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The Terrace

I never imagined that I'd be writing this here in Hawaii of all places. I was the kid who wasted his potential, the wunderkind that sullied his genius through the pursuit of prestige and neglect, the prodigy that nearly failed out of high school pitifully. Now, a little over 3 weeks from my 26th birthday, Ive stepped back to reflect, as anyone of above average meaning and consciousness is apt to do. At 17, I would fantasize about traveling the country playing cards, busking, guitar firmly in hand, and writing, producing a sustainable living with my words. Less than a decade later, Ive made $1000 in less than a week off of an investment of $100 in the poker rooms of San Diego, had my poetry published in a variety of online magazines, and have recorded music with independent artists in 3 different states. Ive traveled the world and been inducted into the famed Order of Magellan. In short, Ive done everything my detractors deemed outside of my reach. If this seems self-aggrandizing, it is. I seen a girl on Facebook today bragging about leading a guy on for 6 months straight, before unceremoniously dumping him, defending her actions as "the law of the jungle". Some contemplation and a deletion later, you can bet your ass I'm prideful. In a world where the talented are reviled and the weak are bequeathed sainthood by solipsistic degenerates, I will be distinctive in my self-assuredness and confidence.

Art and creativity will always be the meaning of my life, the purpose of my existence. The ability to write well, articulately and eloquently is inextricably tied with visualization, the key to my memory. This allows me to reframe even the most mundane tasks as personally significant, which, I've learned over the years, is integral to moving forward in life. No one likes to do what they feel no natural inclination towards, so we're all really left with two simple choices. You can allow your spirit to die and fade away, marred by tedium and mundanity until it decomposes into endless wisps of directionless, irrrelevant smoke, or you can take control of your fate. When I worked at Wal-Mart unloading trucks, I felt demeaned and embarrassed. My friends were all gone away excelling in their focuses, pursuing their dreams with the carnal, avaricious hunger of a starved predator. Meanwhile, I was ditching 2-3 shifts a week to hide away at Barnes and Noble and Borders to consume books, or secluding myself in the gym, doing pullups and handstand pushups until my arms were leaden and encumbering. Yet, despite the way I felt at the time, I long for that period daily. Unbeknownst to myself, I wasn't toiling in obscurity, carving out a niche meaningless to all but me. I was fighting with my mind and body, all we really have, to reveal a future that remained devotedly adumrate. With each rep completed and word imbibed I internalized the rejuvenating lessons that would become my personal commandments. My dead end job transformed, through an early, archaic mindset shift, from a dungeon designed to waste my youth and sap my energy, to a training ground designed specifically for me, narrowed solely to helping me achieve my goals, no matter how vague. I emptied the truck with the unrelenting speed of an untamed stallion and strength of the alpha, unchallenged and undefeated silverback. Never cave when accosted by incessant, overbearing pressure. Never give up.

There was a terrace in Dubai, outside of a tea shop that seemed to be staffed solely by preternaturally gorgeous Mediterranean women,  that brought me the closest to peace I had felt throughout my entire deployment. The Middle Eastern sun was harsh and unforgiving, bearing down upon our exposed skin with conscious ferocity. Yet, at around 5 or 6 in the evening, that great ball of eternal fire would rise behind the looming clouds, coalescing into a kind of balmy shade. I wrote some of the greatest poetry of my life there, prose and lyrics that will never be published, for they belong to me solely. Treatises on overcoming anxiety and grief, love letters born of an unrequited devotion to the angel that rescued me from the depths of grief brought by the loss of a soulmate, and stanzas dedicated to my beloved Mother that still cause me to breakdown, even now, when Im moronic enough to unsheath them from the dredges of my endless notebooks and journals. I know Ive spoken and written at length about my distaste and plain disgust for the Middle East, but that doesnt change the sheer fact that Arabic and, yes, Islamic, culture, when seperated from the extremist factions, are pristinely and passionately beautiful. My hatred comes from the hypocrisy of the region, specifically regarding the "sin" of homosexuality. Being bluntly succinct and forthcoming, it's fucking bullshit of the highest order that my gay and lesbian friends couldnt exercise their natural, God given right to freedom and expression of love under penalty of death, yet the revoltingly effeminate bitch boys carousing about in makeup and cut off pink chinos could flaunt their depravity and weakness in front of the local "authorities" with no fear of reprisal, simply because they were locals. Thankfully Ive grown past my ignorance regarding my own intolerance of homosexuality, but I will never relinquish my vicious odiousness towards weak, effeminate males, regardless of their sexuality, religion or race. Having been blessed with the privilege of serving with several gay men, patriotic, honorable and dutiful men, I can devoutly say that Id take them watching my 6 then any of these malnourished, soy infused and estrogen poisoned heterosexual "men" Im forced to encounter daily. Seriously, fuck them.

Im going to perform at a poetry slam in Chinatown in a few weeks. My poem has already been written, with nearly egregious ease. Now that the rough paint has been strewn about carelessly and casually on the canvas, the arduous, but delicious, part makes its return. I will whittle, chop, cut, saw, polish and shine every syllable of every word until my piece is perfect. Expect a video.

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