mental health – Memoirs of Madness

Instincts, Echoes, and the Work of Coming Back

2025/12/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2127, life, love, mental health, mindfulness, The Daily's, writing1 Comment

Of course I trust my instincts. These instincts are the reason I’m still here. They’re the early warning system that kicked in long before I had the language to explain what was happening. They’ve pulled me out of bad situations, terrible decisions, and moments where everything felt razor-thin. Survival sharpens you in ways calm living never will. Yet there are times you wonder if what you’re feeling is actually what’s happening. As someone living with PTSD, even after years of progress, the episodes don’t disappear—they just get quieter, less commanding, but still capable of blindsiding you when life hits at the wrong angle.

That’s the strange part: instincts are made of scar tissue and memory, not magic. They’re a patchwork of everything you’ve lived through—every mistake, every close call, every moment you had to react before you had time to think. And when your past includes trauma, those instincts can carry echoes of things you already survived. Sometimes they show up as alarms, even when there’s no fire in the room. It’s difficult to explain this to people. Not because they don’t care or don’t try, but because they don’t have a point of reference. If someone’s never had their body react to a memory like it’s happening in real time, or never had their nervous system jump to high alert over a sound everyone else barely notices, there’s only so much they can understand.

It’s not their fault. It’s simply the gap between lived experience and good intentions. But sometimes that gap feels like its own form of isolation. You end up minimizing what you feel or staying quiet because explaining it feels like trying to describe color to someone who’s only ever seen in grayscale. Eventually the question becomes: Why bother? And that silence can be its own kind of weight.

Even so, with the right support and coping tools, you really can relearn how to trust—not just your instincts, but yourself. Healing isn’t about shutting off the alarms; it’s about recalibrating them so they stop drowning out everything else. You learn to tell the difference between a real signal and old static. You learn how to talk yourself down without dismissing what your body is trying to say. You realize you’re not fighting your nervous system—you’re retraining it. Support and coping skills create space between the present moment and the past, and that’s the space where self-trust has room to grow.

But healing isn’t linear. There are days when every tool you’ve learned goes out the window. Days when your instincts feel unreliable, when your body reacts before your brain catches up, when everything hits at once and you’re back in old patterns without warning. Those days can make progress feel imaginary. But they aren’t the whole story. Because the very fact that you can name what’s happening now—the fact that you can reach for help, reach for tools, reach for clarity—means you’re not where you used to be.

Trust isn’t a single leap. It’s a series of small choices where you refuse to abandon yourself. Over time, instinct and self-trust start to merge again, the way they were always meant to. You move from surviving to navigating, and eventually, to living with a steadiness that’s earned, not imagined.

It’s not perfect. But it’s real. And real is enough.

Do you trust your instincts?

Skills from a Graduate of the School of Hard Knocks

2025/12/04Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2142, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writer's life, writers on writing, writing2 Comments

If I’m being honest, the things I’m good at didn’t come from any classroom with fluorescent lights and tidy rows. They came from life pulling me aside, usually at the worst possible moment, and saying, “Pay attention—this part matters.” Most of what I know was earned the long way: scraped knuckles, late nights, and a few seasons where survival wasn’t guaranteed but somehow still happened. These skills didn’t unfold gently. They arrived as consequences, as revelations, as the quiet clarity that follows a storm.

One thing I’ve learned is that I’m better at creating a feeling than I am at delivering a finished product. I don’t sit down to produce anything polished or algorithm-friendly. I write to capture a moment’s temperature—the hush before a confession, the weight of a truth someone’s been carrying too long, the strange peace that settles in when you finally stop pretending everything is fine. I follow the line that tightens my chest because that’s where the real story is hiding. Atmosphere isn’t decoration; it’s the closest thing I have to honesty. And if someone walks into that space and feels seen, then the work did what it was supposed to.

I’ve also learned how to make complicated emotions legible—not tidy, not simple, but real. The heavy stuff never hands you clean language. Grief has its own dialect. Shame speaks in whispers. Loneliness shows up wearing someone else’s coat. Most people run from these things because they think naming them will make them bigger. But I sit with them long enough to understand their shape. Not because I’m brave—because I don’t know how else to move through the world. If I can translate that heaviness into a line that makes someone pause and think, “Yeah… me too,” then maybe the weight becomes shareable.

Another skill I’ve picked up is the ability to hold a ridiculous number of moving parts without letting the whole structure collapse. MKU. MoM. HoT. Fiction arcs. Art projects. QOTD. Image collections. The universe I’m building is messy, sprawling, and sometimes bigger than I intended. But even in the chaos, there’s a thread running through it—something emotional, instinctive, connective. I don’t always know where the thread is leading, but I know when I’ve lost it. And I know how to find my way back by listening to what the work is trying to become. People mistake this for multitasking; it’s really just surviving the storm with both hands open.

I’ve stopped worshipping the first draft. If a piece doesn’t feel right, I tear it apart, not out of self-doubt but out of loyalty—to the truth, to the reader, to the version of myself that refuses to settle for the easy version of anything. Revision is where the honesty happens. It’s where the mask slips. It’s where I notice the lines I wrote to protect myself instead of reveal something. I’ve rebuilt myself enough times to know that tearing something down is just another form of creation.

And finally, I adapt. Quickly. Quietly. Often without applause or acknowledgment. Life didn’t give me the privilege of staying the same for long. Every year demanded a new version of me—some built by choice, others by necessity. Adaptation isn’t a talent; it’s a scar that learned how to walk. When something breaks, I adjust. When something shifts beneath my feet, I move. Reinvention stopped feeling dramatic years ago; now it’s just how I breathe.

These are the skills I’ve gathered on my way through the wreckage. Not glamorous. Not marketable. But real. They weren’t taught—they were carved. And maybe that’s the mark of a true education in the school of hard knocks: you don’t graduate with honors. You graduate with perspective. With endurance. With stories you didn’t ask for but somehow needed.

And when someone asks what you’re good at, you finally have the language to answer—not with pride, but with truth.

The Boy Who Wasn’t Afraid of the Dark

2025/12/02Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2140, life, love, mental health, poetry, The Daily's, writing3 Comments

There’s something about the night I’ve never managed to explain without feeling like I’m circling the real truth instead of touching it. It isn’t just the absence of light. It’s the way the world exhales after midnight, how everything settles into a version of itself that feels more honest. If you’re a night person, you already know what I mean—you don’t need me to draw a map to that place.

As a kid, I treated the night like a sanctuary no one else had discovered. The dark didn’t judge, didn’t demand, didn’t tap its foot waiting for me to prove something. I used to get sad when the Dawn arrived—not out of melodrama, but because daybreak felt like someone flipping on the fluorescent lights, telling me to sit up straight and get back in line. Dawn was order. Dawn was expectation. Dawn was the world reminding me I owed it something.

Night never asked for payment.
It just handed me the keys and stepped aside.

I really believed there were no rules after sunset. In the dark, the harsh edges of the day softened. The noise thinned out. My thoughts stopped running defense and finally came out from hiding. The boy I was didn’t have the language for it, but he understood the feeling: Night made room for him in a way life rarely did.

Looking back, I can see how much of that was escape. The night gave me cover—space to imagine, space to feel, space to acknowledge things I wasn’t ready to say out loud. But escape isn’t always cowardice. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s the only way a kid can breathe.

