A Letter to My Future Self

(Somewhere down the road, Odin help us all)

Listen, you wretched bastard. 

If you’re reading this, it means the wheels haven’t completely fallen off yet. Good. That’s progress. I can only assume you’re older, uglier, maybe softer around the edges, and still trying to make sense of the swirling carnival of chaos we were stupid enough to call a life.

First things first: don’t get too comfortable. Comfort is the first step toward death by mediocrity. Keep your boots dirty, your lungs full of mountain air, and your hands blistered from wrestling with the camera shutter in the middle of nowhere. Remember the rule, when in doubt, head for the wilderness.

Don’t sell yourself to routine. Remember those nights in Oregon: star-spattered skies, lightning tearing through the Sisters, bone-chilled wind howling through the pines. That was real. That was blood-in-the-veins living. If Future You is still grinding away in some fluorescent-lit office box pretending the system makes sense, slap yourself hard and walk the hell out.

And about the family, Christ, don’t screw that up. The kids are watching, always watching. Show them the good madness: the road trips, the camping stoves sputtering to life at midnight, the long hikes that leave your legs shaking but your soul lighter. Pass the torch, not the chains. They don’t need another cog in the machine; they need a father who fought like hell to stay human.

You’ll want to forget the failures, the missed chances, the bone-deep fatigue, but don’t. Drag those skeletons along. They’re fuel. The bad decisions, the wrong turns, the nights spent staring into the dark with a bottle for company, those are the scars that prove you lived.

So here’s the deal: keep writing. Keep shooting. Keep ranting at the moon when the world tilts sideways. Future Me, you better be older but meaner, sharper, still carrying the torch of lunacy we lit way back when. Because if you’ve gone tame, if you’ve traded the howl of the wild for quiet suburbia and polite silence. Then you’ve already died, and I want nothing to do with you.

Now pour a stiff drink, light something questionable, and get back to work.

—Your Past Self, still howling at the storm