Fear has all the gravitational pull of a black hole, preventing anyone from making positive progress.

Courage, faith, trust, hope, dreams, support from those we love – this is the fuel mixture that lets us burn hot enough and fast enough to achieve escape velocity.

The level of trust demanded by the writing muses is staggering. Every time I feel I’m writing a significant moment (which always feels more like I’m documenting something happening before me, but that’s a whole separate post) I rarely know why, but I feel weight of the scene. Then, hundreds or thousands of words later, the “ah hah!” moment clubs me in the back of the head and I’ll know why that scene needed to stay.

I just hate not knowing ahead of time. The engineer and scientist in me lives in a petri dish of reason and fact, and is at odds with the artist, who happily burns brightly in a crucible of creative energy.

The arrogance of youth is rooted in a blindness towards mortality, just as the jaded cynicism and simmering anger of old age is rooted in mortality’s glaring inescapable spotlights. 

Some say the key to independent creative success can be summarized in one of two mantras: 

Constantly Create Content or Constantly Consume Coffee. 

I think they’re equally important. 

If you were in a desert and had water, but didn’t know and could never know how much water you had until you were out of it, would you run the desert hills and revel in the dunes and bask in the sunshine, or spend your days burrowed in the sand and only come out night? 

Isn’t it funny how everything and anything is more interesting when fast-forwarded or reversed or watched in slow motion? I can’t think of any exceptions. 

That level of interest suggests a powerful desire to view things outside of our own timeframes, an inner desperation to find a different tempo for our lives. Maybe to stretch out the good moments in our lives, or to fast-forward the rough patches we go through. 

Nothing corrodes as insidiously as time. 

You will die bankrupt if you live a life of sacrifice thinking you’re depositing into some kind of karmic bank. 

Balance selflessness and selfishness. Always balance. 

“I can make money doing anything!” is a vastly different thing than “I’ll do anything to make money.”

Is the suicide of a 65 year old less tragic than that of a 25 year old? If so, you’re implying time is the unit of measurement for life, and the loss of someone with 45 years left is worse than someone with 15. (Figures are for example). 

But what if the 25 year old is an alcoholic abuser, spending his 45 years hurting others, and the 65 year old is a recently retired union worker who now, finally, has the time to volunteer at eco cleanups and churches and hospitals?