Poetry — Sometimes all you need to recover your joy is to be neither holy nor wise. Just inhabit that quiet world behind your face where the awkward and tangled parts of you loosen and fall into rhythm. How you get there is up to you, but once you arrive, you’ll discover that this land is not governed by good or evil. I’ll meet you there.

the shared urge we have has slipped into the rearview. Until it is reclaimed and in plain sight, we will continue to fuel ourselves on fear and never risk being absolutely destroyed by love.

the quest for wisdom has stretched out for thousands of miles in the wrong direction. it is time for us to turn back and comb through the book of our heart. tides of greed will recede when we discover that a single page can direct the rest of our days.

Approaching the second mountain of this life, I long for peace, and today, the guidance comes from the parrots in the trees clicking their tongues. They are never confused nor tire of being what they are. In the tiny apartment by the river, the heat has no consideration and burns through all my delusions. All that is left are the seeds of an unlived life waiting to be watered.

Poetry — It was pouring so hard, that I could no longer distinguish the rain from my tears, but I stood there anyway. After a while, the urge to run washed away. Then, before me was the goal to make this journey free of suffering. And to realize I had failed at this mission was to also discover the raft that would carry me the rest of the way.

When you have walked yourself to the edge of insanity, and your bruised soul cannot access any other tools than despair, smile at your pain and hold it like it is your own child. Do this as long as you can. The world will go on, but you will stop and give yourself a chance to remember this: “When the search ends, you find what you need. When your opinions fade, clarity returns.”

Poetry — the moment you remember your resilience, recalling all the harsh fires you’ve walked through, at once the scars are stretched out that provide enough turf to take the next step.

I bring myself to the Macal gnarled and knotted from the American Grind. Maps soon become obsolete and the compass I relied on for so long has drowned itself in time. I stay until we merge and the sound of raw water rouses the blood rivers running through my flesh.