What Is It You Want To Do With Your One Wild And Precious Life?

Lost In The Algorithms — Odyssey # 40

Camped out in my regular nook at the local coffee shop, surrounded by the heady mix of bean brew, Rilke’s words hit me like a caffeine jolt, “The only journey is the one within.”

Man, if that doesn’t sum up the circus, that’s been my life.

Here I am, inching closer to the big 4–0, a scribbler of words, a dad by some miracle, and a soul forever lost in the supermarket of existential conundrums. Each sip of my Americano, as dark and brooding as my current novel, mirrors the tangled web of my own storyline.

And then there’s her, my muse, or maybe just a figment of my over-caffeinated brain, taking her usual phantom seat across from me. Is she the real deal or just another character vying for a chapter in my book of life?

Today, something feels different.

Maybe it’s the fourth espresso talking, but I find myself drifting towards her, the keeper of my untold tales, “Dabbling in Oliver’s musings, huh? Planning to wrangle your one wild and precious life into words?” A nod to her ever-present literary companion.

Our chat, if you could even call it that, was this weird tango of the tangible and the imagined, a dance of hidden hopes and silent nods.

Her grin, a lighthouse in the darkness of the mundane, sparked a convo that wasn’t just about swapping words but sharing fragments of dreams and quiet understandings.

“Oliver’s got this knack for turning the mundane into magic,” she replied, her voice sliding over the jazz tunes like honey.

I find myself talking about my kid, the little human that’s somehow turned my world upside down. A tiny teacher of sorts, schooling me in the art of real, raw love and showing me strength in places I didn’t even know I had.

As the café buzzes to life with the lunchtime crowd, I’m hit with this sense of being utterly alone yet strangely connected to my muse, the soul that’s somehow become a mirror to my inner turmoil and triumphs. Like a shared secret, Oliver's words linger between us, a gentle nudge toward the self-reflection that’s now part of my routine.

Is this introspective journey, peeling back the layers of self-doubt and societal noise, the only trip worth taking? As cryptic as ever, the muse offers no clear answers, just the hint of more riddles to solve and more tales to tell.

As I close up my laptop, I can’t help but think about the line between reality and the stories we tell ourselves. Is she just a trick of the light and a beautiful mirage spun from the threads of a lonely writer’s heart?

So, I’m walking out, fueled by more than just caffeine…I’m lugging around this heavy bag of self-exploration, the allure of the unknown, and the soft murmur of Rilke and Oliver guiding me back to the only real adventure there is — the one that takes place in the labyrinth of my own mind.

GK