03:13
January 13th
My cigarettes winking at Jupiter.
The moons put a spotlight on me.
Classical music pours out my pocket.
Starlight lullaby and blood dripping from my nose.
Bleeding next to a picture.
Self-Image a footprint in the snow.
Allllll those pictures will fade. Footprints in the snow.

Fuck taking pictures.

I prefer portraits.
Made, not taken.

Here’s the portrait of cigarette filters empty glasses 11mg nicotine pouches and enough caffeine to make a cardiologist drop.

The tools

The frame is an impression.
The painting is a substance.
The tools are connection between artist and canvas.

A master can work with dried brushes and still be competent.
But the wannabees cry and complain about it.

“I need more time!”
”I’m not ready!”
”I don’t know what to do!”

Cowards.

Theres a reason AI gets so much hate. It can’t come up with anything original.

Are you really any different.

Pick up the tools. Start. Building.

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The Chisel: Discipline.

Disciplined people know worth from worthless.
Its what your really made of. Marble. Iron. Ice.

Discipline is what carves a figure worth seeing.

Michelangelo didn’t work to impress his commissioners.

He worked to impress God.

You can’t impress God with beer belly burps promising to be better tomorrow.

You impress God by bringing Heaven to Earth, by carving a marble block that nobody else wants to work with.
By wrestling with God and Winning.

Discipline is the sharpening of technique.
Making the most with what you have until you have more.
Till you’ve turned water to wine and back to water when your thirsty.

Discipline is the foundation.

Exercise, grooming, and self-respect is the work-station.

The Knife: Authenticity.

A knife that cuts the ribbon of your red carpet life. Opens the door to your world. A key, a weapon, a pen. Keep it sharp enough to shave with.

If it’s dull, your stuck slicing. Looking like a damn fool.
If it doesn’t cut, you’re not let in.
Even if it does cut, you wont belong
And everyone will know.

Authenticity is a weapon.

Writing is where you sharpen it.

Writing. Not for the world. Yourself first. A journal you keep sacred, Where you reveal yourself, to yourself. Write it like it’ll be the only thing that lasts after your dead. Eventually, it will be.

The Brush: Presence.

Where stories are born because your actually paying attention.
Its the orchestra of fate. Presence. Letting yourself be part of it. Dancing Singing or Playing.

The start of every great song and story and piece of art begins with presence.
Because you can enjoy it. See it. Hear it. Feel it. All starting with being there.

When presence is paired with a sharp authenticity,
It gets heavy. The good kind of heavy. The heavy that lets you feel the strength you use to carry your life. The one that makes your steps radiate.
Your trail become magnetic because people are drawn to good art and good stories.

If your not present
Your watching life go on without being in it.
Getting swept up by tides. Opinions. Emotions. Noise.

Presence is the flexing muscle of masterpiece.
Without discipline, there is no muscle.
Without authenticity, there is no masterpiece.

Start by knowing who the hell you really are. Paint the dream of your future behind your eyelids. Let every time you sleep be a reminder of who your going to wake up as.

The Fire: Passion.

When your there, when your paying attention, when your dancing
Your soul lights on fire.
You start to burn and everyone pays attention.

Passion burns the walls of a shitty house or a cathedral just the same.
And either way your dancing through the storm like the hurricanes another song in the playlist.

Emotion turns to music instead of noise.

And everyone around you can hear it.

You better be playing a good song.

Passion is the divine fire.
Fuel, music, and power.

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Carve Paint Cut Burn

The past masters

The Statue of David was caged in a hardened marble rock that nobody wanted to touch and everyone who did abandoned it. Every time you chip away at marble, you make it tougher and more brittle for the chipping.

Three artists abandoned that block of marble. Three artists gave up and left the next person with a greater challenge. That didn’t dissuade Michelangelo. It fueled him.

That is why Michelangelo carved David. Nobody else was willing to do the work.

DaVincis Mona Lisa. Ominous in its smile. Mysterious in its lady.
Genius with technique.

Banksy. The artists robinhood.
A mystique that pulls in power from power.
The missing identity as compelling as his art.

Why?

Because the artists use the tools in themselves first. The discpline of technique. The authenticity of their inspirations. A presence radiating throughout history because they let PASSION drive them.

There’s real presence is mystery.
Power in a genius that seems inhuman.
Authenticity in the perseverance despite struggle.

And our brains operate like story tellers.
And people are drawn to good stories.

The art is one thing. Painted carved framed and standing.

But the artist
The Artist is the depth.
The only difference between an original and a reprint.

THE ARTIST

The artist is a creator and a storyteller.

To Christians, God is creator and storyteller.
To Day, the fire is power and fuel.
To DaVinci, curiosity becomes the brush.
To Michelangelo, salvation is the obsidian chisel.

It’s the purpose. The story greater than ourselves.
The power of impression left on us, that lets us to leave an impression in return.

Orwell ran out of money in Paris and lived poor and invisible for eighteen months.
He didn’t do it to prove he could pull himself out of it.
He did it remember what being poor was like.

Bukowski burned until he stopped burning. And when those eighteen years went by without a fire, he burned it just to see where it would take him.

Van Gogh. Died a starving artist. His works hated. Became an icon despite selling close to nothing.
When I see the swirls of Van Gogh I feel the greatness of his work in the fact it didn’t sell.
All because he didn’t change his style when nobody paid attention.
My favorite being his final piece of art, unfinished and bleak.
Made perfect because he finished his life before finishing the piece.

We crave the story as much as the art.
More than the art, even.

Look at cave paintings. People pay attention to them even if modern toddlers could make something better.
But we value them wayy differently because we sentimentalize the story of early humans making art.

Even if an alien came down to share objectively worse art than our shittiest modern art,
We would still praise it in a heartbeat.
Or if our own kids made art, we would sentimentalize the shit just the same.
We see art as a human. And everybody wants to be human without looking at the humanity. To know a masterpiece is still at the end of a persons hand.

AI art can make something amazing but it’ll be despised because we don’t find depth in a machine.

We see depth in humanity. In mistakes that show us reality.
And if there’s no mistakes
And when art lives flowing in the passions of life,
We give it a new home outside of our humanity
We place it onto the mantle of divinity.
Sanctified and sentimentalized.

But few masterpieces can compare to divinity.
Even the perfect Mona Lisa was painted over before it became the Mona Lisa

The closest we can get to divinity is to honor it.

And if not divinity in the traditional, than divinity in fate.
And people love a story that falls into fate.

Van Gogh’s final painting. empty. and incomplete. and so he takes his life. and that unfinished painting becomes art despite the work.
Perfect because its incomplete.
Art because of the story.

