These disconnected thoughts all somehow ride the same wave, a wave that overwhelms me sometimes, when I am this cold.

Laying in bed, I resist the urge to roll over and find something to do. Ease allows me to form the excuse in my head that “it must be no later than the early morning, its ok to just stay here and do nothing”. My pillows are horribly misshapen and my blanket is doing a miserable job of keeping me warm. Ease allows me to blame the climate of my room on my blanket. The truth is, theres things in life I want to do and places I want to go. I haven’t yet decided what they are or where they are but I am now certain that they, indeed, are. The churning of emotions in my gut have, as of late, been clawing at the door of my old life, back in NC. The same train of thought is the one that wont let me believe that I can do what I really want to do with my life right now… move to Singapore. I want to finish school there, within my externship, then re-enroll in the advanced course at their LCB international location. To learn cuisine of the east, first-hand, would be no less than life-changing. I want this so bad and yet it feels so impossible. No comfort can be found, for none is currently sought; uncomforted, all I desire right now is comfort. I want to achieve, to better myself. I want to grab life by the balls and show the world who Josh Murphy is and that Josh Murphy ain’t playin’ around. Somehow, I continue to live in the shadow of a strange timidity. Hiding behind my vacillations, my frustrations and my cold air…

I sneezed. It was a tame sneeze but it hurt, because I was so cold. My muscles ached from sleeping in such a cold room. The temperature is easily exchangeable with a more comfortable approach to a proper living climate. Reach over and turn a dial on the wall unit. As close to instant gratification as money could buy for the 1980’s. Still it continues to pump out the biting cold, Minnesota style. It feels like NC outside but only in teasing deception. Shorts and sandals were of the articles of clothing I wore upon my conception in Minnesota’s chilly winter. Freezing, literally, I decided that this was at my enjoyable threshold for winter weather. In honesty, it was quite uncomfortable… but it was something that I could be certain of, even if only in fallacy. For some reason, my mind has decided to find an illogical comfort in inhospitable climates. I’m slowly beginning to realize it is just a mask, though, I’m not sure why it’s trying to disguise me. Consciously, I still believe I enjoy the cold. A warm breeze on a chilly and overcast day, and the converse of such, are of my “perfect conditions” some speak of when referring to weather. “72 and sunny” can move to South Carolina as far as I’m concerned. Warmth has more tangible comforts, this much is undeniable. Still, I sit and type in the cold.

Maybe some subconscious immaturity believes that I am conditioning myself… making myself more hardy. To be honest, when I verbalize this odd addiction/affliction, it sounds more like an obscure case of denial than anything. Some centrifugal force seems to bind together my toxic love affair with the cold, my inability to pick up the phone and call my Father and unbalanced self-appraisal of ‘achievability’.

I had that dream again, the one where i was back in my high school band classroom and everyone was cleaning out the instrument storage lockers.
Oddly, it was accompanied by a non-existent, famous butcher who tracked me down at that school to let me know that he believed it of importance to inform me that I should think about apprenticing under him. Sometime soon after, I found myself on an extreme mountain biking course with a large group of people I didnt know but completely respected.

Somewhat of an epiphany… I’ve realized that I rely on people to much. Not for monetary or material means – thought, those by themselves may also be true – but for emotional support. Growing up, most of my life I believed myself to be an introvert. Always argumentative in the true dichotomy between one’s introversion and extroversion, I have now settled to understanding, at the very most, that I, myself, have an addiction to other people. Various people for various reasons and some are quite potent. As a flavor of a dish can easily alter the direction of a meal, the people who I know wander around my life as I wander around theirs. Dropping minty hints and shooting spicy stares, we pollute each others’ worlds with flavors of love and hate with aftertastes of angst and reluctance. While others may not notice or care of these free radicals, I seem to taste every single one. I think that maybe the average person takes for granted, the target of their infliction not being privy to the vibrations they’re emanating toward them. This amalgamation of (un)intentional ambiguity will forever astound and confuse me. I, too am guilty of this. At the same time, I really wish I could be as open as book as I always claim to be. I want to tell you everything I know and feel. So that I, too, will see everything I know and feel.