We watch to see the world still interesting, but even that’s becoming mundane.

The illusion of choice if our gluttony. But life is what you make it, so make. Create. No matter the medium, heart and soul. Art is praise. Art is worship. For the love of God, thou art. Without ceasing. All else, small doses. Before we’re too flat to wind back the balance. We’re the ones who put man in manifest destiny. Creation has forever been around you. Through you. Is you. Are you? So great thou art. Create! While we still have the space to share.




“Even when our information is inaccurate, we cannot guarantee it.”

Today I ruminate on why I write, literally, why do I have this drive to share hiding behind words, that I want to quit, can’t quit, but can’t seem to find the words to bear fruit. Why bash my head on the trunk of that tree that taunts me? What’s wrong with me where I can’t just sleep in? Is it the words themselves, some selfish elevation of my own thoughts? I feel like I’ve got no stories to tell, so why do I tell those stories? Is it art? Is it publication? Do I just want to see my name? De? Plume? …when someone hands me a suicide note. “No shit.” No shit. So why the fuck do we do anything? Why do we bear this pain? Why do we ram our heads, ram our heads, ram our heads, ram our heads? “Oh, you want an answer?” There’s no good way to kill yourself, they told him. But that implies there is a good way to live. But I’m not even sure the speaker believes that. “I’m just glad he went up to Ryan” as if I knew what the fuck to do. But if I see him again I guess the right thing?

The Philosophy of Composition: Nevermore

Ten commandments and a choice kept coming back to me as a justification, if not simplification, of life on drives home. The thought crept in like faith. You can’t see a thought but feel it. So I put these words to paper and proceed to fuck it up. Not the what. That is truth therefore beauty. But the how. The grandiose nonsense I worded. A dilettante’s attempt of Poe in poetry: “truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect and…Passion, or the excitement of the heart” (1846). An off balance of humble and assertive. I’m not bigger than you, and no better than any other, and at times don’t want to claim who I claimed to be. Signed,

When does one call it quits?

The rush of acceptance is so short lived. “Why I write?” “Why I write?” This seems to be something I need to figure out before rejecting myself. “Honestly?” I don’t know. I’m just so compelled to do so (is that not literary?). So driven to the point where I understand why you’d want to cut off your own ear (we all make sacrifices). So flip the script (or maybe that’s what I should be doing, that minor technicality being I’ve never had the desire to make movies, instead I’ve preferred the stories). “Why do you read? It’s such a cumbersome task undertaken these days, says the small town librarian.” Because I haven’t found the story that’s changed my life yet. And I like finding words strung together in an order I’d never think to put them. So truth be told, maybe I write because I like to be alone. But fuck me, it’s lonely.