THE ARTIST IS THE DEPTH

Amor Fati. The perspective we’ve been given. Our life gifted by god.
The assignment that nobody else can complete. Our personal purpose that turns our breath into life and our art into the living.

We’re both the artist and the model.
God molds us and winds our knob and sends us chattering on our way.
Though, it still feels like we do all the walking.

I’ve had enough conversations with dead people to understand that dead people are some of the few worth talking to.

The Canvas

The world. The beautiful beautiful world.
God Bless the Day am I right?

Caveman painted on the canvas of their primality.
Classical Greeks on the canvas of early enlightenment.
Michelangelo and DaVinci in the competition of high renaissance.
Keats and Byron and Shelley in an Industrial Revolution to let them romanticize the past.
Banksy and modern surveillance, consumerism, and militarism.

Today, What is our Canvas???

I think of spiritual bankruptcy. Our personal falls into comfort and shallow living. The disillusionment of the individual and their place in a globalized machine.

I see people eating self-help books like its spiritual nutrition,
swallowing red pills to cope
black pills like medicine
and blue pills to fuck.

Our cages make us romanticize freedom.
The noise makes us forget silence.
The daze of this grand scheme force us far outside ourselves.

That’s why the powerful people dont scream. They talk with teeth that drip with blood to show you,
BEING ALIVE MEANS BLEEDING.
BEING ALIVE MEANS DYING.
BEING ALIVE MEANS BEING PRESENT DISCIPLINED AUTHENTIC AND PASSIONATE.

We havent lost our lives yet. But its coming.

The canvas is why the art matters.

Burning, Building, Carving, Teaching
in a time
where nobody knows up from down
or their heads from their asses
or their purpose from their place.

To be alive means bringing into your own life
the presence and power that every other era in history took for granted.

WE ARE WATCHING SHADOWS ON THE WALL AND TOO SCARED TO SEE THE SUN
The stories we used to share for strength have been kidnapped by the void of our media psychosis
And the air we used to breath is replaced with batteries like umbilical cords tied to the machines,
And the passions we used to fuel the changing the world has dried out in the desert of blue chew babies and the comforts we’d happily drown in.

We Need Art More Than Ever.

The world is our canvas. Our story the paint.
The worlds canvas is why the life’s art matters.

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THE INTENTIONAL EXECUTION

Now, back to the drink and cigarettes because whats comin is the most important fuckin part.

Imagine if DaVinci dropped one piece of art that got him famous then he just goes into hiding before he paints the last supper.

Any artist person in history who made an impact by finding their place in the world has a duty to fill that place entirely.
It’d be a disgrace if they had dropped off the fate train to eat grapes and sip wine.

They left impact because their work
Is their mission.
Done for God’s applause.

DaVinci’s curiosity never slowed him. He slept in two hour intervals.
Michalengelo pressure from God never crushed him. It intensified him.
Banksy’s illegality couldn’t discourage him. It pushed him.

That is lethal execution.

Imagine reading a book. having it hit like nothing else. new favorite writer. then you find out they’re still alive but instead of writing their jacking off with their wives and getting fat off cake and biscuits.

A damn disgrace.

That’s why execution is everything.

The first rule of execution:

Follow Through.
Always.

Now, imagine a literal executioner. Black face mask and heavy axe.
Cutting halfway through the neck. Then running away embarrassed from the splurting blood.

What a fucking disgrace that would be and a damn damn DAMN disgrace they would be to the name, executioner.

Executing one head on the chopping block doesnt make you an executioner.
Following through, time and time again. Despite fear. Despite failure. Despite even disgust,
IS what makes an executioner.

When it comes to this execution, the artistic execution:

You MUST KNOW whats being executed:
AND THATS YOUR GOD GIVEN ASSIGNMENT

As an executioner

You better sharpen that axe till the day comes to chop off a head.
You better be strong enough to carry and swing.
And you better dress the part.

Lethal execution is easy.
Stray bullets with no direction can do that.

But to stay a lethal executioner
That demands consistency.

Not perfection. Consistency.

Fuck up? Do it again.
Beat up? Get up and swing again.
Look at yourself like the executioner before and after the first heads roll.

That’s execution.
Lethality is the proof.

And your not stopping there.
Your following through until you can’t lift that axe.
Or till someone puts a bullet through your brain.

If your ready for execution.
Heres the damned blueprint.

The Poets Execution

Forcing myself another cigarette in this freezing cold hopin my ears falls off cause the only thing I wanna hear is my pounding heart and thse burning thoughts. The way im writing this i’d be damned if i dont get paid for it.
You. I know you can give $6 to someone who deserves it.

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But its free anyways because i dont give a fuck about starving ill romanticize it and call it fasting for God and fuel for poetry. Practicing poverty so i dont forget what its like. The climb to the top is a fun one.

Now Pay Attention.

05:41

Moons still out. Military time. COMPLEXITY OVER COMFORT and i mean that every time i light cigarettes with matches cause im a pretentious fuck and i really mean it when i say:
The more complicated, the more interesting.
Novelty is oxygen.
unless it’s alcohol. then you keep it simple.

Half glass black label. neat. taste the oak. feel it.

ah

FIRST RULE OF EXECUTION

The world is watching, always.

The concern isn’t if theyre watching
It’s if you’re giving them something worth watching.

You’re already being judged the moment you hit eyes.
The world might try to convince you otherwise.

Ignore them.

Move like it matters. Even when nobodies looking.

Act like the walls watch and could talk.
Never, not even alone, let there be a dull moment in your life.
Especially alone.

The Assignment

KNOW YOUR MISSION.

You were given a life. A story. A mission. God’s call.

Michelangelo carved salvation. DaVinci breathed obsession. Bukowski lit cigarettes with his fire. Banksy moves like a shadow.

You’ll find your mission hiding deep covered in the brush of your darkest struggles. Wedged neatly into your past. Covered by years of vegetation you’ve called: Personality.

Burn it. Unravel it. Violently beat it out of you.
Find the fire you buried. Restart the embers.
If you can’t,
find something to set you ablaze.
Or pour gasoline over your life and start the world anew.
Either way for this problem I recommend Day as your doctor.

FIND YOUR ENEMY.

Objectives have obstacles. Missions make enemies.

You’ll find yours. Always. Fate is frozen without one.

If you say you don’t need one. Your lying.
The Buddhas enemy was desire. His mission was escaping Samsara.
Christ’s enemy was the devil. His mission was bringing Heaven to Earth.

Your not holier.

LET THE MISSION BE THE REASON
LET THE OBSTACLES BECOME THE WAY.

