“When you write me into your story, don’t set my end in stone. Feel free to let me go. I’d like to join your story, but remember I have my own.”

I don’t think anyone really gets my attachment to the little things. They call it insignificant and say that it is what it is. I think it all adds up to what we stand for. The little things add up to something meaningful and so does the complacency.

I bear the fruits of your memory in the expression of my art for that is what you gave to the world.

Body and mind aren’t separated. And so all these things I write, they are felt in the aches of my heart.

I grew up learning history about communities that would support their people (the idea that it takes a village), but all I see are so many people left on their own.

When the silence fades and now sounds begin to bloom, I will grow to feel calm again. Healthily this time.

My words decay. I grow as they fray, unbecoming in the passage of time.

I overwhelmingly write from sadness – in songs, in prose, in verse.

I search for comedy scripts / I watch happy shows / In hopes that laughter will be the remedy I end my day with.

I hide myself in the galaxies of my creations – unsure of who I am beyond that.

I wonder why I’m so empathetic, why people perceive me to be so kind. I don’t want my heart to burn when there’s no one burning mine.

We walk in circles, never knowing when to end the cycle our hearts put us in.

Somewhere the silence resonates, the clutter clears, and you’re set to start again.

And so, my ‘What if’s’ became ‘What’s next?’

Why is it that you have more practice describing weaknesses than strengths? It’s not your fault they never went to the lengths to teach you how to value your strengths.

It felt vulnerable to have people know my weaknesses, but there is so much strength from going back to the start and re-determining who you are.

Let go of the honey-sweet lies for the bittersweet truths.

I was coming to the end of a difficult period in my life, though when the end isn’t in plain sight, you don’t realize how close you are.

By the end of the 1950s, American cars were so reliable that their reliability went without saying even in car ads. Thousands of them bear testimony to this today, still running on the roads of Cuba though fueled with nationalized Venezuelan gasoline and maintained with spit and haywire.

To be what we are, and to become what we are capable of becoming, is the only end of life.

To become what we are capable of becoming is the only end in life.

The pursuit of peace and progress cannot end in a few years in either victory or defeat.

“Toward what end, toward what end?”- but do not ask it too often lest you pass up the fun of programming for the constipation of bittersweet philosophy.

The Communist bloc of old was a study in the failure of failure. Losers in the Soviet economy were the people at the end of the long lines for consumer goods. Worse losers were the people who had spent hours getting to the head of the line, only to be told that the goods were unavailable.

It was a real education, going right from the consumer end to the record factory.