And even now—older, carrying more history than I ever expected to survive—I still feel that tug when the sky lightens. There’s a part of me that mourns the end of the hours where I don’t have to pretend to be anything. A part that whispers, Hold on… not yet.
That boy is still in there. He still trusts the dark more than the dawn.

But here’s the thing I keep circling back to: the night didn’t make me free. It made me honest. There’s a difference. The dark gave me room to face myself without all the day’s noise confusing the signal. It let me consider who I was becoming, who I wasn’t, who I might still be if I stopped running long enough to look in the mirror.

And some nights—when the world goes quiet and the air feels like it’s holding its breath—that honesty still slips through. It reminds me why I loved the dark in the first place: not because it hid me, but because it revealed the parts of me I didn’t yet know how to live with in the light.

The Hardest Decision Was Saying Yes to Myself

2025/11/28Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2136, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing17 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What’s the hardest decision you’ve ever had to make? Why?

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The hardest decision I’ve made recently wasn’t life-or-death. It was deciding to release my work—actually release it. Not hide it in drafts. Not polish it into oblivion. Not drop something small into the void and pretend I didn’t care about the silence afterward. The real battle wasn’t skill or imagination. It was belief—my own.

And I had reason to hesitate. I’d put work out before, here and there. A story, an image, a thought I didn’t mind people ignoring. And they did. The response was minimal or nonexistent, and that kind of quiet gets inside your head. It feeds every story you whisper to yourself at three in the morning: Why do I bother? What does it take to keep going? No one’s reading me anyway. Silence is its own kind of confirmation bias. It tells you you’re forgettable long before you ever get a chance to be known.

Then 2024 hit, and everything went sideways. I was terribly ill—bent, shaken, barely holding myself upright some days. But the blog? Strange as it sounds, it became the one place that felt sane. Real. Safe. My body was chaos, but the work gave my mind somewhere to breathe. I didn’t write because I was inspired. I wrote because it was the only steady ground I had left to stand on.

2025 rolled in with its own question mark hanging over my head. I’d survived—but now what? Who the hell was I supposed to be after everything? No grand gestures; those are just New Year’s resolutions dressed up in fancier language. We make them because we mean well, but half the time we don’t say them out loud. Not because they’re secret—shhh, G-14 classified—but because if we fail, at least the failure stays private. No ridicule. No audience.

Still, I was creating. Since 2023, I’d been grinding like a madman, pushing out content as if volume alone could outrun doubt. But earlier this year, something shifted. I slowed down. I started choosing quality over quantity. Fewer posts, deeper ones. Work that actually had weight. And the analytics—when they finally came—didn’t just pat me on the back. They confirmed it. Memoirs of Madness has had its best year ever. I’m proud of the work, sure. But what hits harder are the unexpected relationships that have come out of this place. That’s the real measure of success. Connection. Not clicks.

Only after all that did I look back at why I never trusted the praise from friends and family. It wasn’t that I doubted their honesty. It’s just that love carries a bias. It’s like being the most beautiful woman in four counties. Everyone knows it, everyone agrees. She leaves home expecting doors to swing open—only to find herself in a city where everyone is beautiful and suddenly she’s average. Not any less beautiful, just no longer exceptional by default. Creative praise works the same way. When the only eyes on your work are the ones already in your corner, it’s easy to confuse affection with validation. And easier still to hide behind that confusion.

But the last seven or eight months changed everything. I kept showing up. The work matured. The engagement grew. Strangers—people with no stake in my ego—connected with pieces I almost didn’t release. It wasn’t validation I was chasing. It was proof that the work could stand in bigger rooms. And for the first time, it could.

Releasing my work wasn’t the victory. That was just the surface.

The real decision—the hard one—was finally trusting that it belonged in the world.
Once I chose that, the rest started falling into place.

Fuzzy Creatures, Women, and the Truth

2025/11/22Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2130, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Beach or mountains? Which do you prefer? Why?

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I’ve been to several corners of the world. I’ve spent time in places that would make people cringe—hell, they make me cringe when I let my mind drift back there. But when I look at these two choices, it feels like a no-brainer.

Give me the mountains.

Not the postcard kind—the real ones. The ones where the air thins out and you can hear your own pulse arguing with gravity. I’ve sat there wondering how much time it took to carve them into what they are—ancient, stubborn, unapologetically themselves. Walking a trail through them will kick your ass in the most honest way possible, every step a small tax you pay for the privilege of being there.

And when you finally reach whatever passes for a destination? The sense of accomplishment hits different. It’s not victory—it’s communion.

Funny thing is, when I was young, I swore the beach was where it was at. Not because I actually enjoyed it all that much—more because that’s where the women always talked about going. At that age, it was a no-brainer. Youth, and the nonsense we tell ourselves. I played volleyball barefoot in the sand, listened to that guy who only knew one chord on his guitar, watched the girls swoon like he was some kind of desert prophet. We had bonfires, told stories, laughed until the night was serenaded by the dawn.

It was magic in its own chaotic, salt-soaked way.
But even with all that, it doesn’t compare to the mountains for me.

Up there, everything strips down to what matters. You hear the creatures before you see them—felt more than observed. Every now and then one will wander out, give you that slow, measured look, maybe share the moment with you. They’re never fussy. I like that about them.

And somewhere along the way, I figured out there are women up there too.
Fuzzy creatures, women, and breathtaking views—what’s not to like?

Honestly, the animals might be cooler than most people. At least they don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. People?
What did Morrison say?
People are strange—and he was being polite.

The beach is pretty, sure. But the mountains?
They make you bleed a little for every inch of beauty.
And anything worth keeping has always cost me something.

So yeah—I pick the mountains.
I trust things that don’t lie.

Sometimes Bare Trees Are the Loudest

2025/11/19Posted in TunageTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, Grooving With Glyn, life, love, mental health, Mixed Music Bag, QOTD, Tunage, writing4 Comments

Groovin’ with Glyn — November, Week 2

Track: “November Trees and Rain” – Marie Dresselhuis

On most November mornings, there’s a chill in the air. Not the kind that grabs you by the collar and shakes you awake, but the subtle kind — the one that lets you know it’s there. It moves slow, almost tender, until your body shivers without asking permission.

I hear the morning before I see it. A woodpecker knocking its code into the trees, winter birds answering in their thin, determined voices. I close my eyes and let the breeze speak for a while — the rustle of fallen leaves, the soft give of the season shifting underfoot. There’s a certain beauty in the bareness of the trees. Something quiet. Something honest. Not something I can describe cleanly in words, but it’s beautiful all the same — the kind of beauty that doesn’t need witnesses.

Then the world shifts again — one of those November moments of return. The air brakes hiss, then squeal, and suddenly the stillness cracks open. Children rush toward the bus, half-awake, half-dressed, somehow always unprepared and always ready. The adventure begins whether they are or not.

I remember my own kids doing the same. I miss those mornings — not with regret, but with that quiet wish a father carries for a different version of himself, a different decision made on a different day.

Guppy’s cry pulls me back. She’s in my chair, staring at me like I’m late. Her way of reminding me that the present is still here, still demanding, still alive. Work waits. Memory wanders. But Guppy doesn’t let me drift too far.