Design the Frame

Bury, Burn, Slice

Bury the dead. Burn the weeds. Slice the fat.

Leave that shit in the fuckin past good GRIEF can you not let it go? Her? Him?

You?

You’re nothing but what everyone told you you are.

A sequence of alternative versions of yourself meant to grow more CONFORMIST so you can GROW more comfortably BLAH you don’t even realize you’ve been running a program your whole fuckin life fueled by guilt shame embarrassment anger envy pride from teachers doing a job running the same program from parents who care in the way their parents taught them. Generational curses start by thinking you owe anyone anything.

Fuck that.

Take that preprogrammed version of you and stomp it into the ground.
Fuck burial. Thats for the deserving. BURN IT.

BURN

KILL THE MACHINE THAT MAKES THE CORRECTIONS.
FRY THAT MICROCHIP IN THE OCEAN.

BURN THAT SHACK DOWN
FAKE FRIENDS DRAINING RELATIONSHIPS
SOCIAL MEDIAS OF SOCIAL PSYCHOSIS
CONSUMPTION AND DRAINAGE
SEXUAL WELLSPRINGS ARE MEANT TO OVERFLOW
SPIRITUAL ENLIGHTENMENT IS MEANT TO HURT
MENTAL POWER IS SUPPOSED TO BURN
PHYSICAL PROWESS IS SELF SACRIFICE.

BURY. BURN. REMOVE THE JUNKFOODS.

And I mean, ALL the junkfoods.
Clear the cabinets.
Delete the apps.
Remove the contacts.
Throw your phone against the fuckin wall if you can’t stop watching porn.
Stop talking to rocks.

Stop listening to music for a week and see what happens.
Listen to the silence in your head thats been desperately trying to tell you something.

SLICE

Everything thats become toooo personal.
The mentor who made a difference? The friend you believe in? The parents you love?

TRIM THE FAT

Slice. Don’t burn.

Set your expectations. Mark your boundaries.

Make it clear to yourself FIRST what you want and don’t want in your life.
Those who respect you will find their place in your life.

The fat will leave with the junk and if you slice right, your left with good cuts of meat. You can be ground beef or a ribeye. Not both.

Turn crystals to decoration.
Let old photos turn to fuel.
Become the mentor to your sad friends for as long as they stomach it.
Teach your stubborn parents with every skill they dont yet know.

Trim the waste in their philosophies.
Throw out the fat. Keep whats valuable.
When you trim, you polish.

Blueprints

You burned the weeds and buried the dead.
You should be as close to nothing as possible.

This is where you start the walk to the promised land.

When the mindset shifts in that irreversible way,
You’ve Arrived.

Its time to build your castle.

This is the most important part.
Its safety. Not comfort.

Where you’ll direct your attacks. Return to rest.
Its home base.

This is the frame.
And it is the most important part.

Its the castle you build

It’s where you figure out who the hell you really are.
How you’ll decide to start and end wars.
Where to point your arrows.

The stronger you are physically,
the sharper mentally,
the heavier the resolve in your mission
The bigger the castle.

Read Books that challenge you.
Worship something larger than you.
Train for a war so you can know peace.

This is why you need to burn the shack.
Its not a castle if anyone can get in.

Philosophy. Physicality. Purpose.
Learn. Train. Cherish.

What you value dearly will become your sacred temple,
And your job is to protect it.
To Build and Protect it.

Its where your portrait hangs.

Paint the Picture

The castle holds your portrait.

Your life is the painting.

Every action, every choice, every habit is a brush stroke.

Treat words like bullets to line up before you shoot. Silence is your sword.

Walk alone if nobody builds with you.
In solitude, you discover your power. Your flaws. Your potential.
Your flame will light the way.

In time, you’ll find lights that shine their own paths.

Everyone has a path.
Only you can own yours. Even if you own it from the bottom of the ocean, it’ll be blazing. Find your story and own it like the scars burns and bullet holes are

The artist

You have a self. Obviously.

We aren’t born DaVinci’s
But you can create yourself to be one.

How?
You’ll learn to fly when you fall.

Everything that survives despite the beatings burns and protests?
THAT. IS. YOU.

Struggle and suffering makes you an artist, when you fly with it.
Obsession turns you to the master, when you fall into it.
Together, they become the masterpiece.

The portrait

Your image. Your frame protects it. The artist creates it.

The castle is a haven. Not a home.
Nobody stays in the castle forever.
Only prisoners do.

The portrait is your image.
Self portraits are the best because you capture what nobody else can see.
Many people will have pictures of you.
Very few will have portraits.

Those that do value you enough to see you as art already.

The difference?

A picture is a moment in time.
A portrait is a curated work of art.

A friend who values you will build with you
They wont move the brush, but they’ll paint beside you.

Treat them as they treat you. Build with them, and they’ll build with you.

The portrait is painted with every word action and habit.
The bloodier the brush the more potent the poetry.

Be the painter who breaths. The poet who speaks.

The walk.

When you venture out. Venture with caution and ambition.

When you discover enemies, do not rush.
Plan.

When you discover friends,
See their art and cherish it.

The world is your canvas. The canvas is not blank when its given to you.
DaVinci painted over his works until the masterpiece came out on top.
Michelangelo’s marble was the challenge taken and conquered.

Both of them had the spirit needed for perfection.
The spirit is intoxicating. Moonshine to some. Ambrosia to others.

FIND YOUR SPIRIT.

You’re human. You’re soul is malleable.
It can take the form of anything you want it to.
And it can be taken by anything you allow it to.

The Holy Spirit. The spirit of the wolf. Apollo and Dionysus. Thoth. A gladiator. A poet. An emperor. A prince.

Pick carefully.
Not all spirits are made the same. Not all spirits are cross-compatible.
Find the spirits you already have,
Either choose them or exorcise them.

Then pick a Spirit of strength.
The Bible allows only one. Learn the One.

Or if you pick the others, learn them all and allow access to your soul with serious caution…

These are the steps walked throughout a lifetime.
Your portrait will be painted over a million times. Know it is you who paints it.
Your castle will falter without repair. Know it is you who built it.

Start now. The time will pass anyways.

Sharpen the Frame

Trim the fat with frequency.
Never rely.

Paint your portrait. Build your frame.
Strength is what brings them closer.
As your frame and portrait grow closer,
they empower and fuse.
The closer they are, the more stable you become.
Instability is the dissonance in the two.
Corruption is anything that pulls them apart.

Frame is never appreciated as much as the art but its just as important.

Master the tools.

Let people feel the presence before they hear a word.
Feel you before they know you.

The tools are the connection.

