October 23, 2014 . . . . time has passed. Over three years since my last entry. Those who followed me have long since stopped. This blog was never about recognition. It was, is, and outlet for my feelings and my thoughts. The public nature of it gives my writing a potential voyeuristic intrigue that emboldens one to be daring, yet careful. The juxtaposition of freedom with restraint created the perfect environment to write. Yet, why have three years passed since I sat down at 2:30 a.m. to let my passion out?
I suppose the answer is law school. You would suppose spending hours every day reading cases and spending hours debating the details would encourage one to write and to read. Rather, the monotony killed both my passions. I found myself pushing away books that once made me think and evaluate life. I had to think and evaluate enough case law. I had to come to understand how words could be twisted to not express, but to justify and defend. Teenage fiction fed my appetite for literature. Much like fast food, the diet of young adult fiction has destroyed my mental health. I am weak, my mind out of shape, and my writing has suffered.
Writing is no longer an outlet, it is a job. I go to my office every morning at 7:45. I sit down, and read political news.. . anything to avoid the drudgery. Finally I start to review the different research projects for the day and I begin. I read cases, I write holdings, I attempt to make arguments that are at times specious. There is no passion to my arguments. I am not advocating, I am merely an automaton, a small wheel in the large machine that is a law firm. My joy comes in those moments when I get to break out of research, where I get to apply my skills to solving issues. I just want to serve, to resolve issues, to be of use. Service is the very purpose of our lives, and when I am not serving and growing, then I am withering and unhappy.
I don't hate my job, I actually love where I work and with who I work. Billings is a beautiful city. My office is small but cozy. New wood desk, new book shelves, new credenza, three diplomas on the wall, a pencil sketch of my family's home ranch. Mix in an aloe vera plant, some pictures of Shalise, my grandmother, and a huge whiteboard to draft my thoughts, oh..and two chairs and you have my happy prison cell for ten hours a day. I am a willing prisoner. I willingly locked myself in that cell everyday because I have been bought and paid for with a salary, health benefits, the American dream.
So why tonight, why start writing again tonight. Simple...I felt the spark again. The fire doesn't rage like it once did. More innocence has left, more nativity with life, perhaps even some of my intellect. What is left is a Gage with more experience, more "accomplishments" and someone looking for the brightness in life. The light I was searching for was found tonight, in a movie. The movie wasn't even that good, but it displayed the human experience. . . and I am a fan of the human experience.
Watching humanity makes me happy, sad, passionate, loathing, and every other emotion in between. I am a "sucker" for a good movie or good music that touches those raw emotions that humans feel. Those raw emotions are better than any drug. Those emotions are what makes life beautiful. The oppressing sadness of first heartbreak, the tender flitterings of first love, the soul wrenching sorrow of losing a loved one, the joy of marriage. These moments, less than one percent of our lives, are what gives flavor to our mortal experiences. So when I find art that taps me, even momentarily, into one of those base, raw emotions, then I have to write.
I almost wrote the other day. I was driving up the Beartooth Highway in Montana. Nature was so beautiful and I felt myself waxing philosophical, but my wife was not in the mood to discuss life at that point. So I held the emotions back . . . and they passed. So tonight, I decided that the small flame had to be fanned, and not put out.
This entry has no purpose, . . wait, that is a lie. The purpose is to get back into the habit of putting words, feelings, thoughts into physical, tangible form. The point is to find joy again while I express myself. I might be VERY tired tomorrow for my conference . . . but there is always time to read another treatise on oil/gas law. There is always another time to listen to another speaker, watch another power point... But the times we have to live those raw moments, oh they so rare and so precious.
I hope it doesn't take another three years to be inspired enough to write. Rest in peace knowing that I will fan the flames of my passion and creativity and seek to find outlets to express said emotion. In short, I plan on living my life like I write, with deep passion and stringent restraint. Poised and strung like a bow between experiencing life to its fullest and expressing those feelings while restraining my impulses within the rigid formalities of morality. Such is my life, and such is what gives me success and gives me the power, the reflex to spring through my mortal journey and into the eternities.