So let us go then, you and I, into this next stop in Groovin’ with Glyn — that mixed music bag I keep rummaging through.

“November Trees and Rain” doesn’t try to dazzle you. It doesn’t fight for attention. It just unfolds — steady, slow-water honest. The title alone feels like a location on a map: somewhere between the last red leaf falling and the moment the season exhales. The guitar comes in like breath; the vocals come in like thought; the whole thing feels like watching the world turn the page while you stand there holding the corner.

This is a song for people who know how to sit with themselves.
Not judge. Not fix. Just sit.

The Devil’s Voice in the Back of the Room

Not everyone trusts the quiet. They say they do, but not really. They want to be shocked and awed underneath while saying, “it’s so peaceful.” Some people hear a slow song and panic — like silence might reveal something they’ve worked hard to bury. Give them rain and they’ll close the blinds. Give them bare trees and they’ll look at their phones. Give them a morning like this and they won’t hear anything but their own hurry.

A song like “November Trees and Rain” has no chance with them.
Too inward.
Too honest.
Too close to the bone.

But November isn’t for cowards.
And neither is this track.

The Lift — Why It Belongs Here

Because there’s a moment midway through the month when the noise dies down — not the external noise, the internal one. This song fits right into that pocket. It’s the sound of a thought finally forming. The kind of realization you don’t chase; it arrives on its own timetable.

“November Trees and Rain” is what happens when the world stops performing and just is.
Bare.
Wet.
Cold.
True.

It reminds you that not everything beautiful announces itself — some things just endure.

Week 1 woke us.
Week 2 asks us to stay awake.

Because the trees are bare now, the rain has longer stories to tell.
Are you ready to listen?

I Didn’t Grow Up — I Got Drafted

2025/11/142025/11/14Posted in The Daily'sTagged childhood, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2088, family, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

When was the first time you really felt like a grown up (if ever)?

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Some people swear I was never a child. They talk about me like I came out of the womb already irritated with humanity—scowl pre-installed, voice warmed up and ready to yell at strangers. And honestly? I get it. I spent over twenty years raising my voice for a living. Hard to picture a guy like that in a onesie, getting hyped over stickers and suckers.

But I remember it.
I remember rolling my eyes with the kids and grandkids—performing the whole too cool for this act—but also hoping, in that quiet place you don’t admit out loud, that nobody ever broke their hearts or stole their joy. There’s something about watching innocence that makes you want to stand guard, even if you pretend you’re above it.

Still, none of that made me feel grown.
Not the early milestones everyone swears matter. Not the first kiss, the first heartbreak, or the first time I put on a uniform and pretended I knew what I was doing. I hit all the checkpoints without crossing the threshold.

Adulthood didn’t sneak up gently.
It came as a year—a tight, unrelenting twelve months—where mortality stopped being philosophical and started breathing down my neck. I remember one night in particular: stepping outside after an incident, dust still floating in the air, adrenaline refusing to let my hands settle. That was the moment I understood life wasn’t theoretical. It could vanish, just like that.

And somewhere in that stretch, something inside me shifted. Not a big, cinematic revelation. More like an internal fracture you can’t ignore once you hear it.

The kid in me didn’t disappear; he just stopped driving. Maybe he stepped back. Maybe he grew quiet. Maybe he finally understood the stakes.

Because once I walked onto a battlefield, I knew I wasn’t a kid anymore.
You feel the ground vibrating under your boots, and it rearranges something in you. Permanently. After that, youth stops being a phase and becomes a memory.

People love to believe adulthood is a choice—something you claim, or celebrate, or ease into with birthdays and responsibilities.

For me, it arrived in the dirt and the dust and the dark.
A draft notice I never signed, delivered on a day I can’t forget.

I didn’t grow up.
I got drafted.

The Place That Doesn’t Ask Anything of Me

2025/11/14Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, daily-prompt, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2122, life, Life Lessons, love, mental health, The Daily's, wisdom, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

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If I could live anywhere in the world, I’d choose a place that doesn’t demand explanations or performances. I’ve lived in cities, deserts, the deep woods — turns out I can settle in just about any landscape as long as it leaves me room to disappear a little.

These days, I picture a small town within driving distance of my hideaway. A place where the market clerk nods without prying, and the librarian teases me about my tattered books but respects the depth of them. Guppy wouldn’t trust her at first, naturally. But a few well-timed treats would work faster than diplomacy ever could. Age catches up with all of us, but if anyone’s going on a diet, it’s her.

Most mornings would start the same: a meditation-heavy book cracked open, a good pen waiting, coffee steaming, my thoughts wandering until Guppy yanks me back to earth with a judgmental meow. Just enough contact with the world to keep me grounded — not enough to get invited to supper. (People get touchy when you say no.)

What I’m really chasing is a chance to breathe. A place where the air isn’t sharpened by worry, where everything isn’t a potential threat even when it isn’t one. Somewhere I can write without the static of the world pressing in, where anonymity isn’t loneliness — it’s relief.

And at the end of each day, I’d know I chose right: Guppy stretching and settling into her next perch, the porch light catching dust in the evening air, the quiet presence of night creatures moving around me. They don’t disturb me. I don’t disturb them. Just a mutual agreement to exist without fear.

Hard to ask for more than that.

The Negotiation of Light: Notes on Screens, Silence, and Stillness

2025/11/06Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2114, life, mental health, social-media, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

How do you manage screen time for yourself?

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In the mornings, when I sit on the porch with my coffee, I watch the world before it fully wakes. The birds navigate from post to post, wings catching the soft light as if they were practicing choreography from a higher rehearsal. I imagine their laughter in bird-speak — gossip about Gary, the feathered fool who embarrassed himself at last night’s “Bird Watch.”

I marvel at how they not only fly but know where they’re going. Then it hits me — magnetism, the original GPS. Nature had built-in navigation long before we turned it into a subscription model.

The squirrels join the morning rush soon after, leaping from limb to limb with effortless grace. There’s a small platoon that passes by daily — the same crew, the same route. I can almost hear them cheering one another on: “Look at you! We’re almost there — ten more minutes!”

And there I am, coffee in hand, watching this unfiltered world unfold — no buffering, no pop-ups, no endless scroll. Just life doing what life does best: being.

Several years ago, I wrote a short line on social media:

“Curb your addiction; Netflix is not a lifestyle.”

At the time, streaming was the new religion. Everyone worshiped the next series drop like it was gospel, and I was no better. I said it partly to be clever, partly as a confession. Because let’s face it — I wasn’t preaching from a mountaintop; I was speaking from the couch.

Even now, I still believe we should spend more time reading, thinking, and being with the people who matter. But the reality is more complicated. These days, screens aren’t just entertainment — they’re the medium of our lives. I’ve written novels, edited photographs, designed worlds, and built entire digital ecosystems from a laptop screen. I’ve written on this blog nearly every day for months straight, and much of it was done on my phone between sips of coffee and the next notification.

So, how do I manage screen time? I don’t always manage it. I negotiate with it.

My desktop is for heavy creative work — the serious stuff: film editing, image manipulation, long fiction. My laptop is for writing in motion. But when I pick up my phone, that small rectangle becomes a world all its own. It’s easy to get lost in that glow — the infinite scroll of headlines, half-truths, dopamine, and distraction.

