What could I do less of?

Hell, where do we begin on a question like that—what fresh lunacy do you want me to peel back first? Life is a buffet of bad habits and questionable instincts, and I’ve piled my plate like a drunk at a casino breakfast bar: too much, too often, and with no regard for the arteries involved.

I could do less thinking, that’s for damn sure. The late-night skull-circus where every regret and unfinished project shows up like uninvited guests demanding tequila. I could use fewer of those 2 a.m. internal interrogations: Why did you say that? What are you even doing? Why does the universe sound like it’s humming behind the drywall?

No. Less of that, absolutely.

I could do less worrying about the invisible scoreboard the world pretends to keep. Less comparing my path through the Oregon woods to somebody else’s glossy highway. Less believing that productivity is the same as worth. Less apologizing for taking up space, breathing air, and pointing my camera at things that move me in ways I can’t explain.

I could do less pretending, less civilized posturing, less nodding politely when the wild thing in my ribcage wants to howl. Less playing along with the illusion that everyone’s got it figured out. Nobody does. We’re all stitched together with duct tape, caffeine, luck, and childhood trauma. Might as well admit it.

And Odin knows I could do less waiting. Waiting for the right moment, right mood, right plan, right season. The whole myth of “when things settle down” is a scam sold by cowards. Nothing settles. The world keeps spinning like a drunken carnival ride, and the only sane choice is to jump on and take photos of the blur.

So what could I do less of?

Less fear. Less hesitation. Less carrying other people’s ghosts on my back. Less doubting the strange, feral direction my compass keeps pointing.

Because the truth is, the real danger isn’t doing too much, it’s doing too little of the things that set your blood on fire.

Everything else can go straight to hell.