the things i write about


there are days when you cannot stand up until you tell yourself that you are allowed to.

there are days when you need the steam to call out the tiny creatures in your face,

the ones that live in the twinkles of your motivation.

yawning and stretching, they wake up and push you out the door.

out the door of your creativity, that is. you like to hide a little inside the doorway.

there are days when your heart cannot start beating until your stomach is empty.

but not just empty, they need a fuel of fantastical energy. empty fuel that somehow ends up starting up your senses. a small miracle of sorts.


these crowns cost nothing, the ones woven together by pinching and pulling up little stars from the earth. and i rest it on the little girl sitting next to me, and i tell her to learn the way of the flowers.

the wild ones, the free ones.

the ones that need nothing to be beautiful, the ones that are able to afford the promise of life without giving more than their existence in return.

when jesus told us to rely on nothing more than the grace that carries us seamlessly through the days, we were to become like the flowers.

we are to soak in sunshine, the light in every form of brightness.


forget the metaphysical bullshit about the beauty of beginnings and endings.

the sunset is beautiful because of the colors. i like to bleed my stories with my emotions. i like to blend every personal watershed with every imagined character.

i like the way the sky can be at once both vivid and pastel.

i like the way only the good in the world is reflected upwards toward the heavens.

and i love the way that one look around me can restore my ability to appreciate a day and regain a lens with which to find the inspiration for a new thing to write.


our culture is obsessed with solidity.

why are the tables brown, why aren’t the cars bright? the drinks would be considered poisonous if they glowed a little. everything has become dull. and everything follows the same standard.

but even removed from artistic pursuit, i have a need to leave everything personally redirected for a more colorful path.

i have a habit of vandalizing my clothes, my furniture, my bible, my old vinyls with a bit of acrylic.

anything that was an expression of myself needed to adorn a minimum of a rainbow. because nothing ever stays consistent enough in life to be permanently one immutable color.


a way to color within the lines of grayscale.

i consider it a greater sin to censor than to speak with a liberated mind.

i consider it disrespectful to represent people in a muffled manner, to subdue their existence.

i believe in allowing art to confront reality, no matter how vulgar or intense.

i believe in portrayals that bring justice even within fiction.


i am too fervent a proponent of the universal ability to wrench hearts. to make souls lust. to anger the quiet in hiding.

i believe that creativity has a way of unleashing things otherwise inexpressible.

i scamper from exhibit to exhibit in museums, i stare at brushstrokes until my eyes are blinking tears. i devour words with the intent to find new ways to weave stories, i read and produce in prolific volumes. i walk throughout the world and scout for art that is sprouting leaves and climbing towards the sun, i am too supportive of the unacceptable becoming avant-garde.

everything has a capacity to be art

as long as it makes someone feel something.


my car is small, its mileage peaks a hundred thousand.

it has a certain musty smell that reminds every passenger of crayons.

it’s a second-hand volkswagen beetle that weaves haphazardly through traffic.

i like the way i can personalize every journey with evocative soundtracks. i like the way i can dance in perpetual movement. i like the way that a box carries me without me having to anything but spin a wheel.

i drive fast. i don’t know what i’m rushing towards. i think it’s just the possibility of preventing time wasted. i think it’s the invincibility that comes with what i think is indestructible youth.


sometimes, if it is just dark enough and the highway signs are tentatively obscured, i can convince myself that the path home doesn’t lead back to my dependable room with sunproof blinds.

instead, i could chase foreseeable footsteps all the way to someplace lesser known.

and sometimes, as i walk with one or two friends, carving ambulatory paths at our own will, i cannot quite place the end destination, all i experience is an eternity within the present.

but i know that if i just keep stepping forward, time does not travel backwards, and while velocity varies, my speed will always remain positive, existent, and insistently marching forward.

someday, somewhere, i will feel the change that comes with crossing worlds, i will realize that i have truly left for something new.

not belonging.

a little salvation exists in knowing that while this may not be the place for you, there is one. somewhere.

and as much as i know that the universe is constantly approaching disorder, i also believe that the universe is consistently expanding,

that “every five and a half minutes, the universe expands four miles,”

that there are beings and creatures besides the human just like

there are humans besides the ones that cannot adjust to the idea of me.

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