I used to feel as though there were holes that needed to be filled, and I was constantly roaming the earth with a shovel looking for something to fill those holes. Maybe they don't need filled. Hell, maybe they're not even real holes. Maybe they're something I've made up in my head, like a Fight Club. You know it's like how we sometimes can't see the forest for all the trees.
I made scrambled eggs this morning for the kids. Actually I made eggs for myself, but I couldn't eat a hot breakfast in front of them while they choked down a toaster strudel that was still cold in the middle. So I made them some eggs as well. Some with cheese, some with out.
Death for me used to be something unique and rare, almost ficticous, like a Bigfoot sighting. But it seems I've reached that age where guys I know start passing. Guys I've worked with, played golf with and met their families. Guys that are too young to die fighting cancer or heart disease and it makes me again think about the holes.
But the truth of the matter is the holes are just as real as they are made up. I constantly struggle thinking there has to be more to life, to my life. There has to be something to fill those holes. And yet today I made breakfast for my kids. I woke up next to my beautiful wife, and I've lived another day...filling holes.