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Early Morning Musings

The predawn hours of the morning are pure, unadulterated bucolic bliss. Tea in hand at long last, mind clear and heart heavy, my writing process is nonexistent. My soul weeps onto the page, my blood seeping into my canvas like flowing ink, a reverse tattoo. The passions of the night have begun their slow descend back underground, and the promise of the rising sun beckons. Yet, trapped here, stationary in purgatory for the all too briefest of moments, my physical location is irrelevant. I am finally home.

Amidst rising tensions across the ocean, I retreat imward. As much as I admittedly crave and relish in physical conflict, when it regards affairs of love and tears, I am the proverbial 97 pound weakling. When you are robbed of all that you hold dear, the old world that you were raised in by the providence of circumstance and the necessities of maturity, you drift aimlessly. When the rug was pulled from my feet and my reality collapsed downward, all that remained were exercise and reading, bathed in the light of God. That was nearly 6 years ago now, and although my shoulders have grown wider, my back rugged and my arms thicker, in private I weep, for I fear that I may be unable to carry this burden any longer.

Her voice is the choral embrace of a pack of Angels, serenading me softly and solely, a blessing for this sinner continually dangling over an infernal pit. When caressed by her song, words become a glorious harmony, their syllables aural ecstasies. Her eyes reflect the innocence left in me, breathing fresh air into the remnants of a withered husk. You see me. Are you aware? Who knows. Greater things may happen.

Lately, I've been distant, silent and contemplative. Im hesitant to speak to people, and relish in the anonymity of the city. As my body shifts once again, ad fucking nauseum, back to being cognizant during normal waking hours, I am understandably anti-social. Ive recently discovered a new coffee shop, a haven tucked away in an intimate little corner of Waikiki, untouched by consumerism and crawling with UH students. Despite what some may believe, I do enjoy conversation and broadening my social circle. My reluctance to speak at times is fueled by a low-grade paranoia regarding people's intentions, and fueled perpetually by a fatal case of misanthropy. My guard isnt simply up, it's erected in steel and encased in concrete. Ive been burned by those I once carried close, and refuse to make the same mistake twice.

Words swirl in whirlwinds around my skull, plaguing me by situating themselves into paragraphs begging to be recorded and poems lamenting their lack of expression. I recall reading of Solomon Shereshevsky, S for simplicity's sake, a victim, or beneficiary, depending on your perspective, of synesthesia. A medical condition that results in the intermingling of senses due to "cross wiring", as stated by Dr. Alexander Luria, his condition was undeniably unique. Essentially, he could taste sounds and see tastes, and everytime he engaged something with a tactile rub, a kaleidoscopic choreography of abstract images would appear before him spontaneously, completely uncontrollable I feel afflicted with the same malady regarding language. I welcome this curse with ravenous enthusiasm, as I have from the age of 3.

I've been attacked for my so called lack of compassion, which I find hilarious and egregious. Though these following admissions may seem like that most abominable of trespasses, virtue signalling, Id remind my intrepid readers (all 3 of you, not counting those snickering cocksuckers on the watchfloor, fuck you Holman), that Ive never spoke or written of them until now. I once bought food for a block of homeless people in San Diego. I regularly stop and pray with the streetdwellers occupying these beaches, and have protected the financially displaced by warding off potential attackers numerous times in 3 different major cities. Im benevolent, caring and warm, but only when it is warranted. Eeking out sensitivity to all parties will leave your heart desolate and your spirit drained. I am loving towards the single mother with kids in tow, the elderly regardless of addiction or gender, and unequivocally devoted to the recovery and flourishing of veterans. As long as I have able means, they will be saved. The man in his mid-20's "finding himself", entitled drug addict, and the generally lazy who justify their negativity with effusive overzealousness, however, are human pigeons to me. Id sooner burn money in a trashcan then waste it on them.

Politics have become a battering ram for those with agendas to propagate, all under the guise of progress. Make no mistake, progression is the end goal, but when it's diluted with greed and pointed in any direction but that of the greatest collective good, it regresses from the needle in the compass of evolution to a syringe filled with fatal social, economic and personal poison. Of course, the idea of absolute good and morality is subjective based on ones desires, ethics and beliefs. Yet, naught but a modicum of sense is the requisite for differentiating between basic right and wrong. Don't harm others if you don't agree with their choices, so long as they pose no threat to you, the helpless and the blameless. I subscribe to the Libertarian view of live and let live. Let someone be trans, so long as they don't sully and stunt a child's natural growth process with the artificial hormones required for a change in gender. Legalize weed and let others grow and distribute it, but never allow hard drugs to see the legal light of day. You can casually smoke a blunt, but a shot of heroin or a hit off of a meth pipe isn't a sane way to calm your nerves after a rough day. This is just my take, but it's one I believe in. Personal views are not facts, but they form the base of the lens one uses to see the world.

Memento Mori.

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