This sucks, like sucks harder than a vacuum at a blackhole convention sucks. Miserable is probably a better word. Like a cold rain, on a chilly morning. Yet, this misery, this hell I dare say is my haven, my safe space. I’m a creator and this is my war.

I think we forget that we are all creators sometimes, not just the writers, poets, and artists but we create in everything we do. I think it’s why we are here and that it’s something only we can understand.

That potential to create is the voice that keeps you up at night, what I call “white ceiling syndrome” it’s a longing. Like the widow on the shore of the coast longing for her lost sailor she knows will never come, but the longing, the heartbreaking longing gives her meaning. Gives her purpose, a drive to more, to deeper, she suffers in the hands of that purpose, and in return that suffering grants her access into the deepest parts of her soul.

We all long for this kind of understanding, whether we admit it or not. We distract, dissociate, complicate and caffeinate our way out of it because when THE truth illuminates your life purpose, what stands before you is not a path, not a door, the title of a book, or the love of your life.

It’s a mirror…

FUCK it’s always a mirror, just once please just once be a cute girl with coffee or pizza, or a cute girl with pizza and coffee. Yet there I am, naked and afraid looking at nothing but my own vulnerabilities, my bleeding soul soaking the ground underneath me.

I stand there in my nudity, ashamed. Afraid. No not afraid, I’m mad. Fucking furious to be honest.

How the fuck was the end of the rainbow this. Me.

Yet here I am. Wait…

Here I am.

I am.

Holy shit batman, someone call Robin I think I just experienced a moment of presence.

Let me double-check that I’m not levitating, yeah we are still good.

Every day I wake up and greet this knowing, a knowing that we all have, that today we have 2 options.

1.) Same shit different Day.

2.) Listen to that man in the mirror and absolutely fuck shit up.

You know one of those pathways is the “right” one, if such a thing can be written, if such a thing can be understood.

It’s a calling.

It’s a calling out of the mundane, the extraordinarily mediocre and melancholy life you pretend to enjoy and to step into your misery.

To step into the fire of your own purpose.

Out of the pan into the fire.

That’s exactly what I’m doing right now in fact.

I proudly did the expected, got the doctorate, did the school. But then life said… “no no sweetheart, oh you beautiful stupid boy, you’re being a dumbass and wasting your life on standards instead of inspiration. This way young lad.”

(HIT BY A TRUCK, DAD DIES, BABY on THE WAY at 22, SINGLE PARENT, BROKE AF)

Life: “boom, just like this. Good job, you have arrived. Feels good doesn’t it. Shake off all that dead weight, must be freeing?”

Me: “Am I dead? I didn’t order this.”

I realized that a part of me did die, it’s terrifying because with that death came a loss of the known. I lost my compass, lost my map, and lost sight of the shoreline. I was officially drifting… Like being caught in the washing machine of a 5ft barrel on the surf line up, I didn’t know which was up or down, only that I was drowning.

But they teach you something when that happens, they remind you that you float and if you only pause, relax and allow the surface will find you, you don’t need to find it.

That is what we all must do.

Relax, and allow, even when it’s terrifying when you’re lost and confused.

Take it from the guy who spent 10 years in school to get my doctorate and is now writing blogs in a coffee shop, living the life of my unknown dreams.

The surface will find you.

My path was my misery, I found meaning in my suffering. Purpose in my reflection. Love in my fear.

So can you. We are waiting for you on the other side with a hand to hold, weighted blankets and a therapist.

See you soon. ❤️