked it. She even said, "Hey, I know what that means!". My ink means Carpe Diem...

I skipped yoga. I left all my books. I left my cellphone unattended and my emails unanswered. Not my finest moves, but in spite of it all...

... I lived.

And so I've come back with no outbound flight waiting for me. The whole month I was earning my travel mileage, I realized that I've somehow learned to live again. Lately though, I find myself suffering the same predicament that Billie did. It's so difficult to stay positive when the equation that sums up your life goes something like this:

I'm going to work, crashing, and then waking up only to do it all over again. (Well, okay, I'm lying about this to some degree, but in general, this is the pattern that engulfs all of us who live here.)

Having said all that I just said, I'm sad that Billie is leaving, but I understand her completely. With all my heart, I do.

I will miss her terribly, and the nagging feeling that I should have, could have, would have - those ifs and buts and if only's will gnaw at me. I should have been there for her, in the in-betweens. As a friend, I should have at least taken the time of day to drive down to her house without planning it weeks ahead. I should have been a catalyst to spontaneity. I should have phoned her more often. I should have done something with her, actually, anything that we could have both looked forward to.

But I didn't.

And it hurts sooooo good this balmy October evening...

It stings.

But at least now she has something to look forward to.

how years break into months...

...which then break into weeks, then days, hours, minutes, and ultimately, seconds.

It's the little things that add up. The little strokes of time and activity that paint the bigger picture. It's the moments that build up the entire framework of a lifetime.

I've somewhere I want to be in 1.5 years. If I do the math, that would be 1.5 years = 18 months = 72 weeks = 548 days = 13,152 hours = 789,120 minutes = 47,347,200 seconds (or something like that. It's an approximation people!).

I'm planning on making every second count. :)

18 months and I am going to be somewhere.