You were born to tell a story.

When I wake up, I start to play the game I was warned about in my dreams.

Afterimages glaze over my eyelids like under-developed photos of the streetlights last night, but today it’s the sunset framed by chemtrails and the crickets don’t console me anymore as hard as they try and as the world glows pink no one knows what I think in a blink everything goes dark and the view turns into stark outlines of vague buildings and trees and the sky is transformed into a sea of birds singing their last songs of tonight and I try to set the chemtrails on fire. My head is a whirlwind of unfulfilled desires and secret wishes to become something less tethered.

Some people go free like grandfather clocks that stop ticking, finally.

I think I’ll stay here for a while but that doesn’t mean I don’t want out; staring into the void until the world shifts to pulsing patterns is easier than listening to the messages that are trying to walk out of the posts on the street.

MAYBE I missed the biggest part but I simply feel that there’s something else there, mostly I stare to rip through the fabric of what I’m seeing to glean a deeper meaning but it’s still just silhouettes of trees and I’m still here, trying to crack mysteries like I crack my knuckles, and sometimes there’s nothing to be found out.

If you’re one that needs rules I suggest you don’t read this book.

We suggest you take a deeper look.

I considered catching my death today but that seemed too easy, no reason really and it made me feel so silly, to think I want to die when I haven’t even turned twenty-five and there are eighty-year-olds that still cry for their mothers– I’m just not sure whether another day will make the oppression dissipate– why do we follow stoplights when there’s the gas pedal to press that will make us fly farther than we’ve bothered to test?

I digress I just want to make it plain that we have choices to make whether or not there’s skyrocket stakes, sometimes the painful thought takes the cake before the one that gives us meaning comes clean to our psyche.

FRIENDS there’s more out there to see!

Or at least that’s what I’ve told myself so I don’t believe that I am going to live the rest of my life for the end purpose of turning to dust– the motes we breathe used to mean something to someone and that’s what terrifies me most– the ghosts of our past and present still linger with us and they’re not doing anything else but haunt us for a purpose we don’t KNOW where we go but I’m still willing to push the envelope and uncover the burning-fire-ashen mystery of our final destination.


And now we begin to play the game that the creators thought would never come to be.

Here we see the reality of nothingness and the insubstantiality of everything that is. Here we exemplify the dastardliness of daring to see something different than everyone else sees. Here is reality deconstructed and recreated and taken even further than it’s ever been. You don’t quite understand it yourself– but we will guide you along in a roundabout fashion.

Here we go.

Like attracts like, that’s how it’s been since the beginning of me, that’s who you are programmed to be. Nothing is coincidence, right? Well, what if you followed every subtle nuance of who you are– never missed a turn, never doubted a single impulse, feeling– what if you acted on everything¬† you wanted to do? What would you become? Who would you create? Death is the perception of leaving this world for another but it’s simply the becoming of everything. What do we constitute as death? What does death become? What if you were able to stay yourself even through death? Would you be the same? Would you turn into a million other things? Where would you be? Of course this is the definition of godliness but that’s not where we’re going with this. What if you became something other? What if you created something larger than that which is God? Is it possible? Is anything impossible? Can you, as an individual source of God transcend all that which it is?

Maybe, if you know how to do it.

Maybe, if you let yourself go.

Maybe, if you remember all that you are.

Keep up.

We are the expression of that which has never been, of that which is, of that which wants to be. We play in tandem with what is but you know we’re the alternate route, the road not taken.

Poor humans, lost in the stagnation of routine and complacency, repeating the same over and over again, so lost in that spiral that even what seems new is old beyond what you know. So, what then? How do we turn that road to the everlasting daydreams that man dares not pull entirely to consciousness?

We are new, we are old, we are you.

You have but to remember.