I held on to her hand, to his hand,
And we crossed the road, and we crossed the ocean.
I arrived here.

Here, I held onto her hand, to his hand,
And we crossed the road.

Those hands gave me everything I needed,
I wanted.

Yes, everything I wanted came from those hands.

A child, in love with the two individuals that brought me.

The simplicity of life,
When daily struggles revolved around getting what I need,
And getting what I want.
Demanding what I want.

Knowing.
Knowing.

As the years passed, I let go of her hand, I let go of his.
I crossed many roads, and often found myself standing in the middle.
I forgot which side I came from, and which side I was trying to get to.

I refused her hand, I refused his.

I was always on the search, for what, I didn’t know.

We lived in silence, I didn’t share about the roads I crossed,
They didn’t share about theirs.

Simplicity...

Look, I heard you,

But I’m waiting for the light to change.

It’s green, but damn it there’s no arrow.

So I sit here, and I yield while you keep telling me to go.

I yield to the doubts,

To the reasons,

There are so many doubts.

It’s the fucking doubts, where is the arrow?

There’s a gap in the thoughts,

I turn, and I go.

Yes, I hear you.

Anticipating, I’m ready,

But I keep looking down for reassurance that I am going the right way.

Turn.

I can’t.

I try to switch lanes,

I swerve back.

Maybe next time.

I’ll go my way, but maybe next time.

Almost there,

But I’m running low on fuel.

I’m so close.

The reasons, the doubts,

They don’t fill me.

I let it get this far again.

Low on fuel, full of doubts.

And I look at you,

And you’re low too,

And I can’t fill myself,

And I can’t fill you.

If you run out,

I’ll never find the station.

You say it...

A voice narrated my every action. It spoke truths that my mind couldn’t grasp fast enough to record. It came in bursts, which were always inconveniently placed among the tasks of everyday life; a run, the shower, the toilet, anywhere that lacked a pen, or a keyboard. But isn’t that always the case, that our genius ideas only arrive in the midst of distraction. I want to take this voice, place it in a cage, feed it and listen to it sing. I want to record it, to place in print, and give it to anyone willing to give this voice a chance. It is the source of my suffering, but of my pleasure as well. If I could only tame it, train it, then maybe I could lead it to bring me the latter.

It was at a young age that I began to question what life was for. When caught up in so much reason it is hard to experience life in its most simple form. In the inhale and exhale of your breath, the rise and fall of your chest; it is all lost in a mind that cannot be silenced. Oh, how I wish for a silent mind, to be a vessel accepting all that arises in action, not in thought.

It seems that this year especially, my mind has taken over. I have merely become a carrier of an organism that I fight to silence, or to release. I wander through my days with a hopelessness of ever coming to an answer of why I am here. And I accept that this answer does not exist, nor is the turmoil I experience in struggling to attain it real. But I continue to play this game as if it its completion will result in what I hope to be is real life; or maybe I will be numbed forever.

The numbness is what...

In the midst of violence, anger, death, grief, sadness, pain, hope, division, and unity, is it possible to find compassion? Honest, pure, unfiltered compassion. All encompassing, compassion.

At four years old I left my homeland to come here, to a country that gave me freedom to be that of my choosing. I ended up in the beautiful state of Colorado, in the middle of beauty, and in the middle of tragedy. In elementary school I watched the news, terrified, as footage of Columbine came up on every channel. I cried and fear grew deep in my core. I feared losing life the way that these innocent kids lost their lives. I feared anyone who looked like they could be the next to shoot, I feared the quiet, I feared the lonely. I hated. I blamed. I obsessed.

Years later, our channels were occupied again. September 11th, thousands of lives lost. Acts of terror, of suicide, of murder.

...

I sat wondering,

What had bestowed this feeling of utter failure and hopelessness upon my soul?

My soul, which I held in such high regards as being good, at least in intentions, but lacking in action.

My soul, entrapped by a mind and a heart caged in steal.

If the body and mind were kept busy, the soul could be forgotten,
But it would remain when time allotted that it breath again.

Yet its breathe was not one of relief.

It was not that of an occupant’s who found that a window could be opened in the middle of a scorching night.

The breath was less of an inhale of a cool breeze, but more so a screech,
A screech exiting the body against its owner’s will.

I could no longer silence my soul.

My inner being that looked at its current state and only suffered the loss of time with stagnation.

The problem was not that it screeched, for I felt it necessary to speak up,
But that the...

I have a previous post, you may have read it, maybe. Called, “On Passion.” And it’s great, it’s honest, it’s straight, and it’s fucking fleeting. Everything, always, fleeting.

So here is my new post, on passion, on bringing it back, on the spot, right now. The point? Literally just that. My passion has slipped through my fingertips; things not going the way I want translated into, “This isn’t it.” And that blows, that really blows, because there was a moment last year where my life aligned as I stood before an audience waiting to hear me speak. My life aligned as my fear engulfed me, and my life aligned as my best friend’s mom, with tears in her eyes, said, “Thank you,” and we hugged.

The truth? I gave my word to hold yet another event. Another event that requires meetings upon meetings, commute after commute, email after email, promotion upon promotion, and while we are at...

And sometimes it feels like there is beauty in death. It tears at your soul, as you struggle to convince yourself it’s real, and only when you fully bring it to the front of your mind do you realize that there is an end. There is something that no effort can change. No thought can erase the absence of a person from the earth. But sometimes there is beauty in death. The tearing of your soul is a bitter but enlightening reminder that your soul still wanders this terrain. Your soul is reawakened, reminded that forever is an image you carry in your head but forever is nowhere to be found. Death yells at you and along with your soul you carry the remains of someone else’s. There is beauty in death, we just have to put aside its ugly, painful, covering and hold our eyes wide enough, and our souls open enough to accept its lessons.

No doubt if we could go back in time, we would create...

I can say I’m lucky to have found my passion. I can say I’m lucky that I had a conversation that changed the trajectory of my life. Or I can own this trajectory; I can own that I wasn’t happy where I was, and that I was never willing to settle. I struggled, I tested different avenues, I worked out of different environments, I learned the benefits of a steady pay check, and I learned the hardships of not knowing when the next check was coming in. It wasn’t luck that brought me passion, it wasn’t circumstance, it was creation. I wasn’t lucky, I was determined.

I was working out with a friend today, talking about the relief that I’ve experienced ever since I found my present purpose. She asked about a mutual friend, who too seems to have found his passion; working with kids with special needs. She spoke, a bit resigned, about how lucky I am to have found my passion, and how she...

As I constantly search for the meaning of self, or the ability to relinquish such longing, I strive to participate in processes that allow transformation indicative of such results. As the recent holiday seasons arrived this past year, I found myself despondent around the question of what do I want. I replied that I wanted nothing to a degree from a place of indecisiveness, but more so in accordance with my recent want to have less stuff. I look around my room, at all that has accumulated over the years, and recognize the clutter of the space that in turn results in the clutter of my mind. I had sporadic moments in 2014 where I tried to reduce this surrounding clutter, always failing to really reduce significantly enough to make any impact on both spaces. I failed to transform the clutter of the physical space as well as the clutter of my mind. I found myself holding on to...