I once read that researchers call this Small Screen Addiction. I laughed — mostly because I recognized myself in the diagnosis. It’s that quiet pull to check just one more thing, that phantom buzz you swear you felt. The addiction isn’t to the device; it’s to the anticipation of something happening.

That’s the real danger. We’ve become a generation of watchers waiting for something new to arrive on our screens — a message, a miracle, a moment of validation.

These days, I try to make peace with it. I’ve set small rituals: no screens before coffee, no scrolling after midnight, and at least one hour a day where I stare at the ceiling or the sky instead of pixels. It’s not perfect, but it’s balance — or something like it.

And then the day winds down. I return to the porch, this time with tea instead of coffee, preparing for whatever remains of the night. Sometimes I play an audiobook I’ve already heard — something familiar enough to let my mind wander through the spaces between words, where new ideas like to hide.

The glow shifts now — from screens to the eyes of nocturnal creatures beginning their day. They watch me, curious, trying to decide if I mean harm or if I’m one of them. I smell different, but I’ve earned their tolerance through time and quiet. Yes, this is my home — but it was theirs long before me, and it will be theirs long after I’m gone.

It’s funny, the things you learn when you sit, watch, and listen. Their stories begin to braid themselves into yours. Something to be shared — not uploaded or streamed, just lived.

And maybe that’s the best screen management there is.

Author’s Note

We’re surrounded by light — digital, artificial, celestial — and each one demands something of us. Some burn fast and bright, while others whisper in frequencies older than language. The trick, I think, isn’t to turn them off, but to listen long enough to know which ones deserve your attention.

Everything Must Go… Time Is Running Out

2025/11/05Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2113, life, mental health, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

The Time Machine Files, Vol. 3

Depends. You selling or giving it away?

People love to talk about time like it’s a membership program — renewable, limited, and probably ad-supported.
“There’s not enough time in the day.”
“I wish I had more time.”
“Time just got away from me.”
We all say it. I’ve said it too.

The thing about time, though, is it’s always been the same amount since we started measuring it. The only thing that changes is us — or more precisely, how we try to package it.
We’ve gone from lunar calendars to solar calendars to whatever daylight-saving-time fever dream we’re still pretending makes sense. The problem isn’t time. It’s that we keep treating it like software that needs constant updates.

So naturally, someone’s going to say, “We just need to manage it better.”
Cue the parade of Day Runners, Franklin Coveys, and every other trendy organizer that promised to make us “more efficient.” We’ve become so efficient that people now have time to buy multiple organizing systems, compare them on YouTube, and make affiliate links ranking which one saves you more of your already wasted life.

So I wonder if the next big thing will be the ability to purchase time in blocks.
You know — “Now available in convenient six-hour increments!” Buy one, get a bonus fifteen minutes for self-care. Maybe throw in a loyalty program. Because nothing says progress like turning eternity into a subscription service.

They’ll probably call it something sleek and stupid, like Chrono+ or The Timely App.
“Reclaim your minutes!”
“Upgrade your life!”
“Don’t waste another second — for just $19.99 a month.”

(A bright, sterile retail space. Muzak hums in the background. A counter gleams beneath fluorescent lights.)

Sales Associate: Good evening, ma’am, can I help you?
Customer: Yes, I’d like to purchase a time block.
Sales Associate: Certainly. How much were you thinking?
Customer: Hmm… I’m not sure.
Sales Associate: We’re offering thirty percent off any blocks over ninety days, if that helps.
Customer: Really? Oh, Jeremy — stop that! Don’t put things in your mouth. What have I told you about putting things in your mouth? What is that? Spit it out! Right now, young man. Thank you.

(A pause. She straightens her coat, smiles politely.)
Customer: I’m so sorry, where were we? Oh, yes. I’ll take one ninety-day block and three one-hundred-twenty-day blocks. Time flies so fast — you can never be too careful.

And that’s exactly the problem.
We’ve turned time into a product, a project, and a panic attack — all rolled into one. You can color-code your planner, automate your calendar, and stack every “optimization hack” known to humankind.
You still can’t out-organize mortality.

Maybe the trick isn’t getting more time. Maybe it’s using the time you already have without acting like you’re auditioning for it.

So, do I need time?
Not really. I need less of it hanging over my head and more of it sitting quietly beside me — the kind that doesn’t come with notifications, countdowns, or motivational quotes.

If I ever finish the time machine, maybe I’ll try deleting the concept altogether. No deadlines, no clocks, no “you’re running late.” Just motion and memory. Just the sound of life moving forward without asking permission.

Until then, I’ll keep what I’ve got —
a half-wired machine,
a cup of cold coffee,
and a future still on backorder.

Daily writing prompt

Do you need time?

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Oh Look, Another Time Travel Question

2025/11/04Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2112, future, life, love, mental health, reflection, Snarky Puppy, The Daily's, time travel and writing, writing11 Comments

They asked what my life will be like in three years. I told them I’m still trying to figure out next Tuesday.

Some men build time machines. Others read about alien pods and synthetic sheep, hoping to understand what went wrong with the species. I do both — coffee optional, cynicism not.

Every time someone asks about the future, I picture a crowd of anxious humans trying to schedule the weather or negotiate with fate via Google Calendar. It’s adorable. Come here, let me pinch your cheek. Really—this obsession with pretending we’re in control. I’ve met potholes with a stronger sense of inevitability.

Three years from now, I’ll probably still be working on the time machine in my basement. People keep asking why. I tell them it’s cheaper than therapy and safer than dating apps. Besides, time travel makes more sense than “five-year plans.” At least with time travel, you accept the paradox. With planning, you just lie to yourself more efficiently.

So, keep endless scrolling and doing your TikTok dances. Because apparently no one needs cable anymore, and I suppose that makes you a public servant now. So—high five? What? Get away from me… weirdo.

In three years, I hope to have mastered the fine art of not giving a damn about metrics. Maybe I’ll finally stop apologizing for slow progress and start celebrating that I’m still moving at all. I might have fewer teeth, more coffee stains, and the same bad back—but I’ll also have more stories. And if that’s not progress, what is?

If the time machine works, I’ll visit future me just to see if I ever stopped procrastinating. My bet? Future me is standing in the same spot, muttering something about “calibration issues” and sipping cold coffee. If that’s the case, I’ll pat him on the shoulder, tell him he did fine, and leave him to his nonsense.

Because maybe that’s the secret: it’s not about what the future looks like. It’s about showing up for the weird present we’ve already got—even if the gears grind, the circuits smoke, and the timeline refuses to cooperate.

Because no one needs body snatchers—thank you, Jack Finney—or android replicas of Philip K. Dick. Be yourself. Live in the moment. Don’t be a pansy.

So, what will my life be like in three years?

Hopefully still under construction. Hopefully still mine.

And if the time machine’s finally working by then… I’ll let you know.

Daily writing prompt

What will your life be like in three years?

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Do’s, Don’ts, and Dumbshit: A Brief Guide to Time Travel

2025/11/01Posted in The Daily'sTagged #aging, #time-travel, blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2109, life, mental health, The Daily's, Travel, writing2 Comments

Aging isn’t the problem — it’s the reruns. A tongue-in-cheek survival guide for anyone who’s ever looked back and thought, “What the hell was I thinking?”

