Tag: healing

When the Milk Crate Was the Cloud

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Understanding begins where the noise ends.

“The cracks are where the future gets in.” — Nick Cave

Earlier this week, I wrote about dealing with multiple system failures — digital, emotional, creative. The kind of breakdown that makes everything feel heavier. Every keystroke. Every thought.

I couldn’t even open a text editor without feeling like the machine and I were daring each other to quit first.

So, I did what any rational person does when their world starts flickering — I tore it down.

Every wire. Every drive. Every application.

I started looking at everything — the hardware, the software, even the mental clutter I’d built around them. And I started cutting. To borrow a writer’s term, I’ve been killing my darlings. Not just the old drafts and half-finished files, but the stuff I’d been keeping out of sentiment — tools I didn’t use, folders I hadn’t opened since the Obama years, plans I wasn’t brave enough to admit were dead.

It’s strange, what survives a purge. The things you thought mattered crumble under scrutiny, while the quiet essentials — the things that actually serve you — emerge stronger, cleaner.

That’s when it hit me: maybe this isn’t just about computers. Maybe it’s about life architecture.

The Breakdown Phase

Sometimes the system has to fail so you’ll finally stop pretending it’s fine.

When the screens went dark, it wasn’t just technology collapsing — it was me running into the edge of my own maintenance backlog. You know the one: the projects, bills, and habits that pile up in the background while you tell yourself you’ll “get to it.”

Then, one day, everything gets to you instead.

But here’s the gift buried in the crash — it forces you to re-evaluate everything. To sit in the silence after the hum fades and ask: what’s still necessary? what’s still mine?

Back When We Built Our Own Fixes

I come from a time when computers didn’t “just work.” You had to earn them.

You didn’t buy plug-and-play — you built plug-and-hope. You traded parts out of milk crates, scribbled command lines in pencil, and held your breath during the boot beep because you weren’t sure if the whole thing would smoke or sing.

We understood our machines because we had to.*

There was intimacy in it — a relationship between curiosity and consequence. You learned to think like a system, to troubleshoot your way through the mess.

Now everything’s sealed, optimized, “user-friendly.” But friendly to whom?

The less we have to know, the less we understand. And when we stop understanding, we lose something fundamental — the muscle memory of resilience.

We used to break things and fix them.
Now we just replace them and complain.

The Rebuild

So I went back to basics.

I started rebuilding my system piece by piece, checking every connection, testing every drive. And as I did, I realized this wasn’t just a technical reset — it was a personal audit.

I’ve been doing the same thing with my finances: cutting unnecessary subscriptions, auditing expenses, trimming the fat. I’m tired of auto-renewed everything — the digital equivalent of dust.

Same with my creativity. If a tool doesn’t serve the work, it’s gone. No more chasing new apps, new aesthetics, new noise. I’m rebuilding for efficiency, not ego.

There’s a strange peace in it — this deliberate stripping away. It reminds me that clarity isn’t something you download. It’s something you earn, line by line, dollar by dollar, decision by decision.

The System and the Self

The truth is, we’re not that different from the machines we build.

We run on energy and memory. We slow down when cluttered. We crash when overheated.
And sometimes, the only way forward is to reformat.

But unlike machines, we get to choose how we rebuild.
We decide what stays. We define what’s worth running.

This whole process — the wires, the drives, the self-audits — it isn’t about perfection. It’s about understanding. I don’t need things to run flawlessly. I just need them to make sense.

Keep Going, Responsibly

Here’s the part nobody romanticizes: rebuilding is exhausting. It’s unglamorous. It’s long hours, slow progress, and endless testing.

But it’s also the only way to ensure what you’re building can stand on its own.

Sometimes you have to keep going — not because it’s easy, but because stopping would mean accepting confusion as normal.

I’ve learned that keep going doesn’t mean sprinting through burnout. It means moving with intention.
It means knowing when to step back, when to unplug, when to rewrite the damn script.

Because in life — just like in code — the smallest syntax errors can wreck the whole thing if you never stop to look.