The Chisel and Hammer

Carve. Build. Repair. Repeat.

Work when nobodies watching. Work when only God watches.
Get out of bed to finish what your body wants to pause.
Be what nobody else is willing to be.

Discipline is the muscle of masterpiece.

The material you carve from
mud marble iron ice doesn’t matter.

Carve with intention
Build with dedication.

Dont stay uncarved.
Dont be unbuilt.

Walk into rooms like a living statue with a smoking cigarette
Speak with poetry and potency because everything else you can find in subway ads and newsletters.

The Knife and Sword

Slice. Slice. Slice

Trim the fat. Protect your worth.

Your authenticity is a weapon
without one, your fire is just smoke
and your teeth a simple smile.

The knife feeds you.
This sword defends.

Use them.

Every moment you live without a filter is a spark of something greater.

Take that something greater and let it start to kill you.

The Brush

Pay attention. Listen to the orchestra of fate. Dance, move, breathe with the world.

You are masterpiece. Act like it.

The story begins when you see whats being written and let yourself start writing it.

The best stories are emotional. Combative. Reflective.
They’re filled with contrast.

Dosteovesky’s Brothers Karamazov is filled with morality. Up and down.
One moment your praising God with tears.
The next your letting blood drip from your eyes and cursing him and He cursed the world.

The Fire

Nothing feels warmer than your own fire.
Nothing fuels like passion.

Have a mission. Go after it.
Make it as grand as you can.
And shoot.

Inferno inside. Wild, relentless, unstoppable.

Burn comfort, mediocrity, hesitation.Radiate so fully that people notice the heat without asking why.Fuel it with struggle, failure, rejection. Let every scar and setback feed the flames. Earn your place.

Execute Lethality

Follow through. Always.

Sharpen the axe.
Swing. Miss?
Swing again.

Consistency, not perfection.
Obsession, not comfort.
Discipline, not excuses.

The world is your canvas, your life the paint, your body the brush.

Leave nothing unfinished. Be deliberate.

Technique without purpose is empty.
Passion without discipline is chaos.
Presence without authenticity is illusion.

Combine them all. Live fully.
Love the fire.
Master your tools.

Be the whispering myth. The story that outlives.

The artist and the art.

Your life is an assignment.
Your mission is to complete it.

Sharpen, paint, burn, carve.

When the world is watching
make them pay attention.

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God Bless the Artists.

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confession.

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I swear, this app has some steel and blood in it. Daydayday. THETRUTH. Forbidden Files. Black Archive.

Substack Scrolls and Scripture.

Everyone’s got a picture of themselves they hang up with their words.

Wheres my place.

It starts with the formatting.

THE FRAME

Who the fuck are you trying to be?
Yeah? Tryna be Him?

Who are you really.
Dissonance.

There’s incongruency pouring out your frame. They didn’t line you up right.

You do a good job at fooling yourself.

The truth always comes out.
Either burning or rotting.

You see that frame?

That’s walnut wood with a gold leaf finish.

Because its a painting worth framing. The frame fuses with the art.
Only when its done well.

Shit in a jar isn’t a terrarium.
Its shit in a jar with a label.

THE PAINTING

Porkchops think the painting is everything. Close. It’s the substance.

It means nothing if you can’t paint. I’ll tell you what. Some fuckers can paint.
Their words are addictive because they’re not made cheap. Its quality because they’ve crafted with technique.

Authentic Technique.

Leonardo didn’t know he was DaVinci.
He earned it.
It was obsession.
Perfecting his craft.
Training through failure.
Dissecting bodies illegally.

He became DaVinci.
It wasn’t fate.
He carved history by carving his destiny. Ripping through the cardboard of mediocrity when everyone focused on making a home out of it.
He put himself to the grindstone until he was sharp enough to cut free.
Oh, and did he cut free.

Discipline sharpens, but it’s pointless without purpose.
Decoration.

Leonardo became DaVinci when he stopped obsessing over techniques.
Anyone can learn technique.
The miracle happened when he obsessed over reality.

REALITY

That’s the method. Learn that technique.

Day became a myth when he lit his soul on fire and everything that wasn’t him burned away.
He lived in the fire and used the ashes as ink.

Bukowski drowned till he could breathe.
He choked on water and became Bukowski when he spat it out to have a smoke.

The difference?
Between every great mind and any speaking mouth?

The life lived.

That simple.

Final Note:

I swear, the only people worth talking to are either dead or dying. everyone else is dressing up a corpse.

Flipped up and flipped off.

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God Bless the Artists

The artists are the operators who see this world as it is. A project. something to work on and put our marks on. somewhere to live in and some place to be. Not another jungle for us to die in but a jungle to evolve in. This is the journey of the artist. The artist is not a man who waits for the sun, but he goes into the night chasing it.

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Happiness doesn’t exist in a void. It exists under a barbell. In a breakup text. In the “fuck it” before a real bad decision.

Happiness exists as a smoking gun. As a swing into breaking glass.

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I poured the rest of my mezcal into my coffee. smoking cigarettes like tonights the last one of my life. spanish music ambience around me as i eavesdrop on the lives of others. writing in front of my laptop, each click another message to myself that reminds me to tell someone my password before i go. would they figure it out if i didnt tell them?

would i need them to?

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Love God. Love Women.

Love. A funny way to fuck with people. God saying “try this” and letting you taste something you’ll never want to live without. You’ll kill yourself for a tiny taste of that love again. Throwing everything aside to be liked, to work your way up to being loved, laboring to keep that love as long as your skin holds on. Your personality develops to survive the playground and your goals pop up between your parent’s flaws and fights. To find your vulnerabilities go look in the gaps of your parents love. There you’ll have a reason for love to take you apart. True human beauty is beauty deep as the soul. Beauty in the sheer vulnerability of knowing that another human is just like you. Same bones same blood. Different style. A style you’ll like if you want to, if your bones want to. You’ll throw away your soul if your blood doesn’t know better. And its fine if it don’t know any better. And then I’ll Ask: Is it love without a soul?

Is it love if its love without a soul?
Must it have a soul?

Is there not something else? Is there not enough pure appreciation of the human body and the human sense to simply fall into another body how light falls onto a painting? Warm, unintentionally enlightening. Can a brain and bone see each other simply? and can they be beautiful past their own internal projections. Past the ideas they have about blood and brain. When its just a body, how a mountain is just rocks, or a forest just trees, or a horizon the simple sky. Can a body be beautiful for the parts? Either the brain or the bosom or the balls can it be just beautiful as that? Beautiful for the parts, not for its fate, not for its past, nor for wherever it’ll carry the soul; but beautiful as is, then and there, as flesh blood and bone. Can you love a limb? Would you? and I’ll ask again: is it love without a soul? Is it love if your loving with only a part of yourself. If your loving with only a part of your soul. Is it love then? If the limb is lost, is the love gone too? What then? Can you love with only a fraction of yourself. and if you can, should you?