Daily writing prompt
Is there an age or year of your life you would re-live?
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This could be an interesting question, depending on how you look at it.
If we’re talking about glory days—back before the gray, before the knees filed for early retirement, before hangovers started needing a recovery plan—then no thanks. I have no time for foolishness and even less to say on the matter.

But if we’re talking time travel—now you’ve got my attention.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been building a time machine in my basement. No one believes I’ll ever get the damn thing working. Their “lack of faith in the Force is disturbing.” One woman told me, “It’s not my lack of faith in the Force—it’s my lack of faith in time travel.” I rolled my eyes, of course. Time travel is real—just like dragons. What, don’t look at me in that tone of voice.

So, I decided it was necessary to create a short list of do’s and don’ts. Some of these should be obvious, but you and I both know humans are notorious for dumbshit. What follows is my rough draft of the guide.

Time Travel: A Practical Guide for the Chronologically Curious

Bring humility, not luggage. You can’t pack self-awareness into a carry-on, but it’s the only thing that makes the trip worth it.
Wave, don’t interfere. Watching your younger self screw up is part of the fun—it’s a rerun with better lighting.
Ask the questions you were too proud to ask back then. “What the hell were you thinking?” still counts.
Thank the ghosts. The people who left or broke you were part of the architecture that got you here.
Notice the details—the color of the room, your mother’s voice, the way your laughter used to sound before the world got louder.
Come home. Time travel’s a sightseeing tour, not a place to live.

DON’T

Don’t try to fix anything. You’ll only trade one regret for a newer, shinier model.
Don’t warn your younger self. That idiot needs to learn. You’re living proof they eventually did.
Don’t chase old flames. The girl who didn’t pay you attention the first time still doesn’t give a damn about your ass now.
Don’t drown in the what-ifs. That’s not nostalgia; that’s self-harm in prettier clothes.
Don’t justify your present by rewriting your past. If you’re lost, that’s on today’s version of you.
Don’t forget to bring back souvenirs—perspective, closure, forgiveness. They travel light but change everything.

Once I stop procrastinating and actually finish building the damn time machine, I wouldn’t use it to relive anything. I’d just visit long enough to remember that every mistake had a purpose and every joy had an expiration date. Then I’d come back, pour some coffee, and—I don’t know—maybe write my thoughts on a blog called Memoirs of Madness. Then get on with the business of living whatever version of now I’ve got left.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

When the Milk Crate Was the Cloud

2025/10/24Posted in ProseTagged #Creativity, #Mindset, #Rebuilding, #resilience, #SelfSufficiency, creative writing, daily exercise, healing, life, mental health, Random Thoughts, writing4 Comments

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.

When the Room Goes Quiet

2025/10/19Posted in ProseTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, life, love, mental health, Random Thoughts, writer's life, writers on writing, writing5 Comments

“Fear doesn’t always mean run. Sometimes it means you’ve finally cornered the truth.”

Let’s start with an admission: I’ve never liked the sound of my own voice.
Not the way it cracks when I speak too quickly, or how it forgets itself halfway through a thought. Writing has always been safer — the words obey there. They arrive dressed and deliberate. Out loud, they stumble.

Before I speak, my body stages a small rebellion. My pulse climbs. My jaw tightens. The air feels heavy, as if the room is waiting to see what kind of fraud I’ll turn out to be. That’s what fear does — it turns attention into judgment, curiosity into threat. Only when I’m speaking about my writing does this happen — as if some inner voice hisses, “How dare you think your work is worthy of commentary?”

Yet outside the creative world, I’ve never hesitated to speak. Giving orders? No problem. I did it unapologetically. If someone broke down or got their feelings hurt, my answer was simple: “It’s not my fault your parents raised you to be a pansy.” Was that wrong? Of course. But it was effective — more often than not. That’s why the transition to civilian life hit me like a slow collapse. You can’t bark your way through vulnerability. You can’t command creativity. It doesn’t answer to rank.

But it isn’t really the audience I fear. It’s exposure.
Writing lets me curate my confessions, polish the edges, make the mess beautiful. Speaking strips that away. It demands the raw version — the one that still shakes. And people are strange — sometimes cruel. Some need to be publicly flogged for how they treat others. I laugh when life gives them a taste of their own medicine. Not because two wrongs make a right — they don’t — but because it’s human to feel that flicker of satisfaction when justice shows up wearing irony’s grin. What always gets me, though, is how quickly the guilty feign ignorance. “I’ve done nothing,” they say. Or worse, “All I did was…” as if cruelty came with a receipt and a refund policy.

Sometimes I wonder if the page has made me soft. Soft in that pansy way I used to mock. Where are the tissues? Did you just hand me the cheap stuff? Man, you better give me the Puffs if we’re gonna do this right.
Thank you.
Where was I?
Right — softness. I can write about grief, about love, about the parts of me that never healed. It’s almost easy to do so from the shadows, where no one sees your face or knows your name. A brave soul or a coward? Maybe both.

What do I look like without my mask? Will it fall away, or do I have to peel it off piece by piece? It’s okay to be frightened by what you see. It’s okay to scream aloud as you stare at the stranger in front of you — until you realize it isn’t a stranger at all.
It’s you.
And that’s the moment the voice in your head mutters, “The shit just got real. Damn it, man.”

Could I say these things out loud without flinching? Could I bear the sound of my truth without a backspace key to hide behind?

Maybe that’s what this season of my life is about — learning to live without the safety of revision. To understand that fear, pain, and uncertainty aren’t evidence of weakness, but proof that I’m alive — proof that I matter. The pounding of my heart, the sweat along my brow, the tingling at my edges — they’re all part of it. Then somewhere amidst all of this, I clear the mechanism. Serenity appears. It doesn’t replace the fear, pain, or uncertainty; it listens to them. They have a conversation while I exhale.

I don’t know if I’ll ever love the microphone. But I’m starting to think the page and the stage aren’t enemies. They’re just two mirrors — one for the voice, one for the soul — and I’m standing between them, trying to recognize my own reflection.

Reflective Prompt

What would your truth sound like if you stopped editing it mid-sentence?
Say it out loud — even if your voice shakes.

Author’s Note

Sometimes honesty is a fistfight between who we were and who we’re trying to be. This one left a few bruises — the good kind.
Now, if anyone knows where I left the ice packs… or hell, even a bag of frozen peas — I’m open to suggestions.
Where’s the love, people? Where’s the love?

Tell Yourself Whatever You Need To

2025/10/18Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2095, emotional honesty, healing, human behavior, identity, Introspection, introvert, life, love, memoir, mental health, Perception, personal essay, reflection, self awareness, silence, solitude, The Daily's, truth, vulnerability, writing5 Comments

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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When Nobody’s Watching

2025/10/13Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2090, life, love, mental health, relationships, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

On the kind of truth that doesn’t need an audience.

I’ve always felt that people who do things “as a matter of principle” are full of it. Too often, they cling to their moral code like a lifeboat, even when the water’s shallow enough to stand. I don’t think most of them mean harm — they just get caught up in being right, afraid to face the possibility that they might be wrong. It’s human nature. We mistake conviction for truth because it’s easier than questioning ourselves.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that all our so-called principles are built on experience — the good, the bad, and the ones that broke us open. What we value changes. What once mattered deeply starts to fade. Acceptance doesn’t come easy; denial usually wins the first few rounds.

