Is the World Too Big or Am I Too Small?

I have hit backspace on this writing 3 times because it is hard to describe what I am trying to describe.

Sometimes when I am traveling and I see a shopping center from a slightly elevated perspective I have a rush of emotions that tap into each one of the business in the complex. This feeling goes something like this.

Wow look at all of these individual efforts to stake their claim in the free world. There is an owner behind that billboard. A man or a woman who wakes up early and worries about how they will get customers into their hole in the wall restaurant. There is a vacuum repair shop who comes in on their terms and perhaps does not need the income this store produces. How could they. They are never open. There is a woman trying to “Crush it” in the woman’s business world as a clothing reseller but displaying a few select blouses in the window. Yet right next to her window is the water store with a faded poster in the window for a Chinese dance company tour that has come and gone over a year ago.

I become melancholy over the realization that this world is crowded with so many people trying to make it in their own way. Some have big goals and some have no goals at all other than to keep their small local business open long enough to enjoy their weekends for the rest of their lives. Not that they are hoping to pass along an empire built on cigarettes and hookah pipes adorned with Bob Marley t-shirts on a half empty rack accented by a worn out cardboard sign with the words sale hand written and taped to the end post. As if somehow this will be the thing that will finally get rid of this shit.

Am I insane to be tortured by the sense that I am so small in this world and that because of my size I should be intimidated by its size and therefore rendering my potential to a fate of mediocrity regardless of how hard I try.

I mean. Look at me. I am an almost 45 year old man with the mind that can only be compared to an octopus on LSD. I got hands and arms flying in multiple directions trying to grasp that which cannot be categorized in an effort to find my storefront of life. Tha at some point I will come the that “aha” mount that will be the result of my speaking out and someone listening. Then paying for me to say some more. Or that I would create something with my hands and that some one would ask if I have more. I suppose Theron lies my fear. That when someone enters the store of my creations that one would look at the random items along a series of shelves and they would ask if I have something else and not more of the same.

This would mean that the goods that I felt were worthy of putting on display were actually of no worth to anyone but myself. That Some how I was not tending to a store but that I was a docent at a Meuse university of random acts and creations of a renaissance man with now clear direction. That I was holding open a gallery for people to come in, look , be stricken with awe or perhaps mild curiosity and then leave.

Yeah, this worries me greatly. I spend a tremendous amount of time learning and hone in my ability to understand social media, sales, networking and content creation yet I have nothing to show for it.

A bank account that with one adversity or tragedy would have me on the side of the freeway twirling a sign for that very same store owner selling hookah pipes and cigarettes.

I push forward with such tenacity and force that if only someone in the corporate world would look at this in awe and find a place for me to clock in and clock out in a trade for the security free of worry and toil. The variety of my routine would in many ways defy the groundhog day theory and yet looks very similar to the yesterday.

I wake, I meditate from the porcelain throne for a few minutes as I stumble through a few social media channels then make my way to a couch with a cup of coffee and a laptop. The the direction of the day is building upon the next couple of moves I make. Do I end up falling back asleep? Do I dump my thoughts into text awaiting a glimpse into flow? Or do I allow YouTube to carry me away into an abyss of videos on motivation that by their next suggested video will land me up on Dr. Pimple Poppers Greatest pops of 2014? Next thing I know 2 hours have passed and I still don’t have shit to show for my early morning purpose.

I believe I get this way because I have, since a very young age, always felt as if I am going to do great things and will one day be rich and famous. This feeling carried on from childhood until about my mid thirties. The theme shifted to, being “Under the radar.” That for some reason I am worthy of fame and fortune but only when my time is right. That the universe is holding back from giving me access to abundance because I am not mature or responsible enough to no blow it all on hookers and blow and end up dead on a Las Vegas hotel room floor.

The Father at the Fairgounds

A delicate balance between eating like shit, spending way too much money knowing that this is a staple of raising kids and being a family. Gathering the memories to rotate across an LCD a few years from now courtesy of Facebook and the “x years ago” memory feature. Footsie wootsie, time share vendors and carnies alike audibly reaching across the noise to sell you on the next adventure. People watching til sunset, then the drunks come out clearly dehydrated and sun whipped from trying to perform more exercise than they have done in a very, very, long time. Everyone is either looking for someone or deciding between touching exhausted farm animals or going on the ride. The children’s eyes bulge from the chaos of an abundance of sugar and a stimulation of way too many lights above stuffed animals that will clearly cost too much to win and will take up way too much room in the car. The parents struggle to negotiate for the more practical prize but the little one insists on the massive poop emoji. Dad wins and mom rolls her eyes knowing that this behemoth of uselessness will likely make it’s way from the bedroom to the garage to the trash or a garage sale. Yeah, this is the life. The Orange County Fair.

