Hunter

I just finished "Kingdom of Fear," the book Hunter S. Thompson wrote shortly before taking his own life. As a general rule, I would not advocate affection toward, or admiration of, this insane explosives enthusiast, substance abuser, and pioneer of Gonzo journalism. That would be irresponsible. But, as Hunter might say, it certainly works for me...

Hunter was a writer of the truest kind, I think. There was no distinct point at which his life ended and his writing began. As an author, his next book would appear out of the ashes of the mayhem he was planning to ignite. His story was being written at every moment, crafted into a chaotic first-person narrative of drug-steeped sporting events and presidential campaigns. This awareness–that the success in his career might hinge on the audacity of his life choices–had a powerful effect. It pushed him to the limits of what his psychedelic-induced imagination could fathom. It provided an environment whereby the consequences, whether it be the courtroom, the hospital, or the insane asylum, would be vindicated by the public's thirst for his subsequent exposition. What did not kill Hunter made him stronger, and ushered him to a life on the edge, where the possibilities were endless. It was a life of intent, honesty, and courage, and it is difficult to argue with the results.

When I read Hunter, I am reminded that we are not given permission to author our lives. We create our future at every moment despite what the world expects of us. Sound judgment is a myth. We cannot know the future. But, when we accept that we are building our future, advancing with courage, conviction, and complete unpredictability, we are left with a sort of humility and grace. It is a place beyond, where all that has passed is perfection and all that is yet to be is irrelevant. It is a beautiful place, and one where life may be lived.