Dread Pirate

My stance on marriage hasn't changed much over the years, but has grown clearer as time moves on. It’s not something that has ever appealed to me. And I don’t intend to discourage those that believe in the structure of it. But I would love to articulate how I feel without alienating those readers, so I’m going to give it a shot.

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A guide to loneliness

I adore silence. Nature. The clacking of my keyboard. The spinning of my pen in between my fingers. Not speaking, or attempting to listen and be a part of another's conversation. Just me and my mind--which sometimes backfires--conjuring or conversing within itself.

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Allow Me to Recluse Myself

When the technologically inclined began to migrate into this digital world, so did strategic marketing, optimization, and consistent self-promotion. People knew that--due to the reach of the thing--the internet would be the best place to sell one's self. It's been that way for me. Generally, it has worked. 

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Speaking My Language

The more of yourself you feel you have the ability to put into the words you intertwine, the clearer the liquor will be. Distill it. Soak the wooden pages in your voice. A detachment from brain to ink is extremely effortless to spot, and disingenuous phenomenology is a terribly tough chew.

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To the Moon and Alone

I can still picture the face of ten-year-old Derrick Lamb, as our ignorantly despondent elementary school teacher informed him that his desire to reach the moon was a bit of a farfetched idea. It began a destructive conversation, that ultimately ended in Derrick changing his mind.

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The Odd Art of Inspiration and It's Irony

Whether it's inspiration in the real world, or inspiration through someone else's creations, these flights of flattery, that we think another anything is good enough, neat enough, different enough, that we immediately want to create out of some sort of ritualistic sacrifice. Like an ode, or grave flower on the headstone of someone we probably don't even know.

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Phenomenolapology

When approached by a stranger, a reader, a friend, or loved one about my addiction to phenomenology, I lack the proper words to reach that point where one person understands the other. At an alarmingly sad average.

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How to Publish Nightmares

But here I sit, staring at three --  ... no... four now --  drafts just waiting to be published. And I am struck by a fear I haven't felt in a long time. That this isn't a safe place for me anymore. What could have caused it? Where did I go wrong? Fuck...

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How my need to be creative boils.

I am standing in the bathroom at work. My head is dizzy. My knees weak. I’m not sure why but there is no breath in my lungs. There’s a tick in the back of my mind that forces me to continue plodding along the current path I’m on, hoping — no, praying — that something comes along to free me from this cage I’ve gone and locked my own-damned-self in. 

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