“Sometimes you just have to keep walking, even if the map burned up a few miles back.” — Unknown

Author’s Note

Patience is a kind of engineering.
You learn it by failing, by pausing, by realizing not everything needs to be fixed immediately.

Lately, I’ve been reminding myself that understanding — real understanding — takes time. Systems crash. People do too. What matters is how we rebuild, not how fast.

So if you’re in one of those messy seasons — where every wire feels tangled and every drive hums with static — breathe. Slow down. Learn your system before you rewrite it.

You’ll get there. Just not all at once.

Tell Yourself Whatever You Need To

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Most people think I’m loud — the kind of person who fills a room just by showing up. The one cracking jokes, telling stories, holding court like I was born to. I let them believe it. It keeps things easier, smoother. But truthfully, I’m an introvert in disguise — a quiet man who learned that silence makes people nervous.

I’ve actually heard folks say they were scared of me when I didn’t talk. Something about my face, maybe — the way it rests heavy, unreadable, like I’m thinking too much or judging too hard. I guess that’s my curse: I look like trouble when I’m just tired.

So I talk. Even when I don’t want to. Even when the words feel like sand in my mouth. I talk to make other people comfortable, to smooth over the awkwardness that silence seems to bring. I know that probably sounds weak, but it helps things along. It makes the day move easier. And sometimes, pretending to be the loud one is less exhausting than explaining why I’m quiet.

When I worked in offices, coworkers would say things like, “Are you judging me?” or “You’re judging me right now, aren’t you?” or “You look like you’re about to call me a name.” I’d laugh it off, but inside, I wasn’t judging anyone. I was probably thinking about a story idea, or how lunch wasn’t sitting right, or why the hell the printer only jammed when I used it. But try explaining that without sounding like a weirdo. It’s easier just to say something funny, make them laugh, keep the peace.

Even my ex used to tell me, “Let me know before you go dark.” She meant the quiet spells — those stretches when I’d retreat into my head, writing or reading or just not talking. To her, silence felt like absence, like a door closed without warning. But for me, it was never about her. It was how I reset. I don’t disappear out of anger; I disappear to breathe. But try convincing someone of that when they’ve been taught that noise means love.

The truth is, I can go days without saying a word and feel completely fine. The quiet doesn’t scare me — it steadies me. It’s where I make sense of things. Where I untangle the noise I swallowed all week. My desk becomes a refuge. A book, a pen, and a cup of cooling coffee are enough to rebuild the parts I’ve spent too long bending out of shape for other people’s peace.

But silence has its own cost. You start to wonder if anyone ever really knew you beneath the performance. If they’d still come around if you stopped making it easy for them. If they’d sit in the quiet long enough to realize you’re not angry — just tired of having to explain your existence.

So yeah, I’m loud. But not because I love attention. I’m loud because silence unsettles people, and I’ve spent too many years trying not to be someone’s reason for discomfort. Maybe that’s my weakness. Or maybe it’s another kind of grace — learning to speak, even when the world hasn’t earned your voice.

Before I go dark.

Daily writing prompt
What’s something most people don’t know about you?
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Ghosts, Deadlines, and the Cool Monitor

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Somewhere between the ghosts that won’t shut up and the deadlines that never arrive, I learned the trick — just keep writing anyway.

In 2023, my writing team accused me of procrastinating. I was offended — we’d built blogs, workshops, entire worlds together. How could they think I wasn’t doing enough? Then my senior editor cornered me one afternoon. It wasn’t a talk so much as a scolding — the kind that makes you feel like a kid again, thumb hovering near your mouth, waiting for the cue to say, “I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again.”

She wasn’t wrong, though. She asked a single question I couldn’t answer:
“Why haven’t you finished your novels?”

I had no answer then, and I still don’t. I’ve told myself plenty of stories — excuses dressed up as reasons — but none with any iron in them. They clang hollow, like empty promises we whisper to ourselves when doubt starts pacing the floor.

Since my reemergence, I’ve kept writing. Slowly. Unevenly. Each sentence feels like a step back toward the part of me that once trusted the words. My editor’s been kinder lately — maybe because I’ve stopped hiding behind excuses, or maybe because Ursula, my muse, stopped sulking now that she’s getting her pages again.