The Vacation of The Mind

Sitting here at six thirty a.m., long before anyone in the vacation rental rises, I gaze across the recently saturated landscape of golf course grass. The sun lifts in haste and evaporates the dew from each blade of grass and the day begins. Tiny gnats and large flies dance and dart across my peripheral vision but dare not touch me. Not today. I came prepared. I brought bug spray and covered myself and probably got some in my coffee. My lips tingle with the disgusting flavor of the chemicals. I sip from my cup. This stuff should come with an ointment you rub under your nose to neutralize the stench. Nonetheless, I am on vacation.

There is something about the foreign sky and the clearly different construction of the local buildings that make me become aware of my attempt to remain in the moment. The unfamiliar would become commonplace within 6 months if I was to live here. People would come from all over the world to enjoy what I take for granted. Even those who live in paradise lose the nostalgia for their home. I know this because I recently experienced this.

I was living in Riverside county for so long that each time I would visit Orange County it was a place that held promise and wealth. Somehow cars were cleaner and the streets were lined with potential. After 13 years of living in a more rural environment, I became enamoured with the thoughts and dreams of one day moving back. Yes, back to Orange County California. The place that I would consider to be the real California. Just outside of Los Angeles and thirty minutes from Hollywood is the home of Disneyland and the Lad of Gracious Living. Yorba Linda, California.

I knew five years ago that I was in desperate need of change. I once tried to convince my wife to move to the center of Los Angeles to let me fulfill my dream of becoming a writer. Although, at the time, I had only written massive amounts of works that reside in a large briefcase under the stairs to this day. Yet, I could not shake the feeling that I was destined to be a created, dare I say self manufactured into a modern-day cross-breed between Charles Bukowski and Hank Moody. Minus the drunken womanizing.

I began feeling the desire to become a great writer long after I had written in journals for 25 years and hundreds if not thousands of short poetic stories. I never imagined that I would profit or even share my creations. Outside of a few small poetry readings, I just never wanted that. It was as if I was earning my rights to become a legitimate artist without the draw of the opinions of the audience or the attractions for a financial gain. I went from sharing my ideas with a pen and paper to submitting them to a still obscure platform like a blog. This blog. I refer to my lack of recognition as flying below the radar and I justify my lack of success to the gods of fate and chance. I convince my self that if I was to be noticed and rewarded for my unique creative talents and it led to fans money and fame that I would have ended up dying of an overdose of some sort like a Jim Morrison or maybe more a Jim Belushi. So it is as if I am giving myself an excuse not to share or promote this brand of me so as to not fail.

I will never forget the moment that my dreams of becoming the greatest creative mind of written thought and prose was diffused like a bomb in a Michael Bay flick. My wife was the slick know it all who was single-handedly responsible for clipping the green wire just in the nick of time. It was on the 10 freeway as we were returning from viewing a small, and I mean small, old, and I do mean old, apartment behind the La County Museum of Art. This place was about three thousand dollars a month for two bedrooms built in 1930 with a kitchen smaller that the master closet we had. It was on the corner and there was a small basketball hoop in the back of the building in an alley that the kids immediately began to make friends. I felt it though. The energy and the vibe. Naive and ambitious and ready to take Hollywood by storm. Then came the 10 freeway. I was online scouring the web looking for anything that was within earshot of Beverly Hills and Studio City. Then she uttered the four words that would revoke my hall pass to the future I was to manifest.

“What about Mission Viejo?”

“Orange County? What the fuck? Did this sound me trying to get out of Lake Elsinore or was it me trying to get into L.A.?”

I closed the lid to the laptop and stared at the passing freeway off ramps that one by one was ticking farther and father from the fantasy and into reality. This was the end of the longest orgasm of flow state that I had yet to experience.

It took a few more years for this to morph into a settlement of North Orange County. Because the beauty of the town we were in had gone from a 4 beer goggle, one night stand, to a case of beer just to allow a hand job from that ghetto whore of a town.

I still have a love hate relationship with the town that is mentioned in the opening paragraphs of my first publication. The town that adorns the lake and the mountains that roll into the Pacific.