Over time, I stopped pretending I needed a long list of virtues to define me. I stripped it down to what felt real — two principles that anchor everything else: honesty and integrity.

Honesty keeps me from lying to myself, especially when self-deception would be easier.
Integrity keeps me from betraying who I say I am, even when it costs me something to stay true.

Everything else — compassion, respect, perseverance — grows from those two. I’ve found that when I hold to them, I don’t need much else. It’s simple, but it’s not easy.

I recall people talking about staying up with the times — as if evolution meant trading in your soul for a newer model. But some things shouldn’t change. Things like being true to yourself and paying attention to what actually matters — the choices, the people, and the moments that leave fingerprints on the rest of your life, whether you notice them or not.

I still hear my Madre’s voice when I start to drift:

“You know the difference between right and wrong. No one has to teach you. But I will remind you from time to time.”

That line stuck with me. Maybe because she was right — deep down, we all know. Life just tries to talk us out of it.

Some people call it character, others call it discipline. I just call it doing what’s right when nobody’s watching. The kind of thing you don’t brag about, because if you have to, it probably doesn’t count.

Daily writing prompt

What principles define how you live?

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Ghosts, Deadlines, and the Cool Monitor

2025/10/13Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2089, Deep Reflections, healing, life, love, mental health, writing3 Comments

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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When the Words Stop Belonging to Me

2025/10/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2085, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Somewhere between the promise to finish and the fear of release, I found the echo of a voice that used to steady me. Maybe finishing isn’t the victory—it’s the letting go.

The hardest personal goal I’ve set for myself was deciding to finish a manuscript by the end of the year. I made that promise quietly—no big declarations, no social media countdowns—just a whispered deal between me and the page. I told myself that this time, I wouldn’t stall, I wouldn’t second-guess, I’d simply finish. And for a while, I did. The words came like a slow, steady thaw after a long winter.

But somewhere along the way, I lost my nerve. I’ve been published before, but that was before my wife died. Back then, I wrote with a kind of reckless courage—like someone who still believed the act of creation could outlast the ache of being human. Now, everything I write feels like an echo of the life we built together, the silence between us inked in every line.

People call it fear, and maybe they’re right. But I think it’s more complicated than that. Fear can be fought. This… this feels like standing at the edge of something sacred, knowing that once I let the work go, I can’t pull it back. It’ll belong to the world—and not to her, not to me.

Still, I keep returning to the manuscript, the way you revisit an old photograph. There’s grief in it, but also grace. Maybe finishing isn’t about conquering the fear at all. Maybe it’s about learning to live with the ghosts that remain—and letting the story carry them somewhere new.

Author’s Note:
We talk a lot about fear in creative spaces, as if naming it will banish it. But sometimes, fear isn’t the enemy—it’s the proof that what we’re doing still matters.

Daily writing prompt

What was the hardest personal goal you’ve set for yourself?

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One Size Fits Nobody

2025/10/04Posted in The Daily'sTagged Bi-Polar, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2081, life, love, mental health, PTSD, The Daily's, writing13 Comments

When I was young, we didn’t know anything about bipolar, ADHD, or OCD. For most of the kids who looked like me, we were troublemakers. Lazy. Not living up to our “potential.” And my personal favorite — “at risk.”

I saw things that still twist my stomach. Families locking their special-needs kids away like shame in human form. Others giving children up for adoption because they saw difference as a “defect.” I didn’t understand it then, but I also didn’t question it. I figured it wasn’t my business. That was my own brand of ignorance — youthful stupidity with a good dose of asswipe. Luckily, I got my head out of my ass before it became permanent.

I watched people claw their way toward acceptance, thinking if they could just fit in, life might hurt less. It didn’t. I saw cruelty take every shape imaginable. And one night, I watched one of the kindest people I’d ever met get invited to a “party” by the popular crowd. What happened there was wrong on every level — a setup disguised as an invitation. People laughed. Some stood frozen, watching. Nobody stopped it. That was the night I decided I wouldn’t stand by again. I made it my mission to fight for the ones who couldn’t. Easier said than done, but it was a start.

Thing was, I knew what it felt like to be made to feel less than. My athletic ability was my equalizer — my way to earn space. But it was a fragile kind of belonging. I thought if I could hit harder, run faster, fight better, I’d earn respect.

Turns out, asswipes are going to be asswipes no matter how many beatings you hand out.

Being a nerd and a geek didn’t help either — things I embrace now but used to hide. Being Black in America wasn’t easy, but even that didn’t compare to the way people treated those with mental or learning conditions. Hate, I learned, is colorblind and endlessly creative.

We love to talk about how diversity makes America great. Sometimes I think diversity only exists on posters and TV slogans.

Then it hit home. My family. I wasn’t ready, but I wasn’t scared. I just had to face a truth I didn’t want to admit: I had some buried prejudice of my own. Stuff I didn’t even know was there. And if I wanted to keep my family whole, I had to deal with it. Over time, I did.

Then came my own diagnosis. PTSD. That’s when I found even more latent bullshit buried under the macho armor — the “last American badass” act. Mental illness didn’t exist for men like me. Especially not for Black men, because we’re supposed to be ridiculously strong. But let’s be honest — that toxic script applies to men everywhere. Be strong. Don’t cry. Fix it or bury it. It’s a lie that kills quietly.

The stigma runs deep — not just in the streets, but in the system. I asked a therapist once about ADHD and OCD, wondering if some of my symptoms overlapped. She waved it off: “Once you resolve your PTSD, you’ll be back to normal.”

Back to normal. As if “normal” were a bus stop I could just catch on the next route.

That’s the problem. Too many mental health professionals treat PTSD like it’s a virus. “Bend over, quick poke, might sting a little.” Hell, if it were that simple, I’d have rolled up my sleeve years ago.

But it’s not. None of it is. Every mind is different. What wrecks me might roll right off you. What medication lifts you up might level me. But they don’t listen. They pull out the checklist, ask the same robotic questions, tick the same boxes, and call it “care.”

It’s one-size-fits-all medicine — and that bullshit didn’t work for clothing, so why the hell do they think it’ll work for the mind?

When I hit full-blown crisis mode, I was lucky. I got an intern who actually gave a damn. She helped me start living with PTSD instead of suffering from it. She listened. She paid attention. She saw the person, not the file.

My psychiatrist? Worthless. I called him my dope man to his face. He corrected me — gave me his title like I was some illiterate twit. I told him I didn’t give a damn what his title was; he was still my dope man, and the least he could do was give me some good shit.

Instead, I got the cheap stuff — the kind that made me feel disrespected, doped, and disposable.

But I’ve been lucky since then. I have a care team now that actually seems to give a damn about me as a person — not just a walking diagnosis. I don’t know exactly how that happened, but I’ve got a small inkling. See, there were a few medical professionals who became casualties of my unfiltered disdain for incompetence. I didn’t hold back. Maybe that left a trail — maybe word got around that I wasn’t someone to bullshit. Whatever it was, I finally ended up with people who listen. Who treat me like a human being instead of a puzzle to solve.

Medication isn’t the solution. It never has been. It’s the work of the individual — the daily grind of facing the mirror and doing the damn work — that brings real results. I’ve worked with soldiers and civilians who carry the same ghosts, and the truth doesn’t change. The treatment only works when you treat the person. They’re not data points. They’re people. Treat them as such.

