The world is very good at feeding us all shit sandwhiches these days. Ferguson, Robin Williams, Gaza, ISIS, I could go on but why torment myself.
The darkness stirs when it gets like this. From there the options are either slip into the grey-nothings or get angry. Either one burns up a lot of emotional fuel. The former by shunting all feelings off into the abyss and the later by getting hotter and hotter until there's not much of anything left.
To combat this I have little islands. Little islands of expectations. The next issue of Saga, a quiet Friday evening with a book and the chocolate brioche bread pudding at the Alcove, an indie movie double feature at one of our fine art houses here in L.A.. These are not numb-outs (like watching a Chopped marathon or playing Threes or Titanfall). These are something just short of crafted moments that, thanks to the narrative content, can have a little spark of serendiptiy that comes with discovery.
I know a lot of you are like me, I can see it between the lines. You may feel silly for having your little islands, guilty even.
They're what makes you brilliant. They make you more than a survivor, they mean you're alive.