To be in a home or to call any place home for 13 years is like marrying a high school sweetheart just because she was there, falling in love by proximity and then end up with a family before you got your first grey hair. Only to realize that the one was built on convenience and not passion. This in turn leads to a desire to run far away in a sort of midlife crisis in an effort to reclaim a false dream that even in the motion pictures never ends well. The moving always ends with the quarterback gone big coming back to the hometown only to reunite with the high school sweetheart that almost got away.

Now it makes sense. The beginning and the end remain part of the same. Like a ring of unavoidable tragedy and highly sought after ecstasy we will continue to elevate the cycle to higher plane of better times. Indeed these are the best of times and the worst of times. Yet I am in control of the perception of time. the great equalizer. Time. the one thing that makes me better than Steve Jobs and inferior to Elon Musk. One being dead and one alive and both leaving a legacy that which I too am working on.


The tin man found what he thought he lacked. The lion and the scarecrow too. I am also walking down the yellow brick road looking for what I want. What is that? If I could have one wish what would that be? It would be to capture that bliss that led me a blind faith and ambition so strong that I was willing to pack my family into a sardine can in the ghetto of the city of angels at the cost of three thousand dollars a month. I would be the ability to bottle the essence of that feeling which can only be described a a distinct and intuitive perception that this is the best possible wold and that this moment was the only one I have. The ability to live and exist in the now without any fee are fo pain or suffering. A sensation that selfishly has me staring at my children in awe of their potential and yet frantically creating content that will also fulfill my potential too.

The ability to become aware of that which is only reserved for high functions autistics and a few entrepreneurs and artists micro-dosing the interact with the responsibilities of the “real world” and yet coherent that the reality is a matrix. That the sense of timelessness that happens only after we die I can sense here.

This is why I vacation. I go to new locations and I get up early in the morning to write frantically and meditate on the potential of tomorrow and reflect on the successes of yesterday. In an attempt to engage in a flow state that will not only allow me to release the volcanic pressure to give more that I took and leave this place with a smirk on my face.

I met a man the other day who called me out on this intention. He led me to believe in my voice more than anyone has in a long time.

I sit here on the edge of a golf course gazing now across the awakening of the dawn in Indio. The flies are gone and the grass is no longer glistening. Just as I begin to hear the sounds of the family moving about in behind the sliding glass door that I deliberately opened and closed along with the night shades so as to avoid being jolted from this moment of authentic creative writing. The smell shifted from a misty waft of fresh-cut wet grass to a light breeze of dust and dirt not seen by the naked eye but distinct to the senses.

It is this sort of awareness that bring me to the intention of this writing. That I would be so captivated b the nothingness of a location that to some is a getaway and to others nothing more that just another Sunday morning. It is perception. It is an awareness of the moment and a never-ending vigilance to fend off the questions of the future that do not even exist and the answers that the past hold but are not necessarily capable of repeating itself.

Achieving the awareness of the beauty that is the present lies not in a question or an answer but in a statement that is by definition, undefinable. It is the ability to lift your eyes to look across the grassy knoll and not wonder about the days agenda but only the moments expectation. The ability to know that this is exactly what you want to be doing and that this location is the place to be. Like a child we must look to our immediate surroundings like a fun zone. You can take a child in the poorest of environments with nothing more that a full belly and plenty of rest and they will find entertainment and fulfillment in the way the dirty puddle of water splashes as they stomp. Yet, here we are, as adults grimacing at the LCD when we disagree with the mother letting the child play in the dirty water wondering why she is not providing. Meanwhile, her child sits ten feet away looping videos on YouTube of families having fun making videos and sharing it on the internet.

Perspective. For one it is never enough and for another there is not enough to give and for another it is plenty and for some they give it all away. The difference is in expectations and in perceptions.

Soon the wife will come out and tell me to hurry up and do my yoga so we can get to brunch. I will be woken from a slumber of complacency to join them inside as we woefully pack our belongings most needed into luggage and drag them to the car. I will begin to come out of my fantasy land slightly buzzed from what happened this morning and by tomorrow I will either forget that I can still be on vacation in may own home or I will just turn on the business phone and prod cattle through the field in an effort to build a nest egg meant to finance my future and a few vacations.