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Start off by walking in. Go ahead. Like you always do. Act like every other day. Go through the glass door. Scan the keycard nod to the receptionist. Sit down. Get comfortable.

Then wait.
Just wait.

Wait for somebody to come and tell you what to do. To do your job. Wait as long as they’re willing to let you. Wait until the day ends and come back tomorrow if you have to.

When the man finally comes, and when he opens his fly filled mouth, don’t listen. Focus on the muscles on their face the way the eyebrows move the way their lips don’t smack.
Remember it so you can decipher their tone.

Their tone.

Are they talking down to you?
Trying to convince you?
Reminding you?
Worried?
Upset?

Don’t reply. Look at them like you look at wooden statues in the museum. Be hungover or drunk it helps but be still and be observant and let them know you are hearing. Hear, but do not listen.

Nod after they finish speaking and blink slowly.

Let them stare at you and turn their heads and squint their eyes and try to figure out why something is off but they can’t see what it is just yet. Make them ask if you’re high or having a stroke. Why? It’ll start a fire.

Let their words wisp like distant wind you can hear but cant feel. Let them yell like a drill sergeant or let them walk away and come back to you still. sitting there. Let them bring security and let them get angry or confused or shameful but be still. Let them know you are hearing. Understanding. But not listening.

Let them send you home.

Let them push you out.

Watch the door close and imagine that workplace life you carved from rocks in a mountain filling back up with rocks in a crumbling avalanche.
Watch that cave you thought of as progress turn back into the mountain around it. And look at the mountain again. And remember why you were even trying to get through it.
You wanted to get through the mountain so badly that you gave away your body and prostituted your time.
What was all that work for? Just to watch it crumble? Yes.

Now imagine that mountain cave forty-three thousand years later. Nothing changed. The hole still there filled in with rocks filled in. The mountain is nearly unchanged. Unchanged apart from uncountable new caves attempted and failed.
Those attempts are the life working of people looking to see the other side. The difference? The difference is they died when the cave crumbled when they were still inside. The difference is you made your cave crumble and you walked out to watch it crumble. From the outside. Because everyone else watches it crumble from the inside. On top of them. After they’ve worked themselves to exhaustion and they want a break, need a break, all that progress caves in and they are just the soul who died with it.

Understand,
if you were digging through a mountain with a pickaxe, at some point you would stop. Not always because you’ve given up to exhaustion. Or boredom.
You just realize theirs a better way, somewhere, somehow.
For most, they don’t realize that until after the cave is breaking. Already so deep into the side of the mountain that their feet couldn’t carry them back from where they stopped even if they wanted to. By then their so deep that there is no turning back. The crumbling of rocks means nothing to someone already in their grave. Finally just getting buried.

Know,
if you are still there, in that cave, those rocks will crumble anyways. No matter how much you work on it. Covering everything you chipped at. With you inside. Turning you into a tomb of workplace life. Small talks by the fridge. Bonding by complaining. Early morning drags.
That’s all just the in-between of what it feels like to move forward. Move forward like everyone else who chips away at a mountain with nothing but their body and time. Another cave being made. Another cave on the side of a mountain with no answers good enough to justify your digging through it.
Digging with the only valuable thing in your life. For what?
For the dreams of someone else’s sleep? For a house you can look at and live in but can’t put a hole in?
For the hopes to reach a land that everyone wants to live in?

Those are not reasons.
Thats the smell of your blood burning like oil for the lamps of paradise.

And you’ll call it progress along the way. Because you can see how the mountain changes when you chip into it. And you think that what you chip away matters.
And that’s partly true:
everything you carve into that mountain stays there.

But you don’t.

You don’t get to stay in the way the rocks do. And those rocks won’t be celebrating your life. Or commemorating your death. And the mountain won’t remember you died inside of it.
It will remember how strange but beautiful it was that a carved out section in its side so easily filled back up. It might remember the feeling of those rocks crumbling.

It won’t remember you.

Now you’re standing outside looking at that crumbled cave in the mountain. Your boss who told you to go home and come back when you’re ready to work. Or who just fired you. Coworkers who supervise your walking away like your going to the stocks and gallows. The company logo that blinks and stares ruthlessly without emotion or care. The mountain.

Your look past the crumbled cave that you poured your body and time into. You see the mountain surrounding it. A wall that stretches far as the horizon. The clouds that touch it. The sky that eats it peaks. You wonder what it’s like to see that view. You haven’t felt the sun since you started digging. You had forgotten to take the time to look at clouds, to look around. As far as you could see, at the edge of your sight, the wall stretches on but lowers near the ground. An aching pang in your stomach and you remember why you were digging. To the other side. You don’t know whats on the other side but behind you is nothing. And returning to dig in that cave is impossible.

Good.

So what do you do?

You don’t waste a moment. Start walking.
You’re getting over that mountain. That rock wall.
Finally, you’re getting over.

Either way you’ll have the same amount of time to spend in both lives, digging or walking.
But when you stop walking, the world doesn’t crumble.
It waits.
Digging?
You only feel like your making progress. Feel like your making a difference. When you die in the cave. You’re a tragedy. A loss.
When you die in the world, walking, you die as a warrior. An explorer. A hunter. A collection of experiences. A gain. Death becomes product of nature. Not an accident.

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When you’re walking to the other side of a mountain, you understand why people want shortcuts. And why they’d die trying them.
You learn the heavy weight of 30,000 steps. You get to know the thinness of mountain air and the dangers of its fall. You learn the pain of walking towards something you can only justify to yourself.
But we are human.
And walking that much, you build legs of steel that realign the mountain dirt. Nerves of steel that fight fear like a plague so you can risk taking in the views that no other soul is willing to see. A type of wandering where you discover the faith that keeps you warm in frozen lakes and calm when face to face with a bear.

You’re working to get somewhere. Always.
Enjoy the views of getting there as much as the view there.
Stop at the top of the mountain and contemplate staying. Get out onto dirt paths just to see where they end. Sit on a rock because you like the way it looks. Punch a tree because you can, then hug it. Do anything that isn’t chipping away in the dim lit musk of a cave that promises it’ll bring you where you’re going. Do anything but forget about making it to the other side.

