LA Dodger's Stadium. Early July. 9p. 7th inning. 72 Degrees. Friday.

I'm at the top of the stadium with a friend I hadn't seen in a few years. We had been talking about getting older and the phenomenon of spreading apart from high school friends. We enter a lull in the conversation and I look down at the guys playing the game. What a strange thing to do. A group of people spending all of their energy, donating all of their mind, consuming themselves entirely to play a game in front of a group of other people who want nothing more than to likewise lose their minds completely in the game. What are we doing here? We are existing, we are aware of ourselves, but it is too hard to really understand that, so instead, we distract ourselves so thoroughly that that we spend years and years developing the skills to play a game that is followed religiously by millions and millions of people who also can't think about what they are. But if you can't think about it, what else are you going to do but distract your self with a game and a piece of meat and surround your self with others that are doing the same thing to reassure the self that what you're doing is good, it's right, it's healthy, it's living. Yes. This is living. And you sit back and soak it in. The game, your family, the drinks, the beer guy, the jumbo tron, "Hey that's us!" The lights, the field, the players. Yes. What a good end to an ok week. Yep. But okay is better than bad. And you tell your self this, and it's true, but is it? It is, but is it actually any more real than the thing you're telling it to. And then you think, Well, it beats feeling like shit. And your right. And a run scores and everyone cheers and you look around and it feels goodish.