But somewhere along the way, I forgot how to do it. I can’t recall the moment it happened — it slipped away in the night, like a silent rogue with perfect aim. Maybe I was its willing victim. Not the kind that dies, but the kind that lives haunted by the absence of what was taken.

You’d think that once you recognize what you’ve lost, it would be easy to reclaim. But it isn’t. It’s like I hid it in some special place — the one where I put all the things I swore I’d never lose. Now I stand at the door, staring into that room, unable to remember where I left it.

So I wait. I search the corners. I listen for echoes of the writer who once trusted the words to come. With patience, I know I’ll find what’s hidden — the secrets, the treasures, the grace buried under dust and doubt.

Believing in myself is the key. The rest is just remembering how to turn it.

By 2025, the ghosts have quieted. I’m no longer haunted by my demons — I think they took a cruise or something. But their cousins pop in from time to time, usually uninvited, always loud, never staying long. I let them talk. Then I get back to writing.

Still, despite the progress I’ve made, there’s something holding me back — something keeping me from reaching that place where I can be completely at ease with who I am as a creator. I don’t want to cross to the other side of the veil wondering if I could have been more.

Of course, there will always be unfinished work when we cross over. That’s the nature of it. But I don’t want to be one of those guys replaying fragments of what I could have been.

So this year, I’ve started making moves to change that — to turn my writing and art into something more than what sits quietly on my hard drive. I’ve focused on quality rather than quantity, and I’m learning, finally, to get out of my own way.

You know how embarrassing it is to trip over your own feet? Talk about losing cool points. The Cool Monitor’s in the corner, shaking his head and deducting them one by one.

But this time, at least, I’m still walking forward.

Maybe the real work was never about finishing — just refusing to stop.

I’ve made peace with the ghosts in my process. They’re lousy tenants — leave coffee rings, mutter bad advice, rearrange my ideas when I’m not looking. But I’ve learned to write through their noise. Some days, that’s what it means to be an artist: to keep typing while the past heckles from the cheap seats.

I’ve spent years chasing the version of myself I thought I was supposed to be — the novelist, the mentor, the unshakable voice. Turns out, I don’t need to become him again. I just need to keep showing up — pen in hand, imagination slightly bruised, heart still willing.

Once I realized that, I’ve written some of the most powerful stuff in years.

Reflective Prompt

Take a moment. Unplug from the artificial ether and tap into the one we were born with — the raw signal beneath the static. Acknowledge the things you wanted to do, the things you left hanging, the things you can still do. What are they?

Don’t dress them up as goals or resolutions. Just name them. Whisper them back into existence. Some will sting. Some will make you laugh at how small or strange they seem now. But all of them are proof that you’re still reaching — still alive enough to want.

Maybe that’s the real work of this life: learning to live with the unfinished, to walk beside the ghosts of what we almost became, and still make something worth remembering.

Daily writing prompt
What have you been putting off doing? Why?
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Well… You Know 

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What it means to be labeled, to mock, and to finally understand. 

There’s something about that question — “Tell us about a time when you felt out of place” — that stirs up more than I want to admit. For someone like me, admitting fear or discomfort has always felt like breaking an unspoken code. Society still treats fear like a weakness, and men especially are taught to hide it behind our egos. I’d love to say I’ve outgrown that, that my ego doesn’t run the show anymore. Truth is, I’d be full of shit if I said that. Ego still tugs at my decisions, but I do my best to keep it in check. 

I remember when I was first diagnosed with PTSD. I wasn’t ashamed of it—I told friends and family outright, thinking honesty would bring support. I thought they’d rally, that they’d have my back in this new state of being. I was wrong. What I found instead was silence where I expected comfort, distance where I expected closeness. I heard whispers that weren’t really whispers, caught side-glances dressed up as concern, saw pity masquerading as care. The labels came quick: “Touched.” “Not right in the head.” And my personal favorite—“Well… you know.” 

