Laying in bed, listening to the thunder, scrolling through pictures of myself in the ocean and thinking.

Do we lose “happiness” with old age or do the responsibilities of life mute what we once considered joy?

Sometimes I want to go back and figure out where I lost mine. In the hills of Oregon or the crumbling room of a college dorm?

Sometimes I wonder why I’m the only one left who still feels reckless.

Girls, girls, girls. Must we go home already? Now? With our legs crossed and hair in place? Since when do we avoid profanity? Do we always have to feel guilty for enjoying it?

I often wonder if “reckless” is the right word for the gnawing sensation I get every time I put down the drink, walk away from the bar, hail the cab, resign myself to home. Without realizing it, age (or perhaps a slow growth of maturity) has swallowed up all the opportunities to deliberately lack rationality.

When did everyone suddenly have so much to lose?

And at what point should I panic because I have no desire to slow down, stay still, get settled?

It’s a slow burn battle. I’m standing in the middle, watching the flames grow.