You’re working to get somewhere. Don’t expect to know where if you cant see the bigger picture. Find direction by stepping back. Further back. So far back it feels absurd like an acid trip that’s taking you to the death before your birth. Step so far back from your own life that it feels like you could fall off the edge. And then dive back in and never think about the places you’ve already been. Only where you could go.

Be occupied entirely by direction. Burn the bridges to your hometown if you have to. Get out of the cave while you can because it crumbles regardless. Don’t be distracted by other people and their somewheres. Be distracted by views that only you can see. By weather meant for you specifically. That orange ball behind the trees and leaves in a burning smile that seems to smile for you, because you got to see it. because you were standing just right in that moment for the ball to not burn your eyes and the leaves to cover up everything but a crescent of a smile.

Be distracted by whats meant for you. Be occupied entirely by your direction, enough so that you can think of something else and still know where your going. Leave that cave. Leave that job. Walk, walk, and walk. Eventually, you’ll know where you want to go. And soon after, you’ll find how to get there.

I’m writing this after leaving my job.

Nobody knows I left.

I’ll go back tomorrow and do the same thing.

Wait

Wait till it crumbles.

Last night, bought a bottle from LCBO and moved it from jazz bar to bar poetry to apothecary to dark alley, the CN Tower and walkin along kings st and queens st, strolling into theatres to see how far I’ll go till security catches on. always takes them too long.

Its the next morning and theres a way to be moving tonight. Towards history. No other way to put that. Biggest show in this part of the globe. Biggest. Home Country. And here we are, up where home is far far south. What happens at history stays as history. History, Canadian whiskey, and the American spirit to hold us down.

Holding the American spirit burning between two fingers to the lungs then spreads itself through the blood. The American Spirit burns with white ash and chars the snow black, blue smoke curling and a spirit of untamed, wild fire burning burning burning through a forest and turning the earth into a star in its own sky. Raging, raging, raging it burns it smokes it rises but only does it rise, rising into the sky and painting the sunset with clouds and the morning with a landscape breath but always into the sky it rises, it doesn’t fall back down, the spirit doesn’t come back down, it stays floating, as long as somethings burning, as long as its shining its showing the earth that we can hold the sun for a moment. moments too long sometimes. As long as somethings burning, the spirit lives on. When all that burns is gone... then maybe we turn back to canadian whisky and try to put on our nice faces. Crown Royal. A taste of fine de luxe.

Fine De Luxe. So fine because in canada, what is good is what is smooth and sweet and has hints of caramel that you can taste, and call taste, because in the cold you become sensitive to pain and start to avoid it as often as you can. Stay warm, stay fed, never feel the pangs of hunger that spur the fire to eat the forest. Theres no home for the wicked wild fire here. Only the fireplace and the candle lights behind walls that hide from the wind. The only fires that roar are accidents or rising out the chimney.

Smoking cigarettes J-walking Police cars and ambulances its a city like every other. The difference in the jackets and the quick walks and the style of homeless that move and dont move. First one, homeless sitting outside a church screaming at the “PSYCHOPATHS!” walking the streets. I go up and offer a cigarette, “OH SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS!”; the second one, walking into APPT 200 asking for change spitting while he talks the cold making his nose red and i’ll say its the first burn i’ve seen in my time up here, bartenders throw him out and back to the game of pool. To be homeless in canada, you gotta fuck up. and to fuck up that bad? You gotta have somethin in ya thats really clawin n clawing to get out.

Harveys is like waffle house here. groups n groups all drunk well past midnight. joints taken out and sparked as they walk out. wanting to fight each other for being inconsiderate. wanting to fight each other for not respecting the public properties. the canadians want to respect and will fight to respect. I wonder what they all drink. they eat like crazy. poutine? Fries and Gravy? Cmon. Theres gotta be something more to Canada than just eatin fuckin gravy fries and waiting to die. They all just seem to cheery and happy to be where theyre at. Almost makes me feel bad for being an american. for walking down the street through the mall through crowds with a devils grin and golems step and the crowds always move out the way with a twist and turn like water around a rock and i do laugh to myself. but its not fair. In canada, everything is easy. and as an american, everything is cheap. everything is sweet. Everything is backwards even. like looking at yourself through a mirror. its a reflection, but not the reality. A reflection.

The Canadian Spirit and American Whiskey.
Thats what im gonna need to hear from those harveys when they go down to waffle house. The Canadian Spirit and American Whiskey. A Reflection.

I walked into a bar. I ordered my whiskey and walked outside. There was no table so i grabbed a chair and stool from inside and made it my office. I started typing. People i’ve met before come outside so i say hello. They leave. I type away at my words.

People who i dont know come outside. up to me. They stick their hands out. Why? I look at him and i ask.

“You look like an intelligent person. So i wanted to shake your hand.”

I shake my head no, then look into his eyes with a pause and nod. He pulls his hand away and nods a of couple times looking to the ground as he walks away. I get back to writing.

The door opens and someone in a group starts yelling. Towards me. About me.

“Corn pipe. Whatcha doin. fella.”

I ignore them him till he gets closer. His friends following.

“Hey fella! Is that a corn pipe”

“are you talking to me?” I say without looking up.

“Who else here has a corn pipe”

“Just me” I say standing up. Looking into him. He stares back for a second and then puts his fist out to bump mine. I just look at his fist and then back at him.

“Oh — im not hostile” he tells me.

“I don’t fist bump strangers.” I say.

His friends call him away. I get back to work.

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Okay, i accept.

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Write about the emptiness, I told her. Like it was good advice.

Everyone writes about emptiness.

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Wisdom from the East says:

We are whole and powerful when we are connected to our other half.
Our division is keeps us powerless.

Man is not enough if he didn’t need another half.

And so biology lives with purpose of finding another.
rooted in survival. pleasure in reproduction. beauty in strong genes.

But beauty and strength are rarely given as free gifts.

And if they are, they are not maintained for free.

Its a gift like a white elephant.
but the elephant has tusks stained in blood and skin that stop bullets.

Its a gift you gotta feed. but one that lets you wage war.

Men today have no ambition for war. no point in losing a life we think belongs to us wholly.

We live in a world where biology is hacked to keep us caged.

locked into comfort
disillusioned with purpose

like a tiger walking its cage.

we should think the tiger happy to be fed, clothed, and kept safe.

but that’s prey perspective.
how can one understand the hunt
if one doesn’t want the hunt.

The tiger thinks of life in a series of successes.
failures.
fears overcome. missions completed.
nights passed, maybe.

It paces its cage to fuel the drive. back and forth. back and forth.

it eats because it must.
drinks because it must.
hunts because

Though men today are not tigers. not wolves.