Perhaps this is why I am obsessed with endurance sports. The ability to sit on a bike for hours at a time or run for long distances is my way of forcing the mundane and commonplace of my abode to be throttled into a place where only the moment of stress can feed my desire to shut down and turn on that which escapes me behind the veil of the familiar.

Maybe I just don’t want to believe that a permanent high is possible. I wonder about those who have a belief in a god that has their back. I wonder if I too should attend a church so that I will chase this imaginary motivation coach that lives inside of me and guarantees me with promises of a heaven and that it will be hard but worth it. A god that will assure me that nothing I do can fail because with god all things are possible. But I cannot. Not just yet. Although I would think it keen to have a supreme being giving me permission to be myself, I would not be capable of being myself if I was not unable to confront the motivation behind my power. I am other to smart too believe or too stupid to understand faith. I suppose this would be the curse and the cure to my desire to become the best version of me that I can be.

Perhaps if I could imagine that I am on vacation from the afterlife then this world would actually be a far more interesting place to visit.

The Life and Death and Life Again of An Artist

I have been looking at my aging reflection as of late. Only the eyes remain the same. I am searching for someone that was left behind and forgotten. He is a small boy on a bicycle riding along the edge of the sidewalk. Careful not to fall off into the street, he speeds up and follows the curbs and dips along the gutters. Each fall is a chance to speed up and the rise is a jump. Unstoppable and free. Without a care.

His friend is also there doing the same. Suddenly his handle bars pop off of the neck on the yank of a jumps attempt. He does not even get off the ground but tumbles over the empty bike frame onto the sidewalk. Rolling head over heels he bounds up in pain skipping and hopping with laughter. Clearly in shock and filled with adrenaline, he shouts and hops around in what could only be described as a Native American dance chanting “oh my God!”

This may be one of my earliest memories of the fragility of being free to fly and free to fall. But not free to land. There is a price to pay for this freedom. It is a sacrifice to the altar of responsibility. The fines are hefty and are capable of sucking your wallet of all of its creativity and hope.

Hourglass reminds me how much I miss that boy. He never left and he never died. He just disappeared. Hiding not afraid but reluctant to enjoy the breeze along the endless sidewalk for fear of mechanical failure or judgement over the quality of the technique.

Limited in the world by lack of exposure, he grows older not knowing of the vastness and variety of the residents of the planet and its wonders. He forms his own identity. Totally aware of his surroundings and yet oblivious to the reality of a limitless potential. Feeling that wherever he goes there he is. Not alone and not afraid.

Where did he go?

I look at the reflection not from a mirror but as an echo of my thoughts. The landscape of almost a half a century, I cannot help that the days are growing shorter and I am half way to my demise. The big sleeper whispers in my ear and I turn up the music to drowned out the noise of the reapers chanting.

I realize that this is the best possible scenario and that this world is the only world we, I, have. I cannot help but to imagine the possibility that I may still be oblivious to the size of the world and its limitless potential, to my fault.

Every time I travel I find that there are so many inhabitants of the earth existing for their own satisfactions. They must be growing tired of living for the next event. I supposed this exhaustion is the same sentiment that keeps me from settling. It is what keeps my heart racing towards a destination where I amass a vast library of creations so that one day my manifestations can line my tomb. Only to be unearthed by some curious explorer wandering the cemetery randomly plucking out the names off a grave marker in an attempt to create a compelling story.

A narrative of an artist who never made it into the annals of history books. One that never let the the demons and angels of potential roam free through the world while alive. That none would have the chance to experience the man that is but only the man that once was. Only to be buried once again and in less that 2 generations be gone. Forever.

The life and death of an artist or creative is a miserable joy. This society has a sanctuary or a charity for many different types of people. Yet I am struggling to encounter the sanctuary where creatives can go to get help for the bipolar attention deficit depressions that tease out the very thing that keeps them alive.

We wear our crown of thorns and manage to crucify ourselves to suss out the extract of concentrated flow states to allow the release of exploration and creation.

Introverts by nature and extroverts in nature we seek to understand why it is that we just cannot allow. Criticized for complaining about that inability to just succeed without selling out. That business and pleasure must be a miserable conflict that could certainly be handled by a Charlie Runkle figure that perhaps is only a figment of our imagination.

Life and death of the artist becomes a painting displaying the contrast between the light and dark separating the paper from the ink. Dividing the words from the thoughts.

