I discovered today, that my stepmother and stepbrother have died. No tragedy I’m aware of, just a life of abuse upon themselves. For reasons unbeknownst to me, my brother made a trip by the place where our dad used to live. It was run down and condemned. Our sister upon reading this in our group text posted the obituaries of the two. Bryan died in December of last year, and his mom in May of this year. I’m not at all surprised by the news, just a little shocked at my reaction I guess. I haven’t spoken to them in a very  long time. After Dad died in 1996, she disposed of his ashes without any of his children being present. There was a divide present that was never approached again. She and Bryan had assumed possession of all of Dads meager  belongings, even after I had told everyone I wanted his hunting and fishing gear. He and I had spent the vast majority of our times together enjoying the outdoors. He first took me fishing at two years of age. That was the special times he and I shared. They came along after that foundation was already established between my Dad and I, and their hi jacking his things to hold onto something so dear to me, as if they were somehow a part of all that. I wasn’t about to stoop to their level to attempt to gather any scraps of material possessions to preserve the memories associated with  them. I chose to walk away and disconnect from them and their disrespect for my wishes. My sister and brother similarly disconnected for much the same reasons. We were quickly shuffled aside with regards to his personal effects, and she got beneficiary and survival rights to all of his assets, so his children were ushered away empty handed. I guess that was to be expected from the man, who abandoned us to start another life away from us to get whatever fucked up piece of mind away from our mom. That’s what left my siblings and myself reeling as children, and struggling in our own individual reconciling of the whole traumatic experience. I was singled out and told two weeks before he even mustered up to tell our mom he was leaving. Maybe this is where I write my story, and define my ambition to write. Not simply my understanding or perspectives to the problems and promises of the world around me, but the thoughts that make me who I am...


...(to be continued) 


  #being me 


That feeling that comes from being the person you want yourself to be. Satisfaction never tasted so sweet as when your sense of self aligns with your actual self. The comfort provided by this inner peace is what all sentient humans strive to attain. Gone is the anxiety of “what if” along with the regrets of “what could” as the realization of the now rings louder than any other aspect of consciousness. 


Yet, this is only the beginning of ones enlightenment into this self fulfillment. A foundation of sorts to build out the complete structure of a life well lived. Finding the courage to resist paying back all the emotional debt accumulated by you, and stopping just long enough to shine your forgiveness down upon those same debtors owed to you.  


Loving others, in the way we love ourselves is the crescendo of personal ascension in life. Suppressing our ego's yearning  and not betraying our motivation to truly connect to that part in others we feel in ourselves. Peace lies at the doorstep of our ability to transform the possessive child in all of us, to the emotionally evolved being, we all long to somehow be.


Time is the commodity of life, that no one can hoard. No matter how hard we try, it slips through our grasp each and every day to pile up behind us as the memories we hold onto. Realizing, it's not about what we've done, but what we're doing transforms the heart, as well as the soul.



"Holiday fudge..."


Out of any ordinary circumstance arises this whimsical extravaganza of the imagination we identify as fantasy. Close enough to reality to maintain our attention, yet far enough removed to feel like a safe alternative. Is this how we reconcile the hopes we fail to achieve, or how we pacify the failures we can't accept. The truth gets tossed around so much, we can hardly recognize its purpose some days. Homo Sapiens are the creators of the lie. There's never been a single member of our species that hasn't perpetrated this human born concept. The concept of fantasy is simply our way of justifying that lie to ourselves. Purity is a myth born in shame for fear we can't measure up to an ideal so much bigger than the loneliness of being a single solitary entity.


"Misery deserves company..."

Relief from the mundane ordinary of everyday life gives the emotional slavery a sense of freedom. Contemplating growth and development scares the fuck out of most of us. We much prefer excessive rationalization, where accepting our shortcomings is so much easier than overcoming them. The anxiety of being alive can overwhelm the absolute best of intentions. Figuring out why we are even here, and what we're supposed to do with the limited time that represents is the human condition. Finding peace between the realization you are someone and the finality of that creates this overwhelming desire to understand. Alignment of all those moments in between to some sense of purpose carves away at the struggle of our why. Words are the tools we have crafted to soothe this paradox of why. Through these symbols of our purpose, we share ourselves to the rest of humanity hoping we are not alone.


"Revered for their symbolism...British families once rented pineapples to express status."

Imagining ourselves outside of what we are surrounded by must give us something for our efforts. Fantasy transcends status in a way few other outlets offer. Even the noblest of hierarchy pursue their imaginations. As a younger man, I used to imagine myself as a famous athlete. It thrilled me to fantasize about being the best player on my favorite team. It wasn't about praise from others, but more about a result from putting forth my best efforts. Being a winner.