Looking back, I can admit there were times I blew things out of proportion. PTSD has a way of magnifying shadows until they look like monsters. But there were other times when I was dead-on, seeing things that others couldn’t because they hadn’t lived through it. Learning techniques to live with PTSD—rather than just suffer under it—changed my perspective. 

I realized some of the fears I carried were invisible to others, because they’d never walked in that dark. And I also realized some of the fears they carried, the ones they thought were dire, looked small to me because I’d been through worse. That’s where the real challenge came in: not mocking them for what seemed trivial, not throwing back the same treatment they’d given me. That shit was hard. To pass up the chance to feed them the same poison they’d fed me? Damn near impossible. 

But I knew better. I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of whispers, side-glances, and labels. Mocking them—even quietly, even under my breath—only made me worse. It made me just like them. And that realization? That was harder to swallow than the diagnosis itself. 

Before I retired, I spent the last few years working with people living with all kinds of mental conditions. What struck me wasn’t just the weight of their struggles, but how deeply they wanted to be “normal.” That desire ran so strong it could push them into choices that would shape, even haunt, the rest of their lives. 

I came to understand something: it’s one thing to know, intellectually, that it’s okay to be different. It’s another thing entirely to believe it in your bones. I saw people wrestle with that gap every day, and in their fight, I saw myself. Being out of place had taught me what it felt like to carry that longing, that shame, that desperate wish to blend in. And maybe that’s the only gift of being “othered” — the chance to understand someone else’s battle, even when they can’t put it into words. 

Perhaps, in some ways, this is what Memoirs of Madness is about. I didn’t start the blog with that purpose in mind, but maybe it has become a place to name the fears we all carry — the ones that make us feel out of place in our own lives. Or maybe it’s nothing of the kind. Maybe it’s just one man behind a keyboard, running his mouth. I’d like to believe it’s more than that. That in speaking my demons aloud, I give someone else permission to face theirs. That I remind them they’re not as alone as they think. 

Author’s Note: 
This piece grew from a prompt asking about a time I felt out of place. As always, I didn’t take the safe route. The question became an exploration of stigma, ego, and the long road toward compassion. If nothing else, I hope it reminds someone out there they aren’t as alone in their demons as they might believe. 

Daily writing prompt
Tell us about a time when you felt out of place.
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Quote of the Day – 09252025

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Personal Reflection

The mind is relentless. It wants reasons, it wants control, it wants to turn every wound into a tidy equation. But the soul doesn’t work in equations—it works in currents, in quiet truths that rise from somewhere beyond logic.

This image is a reminder of that struggle: the smoke of restless thought trying to cloak everything in haze, while the still figure waits, rooted in silence. Above, a ring of light suggests a doorway, not out of the world but into the self. Healing is less about doing and more about surrendering. Less about thinking your way forward, and more about listening long enough for the whisper beneath the noise.

The soul does not rush. It doesn’t bargain. It waits until we stop running in circles and remember that clarity often comes dressed as stillness. The real challenge isn’t learning how to heal—it’s learning how to be quiet enough to let healing begin.

Reflective Prompt

What inner noise do you need to quiet so your deeper self can finally speak?

What the Silence Knows

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On Leadership and Reading the Room

Daily writing prompt
Do you see yourself as a leader?
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The question lands like a pebble in the gut.
Not heavy, but unsettling—because it asks for a tidy answer when my life has been anything but tidy.

I’ve led unintentionally and followed on purpose. I’ve watched silence choke a room, felt the weight of nothing happening, and stepped forward because someone had to. And I’ve stepped back when my presence would only add noise. Both moves have carved me in ways no title ever could.

The military taught me early that leadership isn’t a birthright. You follow first. You fail. You observe. You learn how to carry the weight before you dare to lift it for someone else. Titles are just badges; the real work happens when no one is clapping—when you steady someone else’s fear while keeping your own hands from shaking.

Leadership, for me, is a rhythm. Some days you step up and speak. Other days, you keep your mouth shut and hold the line. The trick is reading the moment and being honest enough to become what it needs. Courage without a parade. Clarity without applause. Responsibility without the crown.