Theyre deers. bunnies. sheeps. pigs.

Anything that runs from fear. Creatures to be farmed. or hunted.

Products to be harvested.

And not by animals that hunt.
but by machines that never want to hunt.
never want to work. never want to worry.

Machines that want to blow out the spark of purpose to light a fire for the high places.
To worship vanity. temporality. vice.

pushing vices because vice brings a man closer to death.

But in vanity, he dies in his life and misses the mark.

Cigarettes. A vice that raises death from the dirt.

Alcohol. A vice you can dance with.

Junk food. The vice that twists biology into comfortable sustenance.
teaching the body that living is guaranteed. that life isn’t survival.
teaching that life doesn’t have to be biological.

Porn. The vice that rips the power from our hearts and locks our fire behind glass:
to see the fire. watch the flame. never to know its warmth. or feel its pain.

Porn. The vice that sedates a man’s will like a pacifier dipped in brandy.

Porn. The vice of illusion. a vice of living death.

Porn. The draining of ambition.

How can any man be convinced he’s a descendant of God when his own biology tells him he’s an animal.

How can a society respect each other when the roots of connection are treated like an urge. something to quench.

Why would a man be anything but fully capable over himself.

Why does a man choose a pacifier in a world where speaking the mind is a gift.

Why does a man choose to be product rather than producer.

Why do we let it happen.

When did we allow ourselves to become so twisted,
to see our tattered reflections in the mirror and say:
“I am a Man. because i have a penis. That is all i need.”

No. A penis is not what makes a man.

At what point did men stop burning the world to make a better one in the ashes.

When will this illusion fall and the world burn again?

Where only the ones baptized in boiling water will feel the burn and know they’re home.

Only the men who taste iron in the morning and death in the cold night will be safe in a burning world.

And when that world burns. when the curtain closes. when the lights go out.

Only men who burn will be the light. despite darkness.
Will feel the life. despite death.
Will know light as, not something certain, but as something created.

So to answer the question.:

Why would you rather watch porn instead of growing up?

because everyone has a lighter.

and when everyone seems just fine.

Maybe being on fire is too much.

When everything seems certain. when the world seems unchanging.

Maybe being on fire is too dangerous. too uncertain.

And when you live in a world that expects the sun to rise every day.
that sleeps through the night with a comfortable dream.
and takes an aspirin anytime they feel pain.

Then lighting yourself on fire is not necessary

We take this life for granted.

Because boys sweeten their drinks and water it down. hoping to make life more bearable.

and Men take shots. to start swinging on life.
to feel a burn so they can start to know what the sun tastes like.
to take another because nothings gonna put them down without their permission.

and most men would rather watch porn
than run towards destinies darker than a void.

because most men look at a fire like its a danger.

like its a pain.

and they’ll never
know the light
because of it.

Bless the hunters.

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The mornings escape. They run like dogs on a hunt. The mornings hunt for an escape.

They come to me like clouds in a haze. They raze the night and burn all day. Black smog rising. Hazy, hazy daze.

Escape is soft. gentle. floating like a balloon into the sky. acceptance is best. makes it feel out of your control. because i dont want to chase mornings. i hate following clocks. but i love the sun. but the sun rises so quickly.

Mornings get out from under me. I love them, and i think they love me too. theres always a hello in the rising sun. a warmth and a recognition. though, again, it escapes. escapes, because it does not wait.

The best things do not wait. They rise and they fall. and without any strings . simply their purpose. The best things are on cycles of their own. revolving on an axis in accord with the grand purpose. Love god. Praise God.

Find God in the morning sun. Burning bright like blood stained letters. Damn, that sits right with me. Pouring out your life onto a page. i wonder what that looks like for others. how it looks for me.

I feel my blood doesnt pour out. it drips. it drips on letters and on sentences. comes out in ideas. my blood is my life force. my life force is my connection to the world. to the purpose in it. different for everyone. im glad i have some blood to spill. though, i have more. and it feels purposless the way i spill it now. purposeless....

i need to be surrounded by grandness. i suppose i need more gods in my life. more of the whole. the sun is enough to wake me. but it doesn’t burn me. it doesn’t kill me like i need it to. i need something that pains me. i need something that pains me.

thats why i love the sun. for as much warmth as it has, it has the strength to burn. harder. deeper. penetrating till my cells toast into cancer. i love the sun for how it bleaches hair. how lime juice stains skin. the sun is the steel spine of our universe. channel it, id say. Do it, because you can. The sun moves because it does, not because it should. and now that its moving, it aint stopping.

The sun doesn’t escape. The sun is locked into its path. Mornings escape. because mornings are dependent on me. a small window where the sun breaks the night. They escape... and with that escape. so does the power of a sun breaking the night. how can i expect to break through the darkest times if i dont stand to watch it every morning.

We forge our own meanings, whatever. but meaning is human. action, is nature. do not forsake action looking for meaning. do not miss mornings for a better day. Wake up, even just for a minute, to watch the sun do what we all must follow. Break the night. Barrel with light. Rising, despite.

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Temporarily in Control of something out of your control.

I wonder what thats like.

I first thought of being the driver of a trash truck. How heavy that wheel would feel. and how comfortable it’d be driving it anywhere. and what a feeling it would be if that wheel wouldnt turn out of the way when its barreling towards a person. Crunch. That heavy, heavy wheel. the vibrations in the seat. driver seat of a heavy, heavy force.

And then i thought the same could be said with addiction. likely. Feeling in control of something that controls you. like being in the passenger seat with a gas but no brakes and calling that control. always wrestling with a driver who isnt driving, but watching you, thinking boy this fucker is stupid

Its not easy being a writer. and funny how another one had told me yesterday, “do you need something to write?” and i laughed and didnt reply. I thought of responding with my vices, but I didnt. I kept them to myself like a secret with no key. open, to those willing to seek, because not everything closed is locked.

And to that I Say, Good Morning Sun! Another day on the floating rock, and without you to warm us, we are nothing but a cold and destitute rock. with no destination. But with the sun, with its warmth, add a little water and find life in its moles, and without a destination we have created one! Without anything but luck and perhaps, true fate, we have destination and telos. Purpose. Substantial or not, we find purpose simply for our life, for life cannot have no purpose. Right?

I suppose, life cannot have no purpose. In of itself, it has already become purpose. Their is no waddling in life, to put it as a quack. Theres no stumbling in it, a half life or an undone life. Their is life, or there is not (though the types of life can be distinguished, it wouldnt be for any reason but to say one life is more than another, which in its competition finds a new purpose in itself).

Life seems to live for that sole purpose, to live. Plants, animals, people, spirits. Living because they’re alive. not for anything but.