We are people. We deserve to be treated fairly. Not pitied. Not managed. Not turned into a statistic on a spreadsheet. We deserve the love and fairness that every living soul on this planet is owed.

If you want to help someone, start by listening. Don’t tell them what they need — ask them. Sure, you might know a few things, but don’t force it. Offer choices. Let them decide for themselves. Nobody likes being told what to do. And the ones who say they don’t mind? They’re lying.

Healing isn’t a factory line. It’s messy, human, and different for everyone. What calms one person might break another. What saves you might drown me.

There was a saying back in the day, before online dating. We used to say, “You got a sister or a friend?” — a way of saying, you’re good people, got anyone else like you?

That’s how I feel about good mental health professionals. When you find one who actually listens — who sees you as a person, not a case number — all you can think is: You got a sister or a friend?

But in my experience, most of these so-called mental health professionals don’t act like that.

Two words for you:

Uncultured Swine.

(It’s still a compliment.)

Author’s Note:

This piece is about stigma — the kind that hides behind silence, systems, and credentials. It’s about learning that real strength doesn’t come from toughness or treatment plans. It comes from listening — to yourself, to others, to the pain no one wants to name. Because healing, like humanity, never fits into a box.

Daily writing prompt

What’s a topic or issue about which you’ve changed your mind?

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Well… You Know

2025/10/03Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2080, healing, life, love, mental health, Out of place, The Daily's, writing14 Comments

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 – 10032025

2025/10/03Posted in Quote of the DayTagged Anne Sexton, Depression, mental health, Mental Wellness, QOTD6 Comments

Personal Reflection
Depression rarely looks like the grand collapse we see in films—it’s slower, quieter, a kind of suffocating monotony. Yet, it is very real. It’s not the dramatic breakdown in a rain-soaked street; it’s the heavy silence that lingers in the kitchen at 2 a.m. It’s the untouched dishes, the stalled conversation, the way light feels thinner when it slips through the blinds. It’s the boredom that corrodes everything, the dull ache of simply existing.

Anne Sexton strips the monster of its glamour. She reminds us that depression isn’t always a tragedy to be performed; sometimes it’s just…boring. And maybe that’s its cruelest trick—it convinces us that even our suffering has become ordinary. Sexton’s defiance is in the small things: soup, light, fire in the cave. Not grand gestures, not a cure, but a refusal to let the dark have all the power.

It’s not about pretending the cave isn’t real—it’s about refusing to let it stay pitch-black. Small rituals—heat, nourishment, a flicker of flame—don’t erase the cave, but they carve out enough space to breathe inside it. Sometimes survival isn’t about escape—it’s about claiming one corner of the darkness and saying, this part is mine, and I will not let it go out.

Reflective Prompt for Readers
When the cave closes in, what’s the one small act that keeps you from going under completely?
Not the big, polished answers—the raw, ordinary thing. The soup. The match. The flicker that proves you’re still here.
What is it for you, and when was the last time you reached for it?

The Details That Keep Me Here

2025/09/30Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2077, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Learning to Trade Control for Presence

Daily writing prompt

What details of your life could you pay more attention to?

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Looking back, I see the shift clear as day. In 2023, I leaned hard on control—details, contingencies, the belief that if I just tightened the screws enough, nothing could come loose. By 2024, the screws had already rattled out, and I was staring down a kind of fragility I’d never known before.

One year, I was convincing myself discipline was enough. Next, I was joking about my “part-dragon phase” just to soften the gut-punch of realizing I’m flesh and blood like everyone else. What hasn’t changed is the truth at the center: the details I need to pay attention to aren’t the external ones. They’re internal—the quiet daily choices that keep me alive, standing, and present with the people who’d notice if I wasn’t.

That’s not the answer I wanted to give, but it’s the only one that matters.

For most of my life, I’ve been the kind of person who sweats the details. I suppose it grew out of fear—fear of making a mistake, fear of letting something slip. My default mode was to be squared away: backup plans layered on top of contingency plans, every angle covered, every risk accounted for. If you’d asked me back then what details I needed to pay more attention to, I would’ve shrugged and said, “None. I’ve got it handled.”

But then life came along with its own set of details I couldn’t spreadsheet or strong-arm my way through. Health issues hit, and with them came changes I didn’t ask for and didn’t want. At first, I fell into my usual pattern—pretend control, mask the cracks, mutter “fuck it” when the new limits pressed too hard. But weakness has a way of humbling you. For the first time, I wasn’t sure how things would turn out.

That’s when my circle—the family I chose—stepped in. They reminded me I wasn’t done fighting, even when my body said otherwise. I’m not used to relying on anyone, but I learned to lean when I had to. It turns out that those details matter just as much as the ones I used to obsess over.

So what do I need to pay more attention to? The unglamorous, invisible stuff: eating better, resting when I should, saying no before I collapse, listening to my people when they call me on my bullshit. All the little choices that keep me here, present, and alive.

It’s tempting to say I’m doing this just for myself, and on some level that’s true. But it isn’t lost on me that my brothers, my friends, my people—they want me around too. There’s nothing better than feeling that kind of love. And honestly, I’m getting too old to risk another beating, figurative or otherwise.

No Punk in Me

2025/09/29Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2076, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

On anniversaries, admin work, and the grit to keep moving.

Daily writing prompt

What’s your #1 priority tomorrow?

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The end of the month always brings a surge in paperwork. Spreadsheets, backend checks, the kind of admin work that keeps my websites standing upright instead of collapsing in a heap of missed updates and broken links. Usually, I keep pace. But this month — hell, these last two months — I’ve been dragging. Emotion takes its toll, and when it hits, it doesn’t just knock you down; it scrapes off your momentum.

And tomorrow isn’t just the end of the month. It’s the anniversary of my wife’s death — the moment that split my life into three acts: the life before, the life during, the life after. Some years, I handle it better. Some years, it feels like the wound was carved just yesterday. But I’ve learned forgetting isn’t the goal. The point is remembering fully. Letting myself feel the pain, the joy, the sorrow, all tangled together in the memories that built me.

Funny thing is, she’d probably put her foot up my backside for the way I’ve been living. Can’t say I’d blame her. I’d probably kick my own ass, too. I remember the man I was, and I see the man I’ve become. Some parts I’m proud of; other times, I just shake my head at the mess I’ve gotten myself into. Jackass comes to mind more often than I’d like to admit.

I catch myself wondering who I’d be if she hadn’t died. Better? Happier? Maybe just more ornery — that last one feels like a safe bet. (Truth is, the orneriness has been growing by the day, and I’ve made my peace with it.)

But here’s what I know: no matter what might have been, this is the life I’ve got. The work still waits. The words still demand to be written. The fight — for the things I believe in, for the things I’ve spent my life creating — hasn’t gone anywhere.

So yes, tomorrow there will be admin. There will be memories, some sharp enough to cut, others soft enough to cradle. There will be the temptation to run from the ache, to hide in distraction or numbness. But my mama didn’t raise no punk. I’ll remember. I’ll work. I’ll fight. And I’ll laugh at myself along the way, because wisdom without humor is just another burden.