I’ve stepped forward when a group project stalled, laid out the path, and then faded back when momentum returned. I’ve seen teammates like Maya rewrite a messy spec and pull a team back from drift without a single title to their name. That, too, is leadership: the ability to lead, follow, or stand aside—and to know which role the moment requires.

So do I see myself as a leader?
I see myself as a reader of moments.
Sometimes the room needs a calm hand.
Sometimes it needs me to get out of the way.

That’s the work.
That’s the honor.
That’s what the silence knows.

Author’s Note
Leadership isn’t a title I chase. It’s a weight I sometimes shoulder when the room tilts and no one else moves. Writing this was a reminder that the moments that define us rarely come with applause—they come with silence, and the choice to break it or hold it.

How do you read the room when the air goes still? I’d love to hear the quiet rules you live by.

Tarab & Bone

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Prose – 3TC

I’m not afraid.
I’m not afraid.
I’m not allowed to be.

Where I come from, fear is a luxury we were born too broke to afford. Vulnerability wasn’t something we dismissed—it was something we were denied. It was kept behind locked doors, like heirlooms we didn’t inherit.

My grandfather didn’t teach with words. He taught with what he didn’t say. He taught me how to keep the jaw tight, how to pray in silence, how to hold grief like a second spine. He had crafty ways of navigating rooms where he was expected to be invisible, but somehow always left a shadow. He taught me not how to cry—but how to endure the crying of others without blinking.

They told us to walk tall, but not too tall. To speak, but not loudly. To lead, but never forget we’re replaceable. Strong—always. Seen—rarely. Heard—only when invited.

I learned to carry myself like a verdict. The years didn’t soften me—they carved me. And somewhere between funeral suits and morning trains, I mistook resilience for religion.

I’m not afraid.
I’m not afraid.
I’m not allowed to be.

Because they’re still watching.
Because weakness stains in places bleach can’t reach.
Because I carry names no one etched into stone, but I wear them anyway—in the bend of my back and in the tightening of my breath whenever the world grows quiet enough to remember.

I’ve loved with fists.
I’ve buried more brothers than birthdays.
I’ve stared into mirrors and seen ghosts blink back.

And I’m still here.
Which means I’m still dangerous.

Some days, I hear the voices—low and layered, like drums beneath concrete. Whispers at a distance. Ancestral static tuning itself in the back of my skull.

Who is speaking?

My father, maybe—never said “I love you,” but left it folded into a clean shirt and the sound of a deadbolt clicking after midnight.

Or the ones who never made it past eighteen, who hover behind my ribs like secrets I’ll never tell.

Some of them speak in riddles. Some in warnings.
And some just laugh—cheeky, almost cruel:
“Look at this one, still trying to turn ghosts into gospel.”

I remember the nippy mornings, before light. Cold air that slapped you awake. The kind that taught you pain was just a temperature shift you’d survive if you didn’t flinch. Those days made your bones ache—but they made your will sharper, too.

And now, standing here, with all of that folded inside me like a fire I never asked to carry, I wonder:

What have I done with all I’ve been given?
Have I honored the ones before me?
Or just mirrored their silence?

What have I left for the ones next?
A trail of smoke?
A shut door?
A story they won’t want to finish?

What if the bravest thing
isn’t being unafraid—
but being seen?

Not as legend.
Not as weapon.
Not as sacrifice.
But as person—
messy, aching, unfinished.

What if legacy
isn’t built on who endured the most,
but who dared to feel
what others refused to name?

Maybe I’ve been strong too long.
Maybe strength
ain’t the absence of fear,
but the courage to admit
you needed saving too.

Not a statue.
Not a sermon.
Not a ghost.
Just a man—
…and maybe that’s where the healing begins. And the trouble ends with me.

Authors Note:

This piece was sparked by Di’s 3TC challenge—and yes, I stole a line from Stacey Johnson’s poem order. Is it still stealing if I tell you up front? (Shrugs.) Anyway, as usual, I’m grateful to be inspired by friends who make me write better, feel deeper, and laugh louder. You know who you are.

Quote of the Day – 07152025

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Personal Reflection

It’s easy to see wounds as evidence of failure.
Of weakness.
Of something gone terribly wrong.

