Bastard of A Full Moon

After every popular culture consumption; after every emotion-fueled sports game. I take a minute to gather myself, to question the worth of my dedication, and to ultimately, come back to reality and realize that, although a release. Although, I love the dunks, the touchdowns, the colossal hits, the no hitters. Although, I choose to identity with my home town teams because sometimes, I just need something bigger than myself to believe in—none of this shit matters. 

None of this has any affect on my, nor your, daily life. It is meaningless. I’m not saying to be a sports fan is a defamation, nor am I dismissing the power sports holds to unify a community (to bring people from otherwise different backgrounds together), but for some of us, this is all we know. Sadly, we’re junkies whom can only hold an intellectual conversation along the superficial language of statistics and 40 yard dashes. We will bring up 100 different scenarios of the way last night’s game could have ended: all this intellectual energy, not going towards things that can actually improve our lives/the world (social issues etc,).

Sports ain’t “bad”—it is some trivial shit, when put against what actually matters in the world: human experience, connection, and life—there just has to be a balance. An understanding that it is simply another distraction to keep you zombie like and detached from the world around you.

With that being said, here in America, we’ll be staring up towards the wall at our hung, 60 inch-high-def TVs, watching the Finals, screaming at the proceedings. While in another country, a child will be staring up at the sky, awaiting in fear, for the next drone missile, that endeavors to blow his family into oblivion. #perspective #what truly matters