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Why Do I Write

Ive been queried multiple times by those naysayers, doubters, and losers amongst the crowd as to why it is exactly that I write. They wonder as to the financial recompense I recieve for my daily labor, whether each word promises a fraction of a dollar, however minute. While I won't divulge exactly what Ive written to earn money, I will admit that, while it wasn't a substantial amount by any means, it felt good to enjoy an exquisite plate of heaping linguine, bathed in olive oil and smothered in marinara sauce filled with simmering meats, knowing that my hedonistic meal was paid for entirely by virtue of the talent at the very core of my being. They attempt to mock, although their jeers ring as hollow as their vacant skulls, asking in jest why I use so many "big" words. In response, I'd venture to guess that theyve never whet their pallates with an aromatic, sanguinous wine from an exquisitely decorated caraffe as they enjoyed a succulent steak brimming with fresh blood. They've never known the seductive touch of a strikingly beautiful woman residing from parts unknown to them, instead settling for the mundanity of their plain, worn, unobstructive hometown girlfriends. They harbor no aspirations to leave their safe haven, to explore beyond the sterile, beige environment theyve known and occupied as a fatally comfortable cubby hole all their lives. Large, intimidating words that awkwardly grace the tongue like nails on a chalkboard are akin to a Trojan Horse carried out in reverse. At first they appear unsettling and inhospitable, yet if you give them a chance, they will satiate you better than the richest dinner, inebriate you faster than South Carolina White Lightning, and induce a more lucid high than the hottest new pill. To shun them is ineffectual laziness, and if this describes you, I havent the energy to fritter away on you. If you think these words are "big", read a fucking book, because, after two and a half decades of constant reading, Ive barely leveled the tip of the iceberg, and youre still landlocked afraid to drown. Repulsive.

Also, on a completely unrelated note, I wholly reccommend Southern moonshine. Great for drinking the memory of a cheating whore away, then waking up covered in vomit. Great stories are born from bad memories.

If I had to give up all of my other passions, the activities that define me as me, Id let them all go before Id even consider relinquishing writing. Even my beloved training, which is indeed integral to my identity, would unfortunately have to fall by the wayside. I can imagine no worse fate than, with pen and paper, keyboard and monitor, or thumbs and smartphone at the ready, being unable to articulate your thoughts onto the page. Like a colorblind artist, forever cursed to paint yet excluded from witnessing the vibrancy of his own creation, how horrendous it must be to have a veritable millieu of thoughts wandering racuously around in your head, yet be incapable of expressing them. Surely it must be what extreme mental illness is like. I write daily, and I attribute the process to digestion. Similarly to how our bodies must process and utilize the nutrients from the food that we consume, partitioning proteins, carbohydrates, amino acids and assorted vitamins and minerals to their respective destinations, feeding and strengthening the muscles before unceremoniously excreting the waste, our minds and souls must undergo the same procedure. A hallmark problem with our generation is information overload. We are exposed to so much that we are unable to produce solvent, reputable thoughts. Writing remedies this, whether its 100 or 10,000 words. The act is akin to placing a stethoscope on the pulsating rhythm of our subconscious, allowing us to siphon through the clutter and pablum, granting us insight, knowledge  and sanity. Writing is a salve for the spirit, granting a tonic effect to the soul, assuring us that everything will indeed be alright. Whether it is an expository essay analyzing a book one just finished or a heartfelt, deeply personally significant poem that shimmers with the unvarnished brilliance of honest effort, writing purges one of any ill feelings. Try it, what do you have to lose? Hell, last I checked, it was free.

The goal was never to be paid to write. Sure, in high school, peering out over the edge of my academic safety net wearily, terrified of the great expanse of nothingness known as "The Real World", I had fixations on a Journalism degree, English degree, or, if I wanted to really perpetuate a paper mache veneer of excessive maturity, a Communications degree, my heart was never in the pursuit of any of them. So, I did as a young man what I do now as a slightly older, slightly more mature(?) Man; I wrote, read and worked out. Eventually, although I was failing my classes abysmally, I was clearing $200-300 dollars a week writing papers for my exhausted classmates. It appealed to the hustling gambler in me, and I felt slick, earning more money than many of my friends were at the time simply by applying my talents, right under the everpresent eyes of The Man. After I dropped out, I began working several unskilled labor jobs, the drudgery of which, particularly my tenure at Wal-Mart, would rattle me so much with their demeaning obsolescence that I would run into the open arms and cackling sadism of Uncle Sam. And all the while, I wrote. Emerging stronger from a pivotal breakup, I found no greater, more steadfast companion than writing. A barren page, stretched out before me, flat, smooth and full of promise like the flatlands of East Texas, begging to be dug, plowed, seeded and wrought by the virile rainfall of my vocabulary. I made next to no money, but poetry would always sell to some literarily inept idiot trying to profess his love to his flavor of the month. Years later, floating in Neptune's domain, I wrote. Love lost, gained, unemerged, unfelt and unrequited. My ardor for travel and need to breathe, to live my own life. Eventually, those random bits of stream of consciousness journal entries would evolve from the original nucleus of my creativity and become this blog. Id discover how lucrative blogging could be through the likes of Victor Pride, Mike Cernovich, The Wall Street Playboys, Chris from Good Looking Loser, and countless more. To earn a living from pouring my blood onto these pages, digital or organic, would be a blessing confered by The Almighty Himself. But if you could assure me that, as long as I wrote, for my entire life or for one more day, I would never reap any fruit, harvest prosperity, or gain any monetary incentive, I would meet your eyes with a challenging blaze alight in mine, and snidely smile. I dont write for cash, I dont produce compositions, poetry, prose, debates and rhetoric for fame. I dont write for the world. I write for myself solely, for if I didnt I would definitely perish. Ive been blessed with an audience, and for that I am of course incredibly greatful, but I must admit that I create for myself chiefly. Thank you for taking this journey with me. Whether I inspire fantastical optimism or repugnant pessimism in you, Ive succeeded, because in a decaying, dying world, any emotion, no matter how fleeting, is a thing of beauty. Now take up your pens and create. The world is waiting.

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I cant sleep/
Because these damn bleat-/
Ing fat sheep/
Harass me/
With thoughts of home everlasting/
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Er back there or out be-/
Ing the bad dream/
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Le I've known, just last week/
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At work, I found these/
Hands swing-/
Ing grabbing/
Necks to gash and ring/
While attacking/
Panicking/
I stand, shriek/
And pass weak/
Guards, they cant catch me/
Tragedy/
Befalls actually/
Facts and brief/
Glass meet-/
Ings with a pastor week-/
Ly leaves me/
Seeking/
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Scheming/
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Screws/
Loose/
Unleashing/
Rage when they leash me/
Up like a dog, deep things/
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Veins running varicose/
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