Lights smear into speed. She presses against me on the subway — warm, charged. We don’t speak. Just the hum of two bodies in contact. Look at your phone and you miss it. Kill the screen and it runs through you. The spark is quiet, like circuits in the walls. Invisible, yet strong enough to burn the house down. The feed floods back. Static drowns the charge. Are you alive to the current or already a dead wire?

You can project every image of who you wish to be and still be left with nothing but the receipt.

The darkness folds over the day, and I lie on my back typing, wondering where the conversations are—those that refuse to remain trapped inside the mind. Few are willing to touch the honesty demanded of a man under the gaze of eternity. Not the rehearsed honesty that performs for the crowd, but the kind that burns inward, that asks tends to a question without deflection, without retreat into the shelter of former beliefs. Someday there will be another who steps into that furnace. One person who sharpens as fiercely as they are sharpened. That is the only blade worth touching: the one that exposes what has been hidden, and dares two to take a swing at life. The world grows dull when it reduces itself to games, virtuous or not. I long for a challenge that costs more than money or hours. Let the price be belief. Let the veils be torn. Let every surplus of self be caught and ripped away by something spinning and sharp. If these words startle, let them. I was never meant to play the game as it is, but I will find one to play.

Your biggest problems aren’t what you can’t see. They’re what you refuse to look at: ⚡️ Energy wasted on distractions 💰 Money leaking silently ⏰ Time surrendered to low-value habits Every day you ignore it, the leaks grow.

There are two people inside you. One who sees. One who refuses. And every time you look away, the second one wins. Which one is running your life today?

If who you were survives who you’re becoming, you’re still stalling.

I’ve tried to write perfect things when honest ones would’ve done. They strangle me as I write. The voice dies. The breath stops. When I write to succeed, I know it’s trash. Every pause leans toward applause. Yet no one’s watching.

Most people think they’re asking for help. But what they’re really doing is begging to be saved from the one thing they refuse to face.

Tiny yellow mushrooms crack through the dead log beneath me. Action.
I write to stay off the grooved path.
Unsettled, and not looking to be settled. Raising the stakes is only the way not to stagnate.
If I live, it should cost me something.

My attention is beat by anything that doesn’t sweat.
I cannot read unless it burns.
If you’ve protected the reader, you’ve hid from yourself. Across the pond, the water ripples, then fades. The sky appears.
The crow call nags at my ear. It wants action…

“I’d rather be broken open in the forest than intact and dead among the living.”

The truth has always stood in plain sight. You just refused to accept it. People don’t hide. They announce themselves in every motion. You see it. You aren’t confused. You are loyal to a fantasy. Addicted to a version of them or yourself that never existed.

The hand obsessed with outcome isn’t creating—it’s curating. It combs the surface, shaping echoes of someone else’s desire. But deep inside, something wild waits—and you skip it because you know: it demands what cannot be outsourced.

The Creator's Stand

Reclaiming the creative act from the algorithmic age

But the man with nothing but a gut instinct and the weight of his death, is the one who builds his own lifeline.

Everyone’s addicted to time. Counting it, managing it, fetishizing it like it's the currency of greatness. But time is worthless without pressure. It's not time that moves you—it’s the threat that time might run out. A life without death isn’t a gift. It’s a joke. A long, slow joke where you rot in potential while you tell yourself you are “making a living.”

You can be whoever you want, as soon as you decide that the only way there is to die. You want to feel alive? Then stop waiting for permission. Die to what you are. And don’t crawl out— erupt. Leave nothing of the old self behind. Not a footprint. Not a whisper. Only the mark where you refused to stay small.

You move like the pulsing fingertip of Michelangelo. Like the shunting blood through DaVinci’s dissected veins.

The biggest stressor of your life is carrying the corpse of who you “have” to be and performing like he’s still alive.

They see something they lost, in me. Something that died in them without ceremony. Something they no longer believe can be recovered. And now it’s in front of them—half-naked, sun struck, barefoot, smiling like a man who stopped asking permission to be alive.

Decide one time that it is going to be different forever.