What is reality—really?

File under: fairy tales

 

Someone asked me yesterday when I was “coming back to reality.”

Funny, this feels a lot like the most real thing I’ve ever done.

This living in a trailer, working for myself, and waking up a different location every week is not the #wanderlust you want it to be.

Living in less than 120 square feet takes sacrifice, patience, and relearning how to do daily tasks with less. Way less. And it doesn’t stop the day you “figure it out.” You don’t ever figure it out. This is life, you learn then you die.

When was the last time you quit a stable job to tightrope on your skills with nothing but what’s turning out to be a thin safety net underneath? Working for myself has forced me to face a chasm of doubt, insecurity, worthlessness, and countless other emotions I never knew were inside me. I believe writing inherently bares a bit of your soul. Now I’m relying on trading peeks at mine for a handful of bills.

Have you ever woken up in a Walmart parking lot with all the food in your fridge spoiled because you were too tired and new to this whole thing to figure out how to change your propane tanks the night before? If you haven’t, let me tell you, it’s super glamourous. So is driving 10 hours to give some hillbilly $40 (Sorry, cash only!) to spend the night in a gravel lot in rural northern California. So is booking what seems like a scenic camping spot on Lake Powell for an entire week just to pack up and leave after a few days of sand storms, malfunctioning solar panels, and shit internet.

I think I’m a better person for my time spent in this trailer. For the highs of boondocking atop the Tetons and kayaking into hidden turquoise springs and the lows of getting the trailer almost stuck in the Wyoming wilderness and spending a month slathered in DEET just for the free riverside parking spot. Those are my reality.

 

 

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