I look in the reflection and hope. Hope that this day will bring me great things. Hope that the world and its gravity will keep my grounded but allow my ride as fast as I can along the sidewalk and just as I hit the banks of the curb allow my to yank at the handle bars and leap far above the address painted on the face of that ramp. Allow me to have a smooth landing and keep peddling as hard and as fast as I want with no fear. With no hesitation.

Why do I create?

My latest Vlog. Ride to LA. Taking these from SnapChat to video to Vlog is really easy and time saving but I feel as if there are things I could improve on. Video quality and Audio. That’s pretty much everything. But when it comes to creating a vlog the editing process is extremely time consuming. Also, if I use Snapchat I generate way more views. But what is is about? The view or the documentary? If I had to think about it as an art I am consumed by this obsession that I would want it to be seen by many. However, this does not mean that there is a profit from this desire for more eyeballs. I am aware that I could make a much better film with a dedicated camera and audio rig but for what? Fear years I suppose I have been a film maker I just never called myself that. Actually this here was the first time. For years I have considered myself an artist but I have not declared my medium. From Poetry in my teens, to painting in my 20’s and then writing in my 30’s, then film making in my 40’s, I have always been drawn organically to some form of creation. Yet I struggle to label my creations and my talents only to place them in a box in my closet so that I can access them like a pair of shoes. That I could be the suit by day and the jeans by night.

During this trip I came to a realization that the world is much bigger than me. That there are billions of people trying to survive and there are millions of people who want to do more than just survive. they want to be somebody. Then there are the few who discover who it is they are through trial and error blended with self awareness. In these there are those who make a living doing what the love and then there are those who struggle to work hard play hard and create much. I am naive to think that I should be so special that I could stand out above the noise just on my desire and hard work. It will take a tremendous amount of luck and luck is all about timing. Luck is the moment that skill and preparation meet. However it cannot be scheduled or forced. It will just come or it may never come.

I wrote a book a few years ago that answered the question to the meaning of life. It was about creating legacy. This is what I am doing.

If what I am doing is trying to create, then who am I creating for? If it is only for me and my legacy than I should not worry about views or hits or even what others think. If I go back to the beginnings of my artistic tendencies I would say that it began in High school when I began writing. Both in a journal and in hundreds of poems. None of them were ever recited in public or even shared. My journals remain active but unpublished. I found great satisfaction in releasing the creations but form myself. Why then has this carnal desire become something for others to consume? I never wrote for the expectations of others to one day read. At least not while I was alive. It was raw and honest and it was mine.

Even now as I write this I cannot help but to filter the thoughts so as to please the few of you who will get this far into this rant. This blog.

Therein lies my answer. I need to stop calling it a Blog and a Vlog for the purpose of gaining acceptance or popularity. This places my creations into a fish bowl rather than a closet. Steve Allen said to “write for the trash can,” meaning write without reservations about what people might think, just to keep your writing skills in shape. I say create for the closet. Just like my paintings remain only on my walls in the house, My words will be stored in a file called Blog and my video creations can be stored in a file called You Tube Vlog. That way I am not allowing myself to feel the pressure of judgement rather letting my creativity express itself as unique and mine. If you enjoy it, so be it. It is not for you. It is for me. If I create for you then I have to rise to an expectation. If I create for me then it is art. Subjective and original. But mine to share.

The Fire Inside of Me

Ideas rest uneasy in my head. I woke up this morning paralyzed in an unjustified fear and disorientation that held me captive for what felt like 5 minutes but was probably 30 seconds. I was also able to lucid dream last night. One of the best ways to know you are lucid dreaming is to try to count your fingers. It is impossible. In my dream I was with a few cops and we were stepping out of a surveillance van and I caught myself in the dream. I was trying to help the others realize the potential of their dreams and it worked. One flew immediately. Just as I was able to begin to fly I was also aware that I was going to be able to wake myself up.

This was a critical error. I sensed that I was going to wake up late and miss the morning by enjoying myself. I believe that by writing this I will call into existence the ability to disregard my concerns for time. I will ignore the responsibilities of the real world and allow the dream to manifest into a miracle.

You see, that when I lucid dream and I do it right, I am able to awaken from the dream with an echo of that limitless potential. One where I am a great singer and loved by all and I can fly and create great things and change the world.

This is that same flame that burns inside of me from the beginning of my awakening. Hints and glimmers of this ability to feel the unpretentious laws of the universe that state I am one with all and none can judge because we are one and the same.

