“You blew it kid!” his father shouted the rightful responsive outcry to his missed opportunity. The defeated and despondent look of defense coming from his shouldered dismissiveness. It felt to him an overwhelming and overbearing depletion. Unworthiness? Failure? Mistaken misfortune? Disturbed un-wellness. The impressionable internally-driven labels that began to accrue for him. Who’s who? Mistaken identity? Beguiling incessant belief? “Where was it all, then? What am I doing here!?” he shared with himself. “The one and only thing I know is that I am here! aren’t I? Did I not choose this experience before I arrived?
Wasn’t I meant for something so much greater than this seemingly eternal life of constant suffering?…it’s madness!” he thought—again consuming his language without non-judgemental observance. His mind was on wild-fire mode. He grasped all that he could interpret of his circumstance all at once! “This is not how it should be! I don’t recall ever asking for this! What has happened to my life? Why can’t I simply be content with my existence here alone? Why do I have to engage with this world of inversions and chastisement?” There was a multitude of drum-lines and mental occupancies occurring for him. Never before had he ever been confronted by such a swell of irreparability. After all, there was no going back—doing it all over again for him and the contagions of darkness and oddly shaped pretenses were now nearly suffocating his experience of existence entirely. “There is no going back.” Again, he thought. “But if this is the case then why not choose each moment to be an incredibly significant and joyous occasion?” “No. That would be too difficult,” he presumed. If there was anything he knew about life up to this point is that the pendulum certainly swings both ways. That the greater the momentum carried going one way? Would mean an eventual and equitable swing in the opposing direction. “So then, where is the balance?” Toxicity is in the dose, and the dose differs for us all. This needn’t be a dissolution and segmented relay of composition. A “How-to…” dialogue of the way to live one’s life in the material world. “Bang at unsheathed shackles!” That idea just blurted out of me.
But then what? What of the irrefutably reckless amounts of “noise” that comes about in one’s own mind? Are they expected to ignore it via distracting mechanisms provided by the devices we all, for the most part, carry now? Focus then: is key. The key to one’s salvation is focus. But then? focus? Genuine focus is on what? Whatever can be concluded as relevant, I would guess. I am here as acting author, in a bit of a state of expectancy that the “right” person discovers some inherent form of value that perhaps they have busied themselves over with in life and forgotten about the importance of: “the fugitive is on the loose!” Uh-oh? keeping track of one’s persona on-stage versus the persona prevailed through one’s writing—my writing, to be precise—can be a difficult feat because if you are the author already? Then why not develop something resembling balance throughout? It might be due to prideful ignorance, or any number of things. I personally have great difficulty looking at myself as I am now and from a future state of being without being judgmental and hyper-critical about it. For instance? “You should be doing more of this and that this way…” so on and so forth.
Consider the time that is being endorsed by my proceeding placement of these words in spite of knowing full-well that this will all be erased one day! The stroke of a discerning proletariat. It’s simply all a waste, in that sense, really. A “what to do of nothing…” type of correspondence. At any rate? I’m well-aware of my insignificance, but let’s get back to the idea of FOCUS. So good of that skillset I have learned in growing older is the significance of a scanning focus of the physical-self. Begin at the toes: interpret each element as perfect and regardless of any imperfections: begin to give thanks and appreciation for the semblance and configurations as well as purpose for the intent. I know there’s this idea of my being in Hollywood and LA as a successful elite entertainer and entrepreneur, but the truth of it is in my mind, and the idea that I can’t get away from? is that I was just a stowaway. A rat who escaped from his cage and found something good to suckle on. But blessings be quickly derailed by bullshit?
I wait for that day when an audience member who has actually read my shit and thoroughly investigated my thoughts and works, yells out their forgiveness toward me. I think I would drop it all right then and there: all constructs and hurried configurations that by intended design are meant to open the floor of discussion. I would drop it all. Lowest floor gratitude. Honor. Service. Respect. Hey! I am so readily willing to admit that I have missed out on opportunities galore. There is not much I can argue with there. Certainly I have my own unique way with words and each of us has an opinion—yes: there’s even someone out there who hates me for no reason, even. But the fact of the matter stands to be true for me: that I exist here and now on this plane and there’s nothing I can do to deny that. But it’s difficult for me to deny: that with every new breath I am able to engage with? The opportunities for me present themselves. And I choose to give thanks. And especially? Thank you for your time in reading this little conception of a pick-me-up editorial, and I look forward to the day we run into each other’s smile and you call me out on “my bullshit,” right? Whatever that means. In the meantime? Stay blessed!
-Cheers