My thoughts are clearly cloudy. I have the vision in front of me and finally have the keys to crank the ignition of the Ferrari I need to get me there. The road is hazy and unclear. I sit in idle. I’m waiting for competition. I’m waiting to see if anyone sees through the haze as I do. I’m waiting on my family. I’m waiting on my wife. I want to hit the gas pedal and speed toward my destination while blasting Kid Cudi, Chance the Rapper, Childish Gambino, A$AP Rocky and Kanye West to fuel my best and worst choices. I want to enjoy the ride. I want someone who wants to ride shotgun and lookout for obstacles as we all move faster. I’m moving out of the feeder road of life and entering the 10 lane autobahn. I have to navigate these new waters. I grow impatient. People are dying around me – they have already died – even though some of them don’t even know it yet. Zombies on the highway. Obstacles. They sit and stew in their own stench of death and silent subservient acceptance. People want to keep their heads down in the hopes that life will comfortably pass them by. Their screams are piercingly silent. But I can hear them. I scream out loudly – no one seems to hear. I scream in wife’s face – she’s too in tuned with her own torment to see my yelling. Sometimes I’m grateful for her apathy. Growth comes from pain if we learn to embrace the shame. No one has this shit figured out. No one is living in their expectations of their own self. We define ourselves in false dichotomies. We’re either winners or losers, right? We’re either bold or silent. We’re either strong or weak. He’s either a champion or a deadbeat. She’s either a saint or a slut. None of it is true. Most of us play all of these roles. Fear drives us. There’s really no such thing as the American Dream – and wildly enough, I’m still going to achieve it – and redefine it. What is sadder than wasted potential? The fuck if I know. Perhaps a child who will never know their own greatness because their lives were cut short. This is what a rant looks like. This is how my mind works. This is a regurgitation of thought spilled out on a page. This is me inking my eternity. This is me predicting the future. These are breadcrumbs. These are bricks of a foundation. This is cutting through the clutter. This is free therapy. Don’t mind me, because this is fucked up. I’m fucked up. We’re all a little fucked up. This is me not under the influence. This is me lonely. And I’m still all powerfully powerless. I’m momentarily out of focus. I’m still driving. About to hit the gas. I have the keys now. “Foot on the gas – I’m just trying to pass, all the red lights and the stop signs. I’m ready to go.” I keep stopping myself.



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