Sole existence becomes a telos, and from that i presume arises our fascinations with purpose. predetermined as fate. found and chosen as faith. or accepted in all the things of life, including death, suffering, love, and joy. In life, our purpose is to live, but *with* life, our purpose blossoms into many flowers. To learn, to teach, to eat, to be, to dance, to sing, to cry, oh to cry. I find solace in a life with purpose simply in life. A morning sun simply because the Earth spins, and a moon which faces us simply for the reality of physics. though, life is life, human life becomes so much more when you add a tinge of rational-emotion and our constant streaks of personification.

I think of the early gods, the greek pantheon and the norse myths. Serpents eatting time as their tail in never ending cycles. Beings immortal, which still choose human faults and vice over the virtue of their godliness. I wonder then, were the Abrahamics the next evolution of our psychological telos? Moving past being(s) into being, past personification of our mind into the justification of our souls? As guilty being, falling into temptation, though always able to rise back to the virtues of grace and godliness, for we are cut from that same cloth. and there, we realize a telos of our uniquely human spirit, one that even extends out to the plants and clouds as a hand which paints a purpose in them; as the human world is centered and balanced by everything outside of it, it becomes that the human world is what centers and balances as much as the outside of it. Thats to say, physics is here, not for any reason, but to allow the earth to come into being, and for rational-emotional minds to discover and thank its existence. “Thank”, now thats an interesting word choice. Something i might even place near the highest of virtues. Gratitude. Its in our prayers, and every language has their thank you.

What a cold world we would be without thanks and without gratitude. I could only wonder, can gratitude be warmth to the soul in the same way the sun is warmth to the earth? Whether its as potent, I cannot say, though id say no. But whether its as nurturing as that sun, Id argue it is and it is tenfold, because gratitude makes more of what we have, growing it like plants in the sun, and seeds we hold sprout early when intention is in alignment with purpose. and, as the suns purpose may be to warm our solar system, it may have a purpose outside of that. to nurture people. and as gratitude nurtures the soul, its purpose may also be outside of that. a form of self love in the experience of conscious peering into a mirror, seeing itself a thousand times over in its costumes and wet-moods, and loving each part in its whole like a father loving his struggle to help his son get through, by making his son tougher than he; as conscious makes itself more conscious of it all, until it folds into the whole from whence it came. That may be a rapture of sorts. conscious returning. Every conscious, returning. Back, wherever we came from....

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I assumed its just what i was supposed to do.
Sweeten up the bitter. Same thing with cream.
Lighten up the darkness.

Because everything is to make the bitter less bitter
and the darkness less dark. Less potent. Less pure.

And i’ll say, few tastes are as potent as bitterness,
and few things are as pure, as pure darkness.

Its interesting.

When i started drinking black coffee, it wasnt for the taste.
Zero calories and fat burning. thats why.

and time went on and i tried coffee and cigarettes. great mix.
disgusting in the mouth. great for the head.

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News Flash: You can capture freedom.

Cant tame it. Cant kill it.

You either have it and you know it.

Or your spitting out freedom’s white kids. Tasting piss and calling it beer. Eating shit and smelling chocolate.

Disgusting. Revolting.

Selling your only value to the clocks. Alarms. You only see the morning sun because you *have to*. have to wake up. for somebody elses hunt. as their dog.

And they’ll eat what you hunt. reap what you sow.

Because you won’t accept that sowing is being owned.

you’ll eat a single crop from the thousand and call it substance.

but what happens when that dirt goes stale and tomorrows crop never comes? your left starving while the man who feeds you sucks down milk and honey.

Until then, you’ll spend money and call it freedom. money on image. money on your power. your health. You spend money on the next thing. and the next. and you cant slow down or you’ll have to catch up.

You spend your time chasing. spending and chasing. spending, and chasing.

And that whole time, you didn’t even know you were being chased. and you wont know.

not until you feel that cold, sharp breath of death on your shoulder chilling down your spine. letting you drop dead before retirement from a heart attack you’ve been begging for because its the only way to rip that parasite from your heart.

the parasite that ate your passion. the parasite that ate your life.

and until then. you’ll give death blue balls watching you die, over and over. with every comfortable decision and with every choice towards the familiar path. bringing you down and down and further away from the only mountain worth climbing. and you pass by that mountain everyday and call it a dream. and everytime you step further away, and anytime you walk past the mountain and say “another day”, you kill yourself and dig a deeper, deeper grave.

and every morning you wake up. you’ll became a deader man walking. rotting till your nothing but bones on the walk to work. where even the wind blows through you. and everyone thinks your alive because they see your face and the mouth that moves like peoples’ do. without a smell to warn them your not alive.

without the smell to warn you that “your speaking to a corpse”.

but that doesn’t stop you from rotting. rotting from the inside till your a face on bones with no heart-beat. lungs that only move to let you speak.

and those words you tell yourself, the ones you speak only to move your lungs. they’ll be what betray you. not because you lie. but because when anybody gets close. when anybody steps up to hear you.

they’ll smell that rotting stench escaping on your breath.

and they’ll know your a rotten corpse who refuses call yourself dead.

that is, if theyre even alive themselves.

because to be dead means you were alive once. and thats the worst part about it…

The passion in your tone? it’ll dull and die as you speak. no more sharp words.

The fire from your youth? it’ll shrink to soot. its embers pissed on by every dead man you invite to your haunted home of dreams and ambitions. complete with a graveyard in the backyard, home to every original thought you covered under six-feet of sheep’s wool that you’ll call “the reason why”.

When youre rotting on the inside, that stench’ll escape in your breath. and get worse by the decade. escaping as scoreboards and sport teams. as safety from the sideline. living as a cuck the way your passion only exists for other men. their names spilt across your back with hundred dollar jerseys. stats memorized like their cheat codes to your salvation. their names dripping out of your mouth like the spit you use to please them.

and you’ll call it your life.

You’ll call that your life

and continue giving your dreams away to the people who should be convincing you to live up to them.

but you see running. and you call it a marathon.

one you didnt sign up for. a mountain you cant climb.

You’ll chase and call it hunting. You’ll spend time and call it the run.

but running doesn’t disappear into nothing.

running gets you high. running gets you places the way your supposed to. running will make you want to die and curse every step with your last breath. its a hunt for the only thing worth catching. caught only when you jump on its back and hold the horns so tight you make the crowd squeal. thats freedom.

True freedom.

From excuses. from regret. even from death.

because only Death can chase with a walk. knowing it already has what it wants.

but life? Life is for running. and not running because we have to.

running because we can.