This past holiday season went pretty good. Except for a few (very) minor things, we had a pretty nice time. New Year's Eve was nice and cozy and loads of fun. Then, here comes life again and we're back at it.

This past week I wrote a check for my rent. Yes, it's that time of the month where we have to pay for our abode, our lodging, so to speak.

I don't know why, but somehow small things like this send my mind a-spinning. I wrote a check, a payment, an installment for another month dwelling. Yes, it's nice. But it's nothing to make back flips over. And anyway. We all have to pay, brother. Some people pay more than others, but we all pay.

It's narrow to think that while I'm here (earth), this is all there is. I mean, there's more than meets the eye. But, it's so hard to get out of the box because I'm encombered by this "meat sack"; I'm stuck in my own centricity. I can't think about much else expect that which is around me at the time. Someone once said, and until recently did I begin to understand, "Whereever you find yourself, there you are." Look at it this way, "Out of sight, out of mind." If you're not an arm's length away, I'm not thinking about you. It's a sad thing to concede.

This dude once put it like this. He told a story about how this guy built a vineyard with all the constituent parts -- wine press, vines, bottles . . . . He left the thing to some of his workers to watch and keep and work it while he went away. Well, after some time had passed, the workers began to think the vineyard belonged to them. They were dividing the profits of their labor amonst themselves, they took liberties with the product, and basically mismanaged the place. One day, the owner sent his peeps to say he was coming home. But, they didn't like that and killed the messenger. So, he had to send his own son. The farmers killed him, too. You can only imagine how they reacted when the owner himself finally came home.

I don't own anything. I feels like I do, but I don't own one thing. Not my guitar, not my car, my wife, my son, my apartment, not my career, not even this "meat sack". There's scientific confirmation for this hypothesis; I don't own it because I can't take any of it with me when I die. And one day, the owner's gonna come home.

I'm not buying, just renting.

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