Once I have that gift i am then no longer reluctant to express myself in the best way I spirit animal years to run wild. Under the influence of nature and drug free. Not hindered by the complacency and satisfaction of this day to day but to race through the tall grass in search of food and philosophy.

Maybe the animal kingdom can speak but chooses not to speak. Maybe they hold their tongues so that they can never be asked to concern themselves with that which holds us civilized and domesticated. They allow themselves to take shape just before conception in order to continue their journey as the deepest thinkers in existence.

I do believe that if it was not for the yearnings of the flesh I would not have the need to manifest into existence any objects or thought for profit or advantage. I would be content inside of my head. So long as I have a full belly. Just full enough to be a bit hungry in a few short naps or after an exploration of my surroundings.

The fire inside of me burns in many ways and with may colors. The heat strengthens and fades during the course of the day. There will be moments where the burning is uncontrollable and I reach for water and then others were it is nothing more than just the need to write about it.

Contrast Forest for Understanding Flow

Begin at the beginning. This is where I must search for the understanding of what it is that makes me want to end this suffering of monotony and allow the influences of the beauty to consume my whole being. I cannot seem to capture the essence of what it means to become one with the universe soon enough. If I am able to glimpse at the sun I cannot help but squint. I am searching for the place in the universe that does not care for the elements that shackle my true self. The search for that which can only be traded and negotiable seems to be the only value here on earth. When I know very well that this is far from what is my net worth.

I glance into the realm that is after this. That was before this also. In that which lies the beauty and awe of nothing resembling a reflection but something that is an introspection. That I could be so naive to feel defeated when the perception of other people’s reality should have anything to do with what I come to find is my own. That once the individiuals who label me have walked away and I am left alone at the edge of the forest to wander through the darkness I once again am still.

I look to the sky from the dense woods to catch sight of a passing bird and smell the jasmine that grows on the branches of the trees that suffocate my will to remain standing. Knowing that there will be a day and a week and a year that this aging body will no longer be strong enough to fight. I will then be at the mercy of the woods and one day become a composing mass in the brush.

Know that I don’t understand why this matters to anyone but myself. I am tormented by the search of that which is a constant sonnet playing at only slightly audible levels. I can hear the whispers and I think myself mad. They are a constant reminder of the after and the before keeping vigil over my flesh and bones.

Why me? Am I mad?

Why do I have this unquenchable thirst to communicate this vibration for the masses to hear and yet cannot seems to find those individuals who will support me in my search for understanding the mission to metaphysics and manifestions?

I find that if I just roll out of bed and grab a pen or a keyboard I can find easy access to the infinite. Yet the day awakens that spirit fades. I am so at peace with a resting state and my heart rate remains below average. Maybe without even know it I am in a state of Nirvana or Bliss that monks try for years to enter. That with no meditation or preparation I am able to calm and still the mind so that I can feel for just a brief time.

It won’t be long now before the energy of those around me begin to stir. Thier quanta will begin to affect me in this lazy chair and I will pull my hands from the keys to take a sip and I will be reminded of the duties and obligations to my physical self that the spiritual realm will once again close its doors until another day.

I have noticed that if I wake up before 5 a.m. I can be alone without the influence of the worlds expectations and encouragements. I can remain in the solitude of respite and recovery from the transition into sleep and the departure of the after.

There are times when I am able to trigger a lucid dream and in that dream I am able to sing and fly. Just as fast as I feel the infinite powers of the mind and the amazing gift that awaits me in the after, I am disturbed from my slumber. Only to find that in this realm I cannot fly. But I can Sing.

I am a gifted soul kissed by an angel and my gift is that I am not only possessed by the desire to write but that I have the ability to translate the angels message. As I get older I am able to understand what it is that I am here on earth for. I am here to create words of intense curiosity and incite the wisdom of the ancients in a language that settles between poetic madness and a users manual to living a more valuale existence.

Although I may never receive the rewards associated with a talent like this I still feel as if I am getting paid. Pounding the keys in a frantic manner is nothing short of a mental orgasm. My juices spit and splatter with every keystroke and my digital DNA is absorbed into that which can only be described as a portal to the eyes of the universe at the tap of a command to publish.

I am making a pilgrimage to understand the difference between the business man in the suit and the artist in robes. I cannot help but feel as if the more I grow an audience to hear my accomplishments I am not happy not speaking of what can be accomplished. That I must be so torn between such dynamic contrasts as the trees to the sky as to call into existence what can only be categorized as schizophrenia.

Just live.