But what if they’re openings?
A beginning?
An awakening?
A crucible?

I’ve spent years patching my wounds with distraction and pride, thinking healing meant erasing the pain.
But now I wonder if healing starts with letting the light in — not despite the wound, but because of it.

Let the hurt be holy.
Let the scar become a doorway.
Walk through it.

Reflective Prompt

What wound still aches, and what might it be trying to let in?

Memoirs of Madness: Writing Is the Only Way Through

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PROSE – MOONWASHED WEEKLY PROMPT

Mind, body, and spirit—it’s not just a slogan on a t-shirt or a phrase tossed around in self-help books. It’s a lived, gritty process. It doesn’t happen in a straight line. It doesn’t always feel peaceful. It asks to be practiced daily, especially in the moments when we’re coming apart.

When my wife was dying, I was unraveling. There was no calm breath, no quiet meditation that could hold me. The pain was too loud, too sharp. I couldn’t go to the dojo—I knew I might hurt someone. So I turned to the only thing left that didn’t require restraint: writing.

That’s where Memoirs of Madness was born—not from ambition, but necessity. I wrote because if I didn’t, I was going to explode. Writing became my release valve. My attempt to find balance in a world that no longer made sense. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t composed. But it was honest. It was survival.

Healing doesn’t always look like light. Sometimes it’s just sitting with the darkness long enough to stop being afraid of it. Writing gave me a place to do that. Not to escape pain, but to face it with something steady under my hands—a pen, a page, a place to speak freely.

People like to talk about acceptance, about “new normals,” especially when you’re going through something irreversible. I’ve been told I may never return to the person I was before. And maybe that’s true. But I also know it’s not the whole truth. I know there’s more to me than what’s been broken.

Throughout my life, I’ve encountered teachings I didn’t ask for. Moments of awe, loss, surrender, and grace. I didn’t always understand why they came, but something in me knew not to reject them. Writing became the way I made sense of them. The way I honored them.

It’s not therapy, exactly. It’s more like a mirror. Each word reflects something back at me—something raw, something I need to see. Writing doesn’t heal like medicine. It heals like movement. Like breath after being underwater too long.

Writers tell the truths we were taught to keep quiet. We witness the small miracles—flowers bending to the breeze, the call of a bird we can’t see, the still gaze of an animal watching us. We notice the laughter of children that vibrates with something pure and untouchable. We let it all into our bones. But writing is how we let it back out. How we stay connected—not digitally, but spiritually, viscerally.

Every sentence I write is a thread that connects me to the person I’ve always been beneath the layers of grief, anger, and expectation. Not the old self. Not the broken self. But the essential one. The one that endures.

I once asked: Who’s smarter—the adult or the infant? Predictably, everyone said the adult. When I pressed them, they said the child doesn’t know anything. But I disagreed. I said the infant. They laughed, of course. All but one. That one asked me, “Why?”

“Because the infant sees everything,” I said. “They feel everything. They haven’t learned to numb themselves yet. They haven’t picked up the habit of pretending. They are unfiltered truth.”

That’s what writing brings me back to. That clarity. That honesty. That wholeness before the world taught us to break ourselves into pieces.

Healing through writing isn’t a return to what was. It’s a return to what’s real. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

Author’s Note:

I sat looking at the challenge image, thinking about the beauty of that moment frozen in time. I found myself wondering how to capture something like that in words. Lately, I’ve been studying Buddhism—not because I want to become a Buddhist, but because I’m wise enough to know that truth can’t be found with a closed mind.

Next thing I knew, this piece came through me.

It’s not all I have to say on the subject, but it’s a beginning.

Thanks, Eugi.

REBLOG: Truth

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A friend sent this video to me on Instagram. I thought it was powerful enough to share.

Truth

What are your thoughts on what this gentleman has to say? Please share them.

Hello! How Rude of Me.. My Name is …

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If you had to change your name, what would your new name be?

PROSE – SHORT FICTION /MAYBE?

