I once rode a bus into the Berkeley Hills, to the state park up there, tripping, mildly, on mushrooms. It was a resplendent day and I was the only person on the bus. With my journal open on my lap, I scribbled the sort of things I often think when tripping (“to be lost is to wish to be elsewhere,” “to be lost is to lack a story for where you are”), when I decided to address my future self, the one who would one day return to these words.
It’s been nine years now. Here’s what I wrote, using giant, child-like letters:
HELLO, MICHAEL-READING-THIS-IN-THE-FUTURE. WHY DON’T YOU GO OUTSIDE AND LOOK AT THINGS FOR A CHANGE? YOU HAVE AN INTERESTING MIND BUT WHERE DOES IT GET YOU?