I came here to delete everything.

I came here to delete everything. I keep wanting to press reset on all the projects I didn’t finish, so I get to an empty page.

As a friend once said, “my pen is full.” What they said was much longer and more beautiful than that. Now, I keep hoping that the emptiness of the page will somehow speed me up against the weight of black ink.

If I just hold on to this emptiness longer, when we finally start moving, words and me will take off and never return. I’ll speed away in an electric car and giggle about how writing was my only true love.

I’m wondering if the fog-filled forests of our imagination protect us. Take me somewhere good, somewhere safe, somewhere I can let my guard down and really feel the majesty of something else. Of someone else. Of someplace else. Someplace where I don’t have to try to prove my worth.

To explore your imagination, is to nurture the potential of your inner jungle? Forest? Mountain? Temple? And after training on that sacred and majestic land, you must once again go back into the populated world to make a difference with people.

Altruism and feeling that you are one of many, and that the human race is full of so many others. Beating hearts, clunky, beautiful, starved, beating hearts. And there I go, falling, cascading backward into all the ways I can try, but never can manage to achieve, loving the unique ways that stories make the person. The more you hear, and see, the more the tiny video of someone else’s life is being made behind your eyes. You can see them younger, and in love. You can see them stronger, fearless stubborn bastards. You see them before “the incident” that made them who they are now, and you love them for all the changes they’ve gone through. You see them being terrible, horrible, someone unrecognizable, and it makes you cry, uncontrollably. You see them breaking in ways you didn’t think people could break, then they build themselves back up, and it makes you cry, uncontrollably.

I’ve fallen in love with artists my entire life. But I see art in everything, the way you wake up in the morning, the depth of your voice, the speed and style you move around in this world, how you fit into your family, the ways you can love someone, why you like that song, the things on the wall, the seriousness of your letters, the recipe for your cornbread. A good majority of these falls have been to artists I do not know, but for the way their work awoke something in me, just a little bit more — piece by piece.

I wish I could always have every book I’ve ever owned around me at all times. I want to flip through the book that Barbara Jo gave me as a graduation present. The artist died at an early age, and that hurt as much as some of his art felt like a home I never knew.

Perspectives can be so oppressive, I don’t know why that is a human impulse, but I believe it can be understood. Would we rather fight ourselves into oblivion or cooperate and protect the future of so many?

Dear Prudence. Yes, the power of data, but what if data can ruin the chances that would make all the difference. What if data told you that the average person hated the experience, but that experience, would have been your defining moment.

Related posts:

I got behind on my mortgage and am working on a mod and some new sources of income. However, the bank (BOA) has been hitting my credit for every 30 days I am behind. Every time they hit it loses over…

Healthcare AI has gained high popularity in recent years but it traces its roots to the forming years of the ’70s when Stanford University developed MYCIN- the first significant healthcare AI-backed…

According to the dictionary.com, the word extraordinary means something remarkable or exceptional. Every time we hear this word uttered about someone or something, it sends a sense of awe, surprise…