Allow me to start here. Most of you have gotten to know Mangus Khan. It’s a little much, I know, at the start, but it kind of rolls off the tongue once you get used to it. However, I feel it may be time to reveal my true identity. My name is …

Before we move forward, let me provide some context to avoid confusion. I am an immortal.

As an immortal, I have lived for centuries and witnessed many events in history. I have gained knowledge and experience beyond what any mortal can imagine. I can see the way you’re looking at me. If I were you, I would looking at me in the same manner. I suppose you have watched some of those movies attempting to discuss immortality. No? let us assume you have seen at least one and allow me assure you my life has been that glamourous.

However, my immortality comes with a price. I have watched friends die. The chap the Raminez character was based on, he too, was an immortal. He loved life more than anyone my path has crossed. I was present the day … well, he crossed over. I died that day as well. You see, when I came back from the darkness I found my friend headless leaning against a stump. It was then I knew I was destined to be alone.

Yet, I was blessed and fell in love that year. Our love was forbidden and certainly unwise. When she crossed over I was broken. Yet, I remain unchanged. well at least outwardly. It can be a lonely existence at times, but I have learned to appreciate the beauty and wonder of life despite its fleeting nature and shattered heart.

Throughout my many years, I have seen the world change in countless ways. I have witnessed wars and revolutions, the rise and fall of civilizations, and the evolution of technology and culture. I have also seen the best and worst of humanity, from acts of kindness and compassion to unspeakable acts of cruelty and violence.

Despite all of this, I have remained a mere observer of history, a passive witness to the events that have shaped our world. It is only recently that I have decided to again take a more active role in shaping the course of history, using my knowledge and experience to make a positive impact on the world.

And that is where you come in. As an assistant, I am here to help you achieve your goals and make a difference in the world. Whether you are an individual seeking personal growth and fulfillment, or an organization working to make a positive impact on society, I am here to support you every step of the way.

So, let us work together to achieve greatness and make the most of our time in this world. What can I assist you with today?

Eastbound and Down

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How do you practice self-care?

PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

There is something about taking a drive. A full tank of gas packed lunch, and your camera and notebook. It’s a sense of freedom; at least, that’s the phrase I’ll use as I sit here talking to you. I suppose it’s as good as any, to really explain this feeling I get when taking a drive. It’s a chance to explore, clear your mind, and, just for a moment, set aside the stresses of everyday life. And having your camera and notebook with you allows you to capture the magic.

There’s no better way to appreciate the beauty of nature and the world around you than to take a leisurely drive, at least I don’t know if any. Maybe one or two others come to mind if I think on it a spell. But, nothing beats a drive. Whether through winding country roads, along the coast, or through the mountains, a scenic drive can be a truly unforgettable experience. Let us not forget, a drive through the city after dark. Another side of life seems to come alive in the night; after dark. One must be careful you may see things you may never have known existed.

But it’s not just about the destination; it’s also about the journey. Taking a drive can be a chance to reflect on your life, think about your goals and dreams, and enjoy the present moment. It’s a form of self-care that can help reduce stress, improve your mood, and boost your creativity.

In fact, many writers, artists, and photographers have used driving to inspire their work. The freedom of the open road allows them to escape the distractions of everyday life and focus on their craft. And with a camera and notebook, they can capture their thoughts and ideas as they come to them.

But even if you’re not a writer or artist, taking a drive can still be a valuable experience. It’s a chance to unplug from technology, connect with nature, and appreciate the simple pleasures in life. And with the flexibility of driving, you can make the experience your own. You can stop at a roadside diner for a classic burger and fries, take a detour to visit a local attraction, or simply park by a scenic overlook and watch the world go by.

So next time you’re feeling stressed or overwhelmed, why not take a drive and see where the road takes you? You never know what new experiences, sights, and insights you may discover. Perhaps, a fond memory or recollection will be unlocked evoking a smile.

Station Break

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It’s the start of the concert season for my friends and I. They have been to several shows already, but finally dragged my butt away from my laptop and notebooks. I managed to sneak one with me. Out of habit, I pulled it to take notes about the show. My buddy, gives me an evil look….oops, my bad

Pointfest