Author’s Note:
Grief never leaves — it just changes costumes. Some days it appears as silence, some days as laughter, and some days as the sharp edge of memory. But I’ve learned to live with it, and sometimes even laugh at it. Tomorrow will hurt, but it’ll also remind me why I keep showing up for the work and the fight. That’s how I honor her and myself.

Keeping It Old School—One Repair at a Time

2025/09/24Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, Creative Living, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2071, life, Life Lessons, love, mental health, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What brands do you associate with?

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When I was a kid, brands were a kind of social currency. Clothes weren’t just fabric; they were shorthand for who you were. Madre Khan didn’t have much, but she made sure I never went hungry or without a place to sleep. Back then, I thought the right label could hide the lean years. We lived through the “generic” craze—plain white packaging, bargain prices—and adults preached, “You pay for what you get. Quality costs.” It felt like gospel.

For years I carried those lessons forward. My loyalties were automatic: Dickies for everyday wear, Logitech for office gear, Apple for everything but my phone. I even joked about being a brand whore, because at least I knew why I liked what I liked. My stepmother once shook her head at how casually I spent, but I’d tell her I bought what I needed and rarely worried about price. Quality justified the tab.

Lately, the gospel rings hollow. The “solid” names I grew up trusting don’t always deliver. Prices climb, quality slips, and you can’t put a price on quality now sounds like something printed on the inside of a fortune cookie. More than once, a no-name hard drive or keyboard has outperformed the legacy brand at half the cost.

These days I notice another shift. I own plenty of off-brand gear that works just fine for what I need. Retirement changes the math: I don’t need professional-grade tools anymore, but the ones I have will serve until they die. I used to research only within the circle of names I trusted; now the field is so crowded you watch the distributor more than the logo. Even established vendors let quality control slide, which often leaves me repairing old equipment or building my own replacement. I don’t buy desks or bookshelves anymore—I build them. I’ve started refurbishing old furniture and appliances with lower-grade tools and find the process oddly satisfying.

Just today I paused mid-essay to repair an outdoor extension cord. A simple fix would’ve done the job, but I couldn’t resist the upgrade—added roughly twenty-five feet for good measure. It’s a small thing, but it says a lot: why settle for a patch when you can quietly rewrite the boundaries of your backyard? Somewhere, Madre Khan is smiling at the sight of me splicing wires with the same patient curiosity she once showed when I tore things apart for parts.

I still research before I buy, but loyalty no longer seals the deal. If a nameless drive stores my files without complaint, it wins. If a plain keyboard keeps up with my writing, I don’t care whose badge sits on the box. The brands I associate with now aren’t names—they’re the ones that keep their promises.

Maybe that’s the real lesson: value isn’t in the logo, it’s in the follow-through. Childhood taught me to chase quality. Adulthood taught me to measure it myself. These days my motto is simple—get the most bang for the buck and enjoy the build along the way.

Confessions of an Insomniac – Episode 2: Mainlining Caffeine

2025/09/23Posted in ProseTagged books, creative process, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2070, life, mental health, The Daily's, writer's life, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What could you do more of?

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Sleep and I are estranged lovers—centuries of cold shoulders and midnight betrayals between us.
Sleep is like that perfect lover we imagine we could find, but do we really want perfection? Knowing that perfection is something for shitbirds and affirmation junkies. There’s no help for the shitbirds, but the affirmation junkies—there’s a new 5 a.m. virtual meeting. I think that’s the word. Who knows? I can’t keep up. Hell, I can’t even get up.
If we reconciled now, the shock might kill us both—like a jolt of mainlined caffeine through a cracked vein.

I could try being nicer to people. Be giddy, even. (Insert laugh track here.) But no—perish the thought. Niceness feels suspicious, like a door-to-door guru peddling enlightenment for the price of my dignity.

The writer in me says write more, which is hilarious because I already write every damn day. My editor swears I start a new series just to watch her eye twitch. Sometimes she sends me texts that are just a single, vibrating ellipsis. I plead the Fifth. She rolls her eyes so hard I can hear it over the phone.
The other day she asked, “When are you going to take the next step? You know you’re ready, right?”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time I believe in myself a little more—have faith in the work I keep throwing into the world like sparks from a stubborn match.

Still, there’s something quietly miraculous about creating work you love and finding out strangers love it too. For years, I didn’t have the time—raising a family will eat decades before you can blink. (Contrary to the baffling opinions of certain buttwipes who think parenting is optional.)

But the thing I’d truly like to do more of? Pay attention to my art. Not for money, not for likes—just to see how far I can push it. No limits, no internal hang-ups, none of the flimsy excuses we invent to dodge our own passions. Retirement has made one thing clear: I’m a storyteller. Always have been. Every skill I’ve picked up—writing, photography, film work, design—has been another star in the same battered sky, flickering through the smog of burnt coffee and late-night keystrokes. Each one lights a different corner of the story. Perhaps it’s time to stop forcing the tale into a single constellation and let the stars arrange themselves, allowing the story to decide whether it shines as prose, image, film, or sound.

As I write this, it begs the question… What if?
What if I let go and took the plunge? Will doubt finally fall away? Will I edge closer to whatever version of me is hiding under all this noise—no matter how cleverly I might hide myself?
Not to get hippy-dippy, but isn’t that the engine under all of this—the quiet force beneath the surface, behind the mask we flash to the world?
Excuse me while I glue my mask back together. They don’t epoxy like they used to. Progress my ass.

Maybe sleep will keep sulking in the corner. Fine. I’ll keep mapping my own constellations until the night runs out of darkness.
Sleep can wait. Niceness can rot. The story gets every last hour I have.

Where’d I Go?

2025/09/15Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2062, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing17 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Share a lesson you wish you had learned earlier in life.

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Geez, where do I start? There’s a whole damn syllabus of lessons I should’ve heeded earlier. One of the few perks of aging—besides knowing which joints will protest the weather—is the slow burn of wisdom. The kind you don’t get from books or podcasts. It comes wrapped in mistakes and bad decisions, leaving scars you can trace with your fingertips when the night goes too quiet.

Most of us have no idea what we’re doing. We’re trained to react instead of pause, to sprint when the real answer demands a slow walk and a long think. That made me an oddball—the guy who couldn’t walk and chew bubblegum, as the saying goes. I used to think something was broken in me because I didn’t move like my friends. So I faked it. Tried on their swagger like an ill-fitting coat and wound up knee-deep in more trouble than any decent statute of limitations allows. No one forced my hand. Every bad turn was my choice.

Eventually I needed to look in the mirror and recognize the person staring back. One night I finally did and whispered, “Where’d I go?” Instead of facing the answer, I reached for alcohol. At first it felt like an experiment; by the time the haze lifted, I realized I wasn’t just drinking—I was binge drinking. Like every drug, it took over. I drank to be accepted, but the acceptance I craved wasn’t external. It was the quiet inner nod that says this is who you are, faults and all.

I wasn’t sure I could follow through—if I had the courage to become me. I’d stand in a room full of people and still feel lonely. Everything felt wrong, yet temptation stayed strong: keep hiding like everyone else, stay two-faced and plastic. I knew every effort to fake it was bound to fail. I hate being wrong and go to great pains to avoid it. But here’s the twist—I was completely wrong, and I’m more than okay with it. Alcohol was so woven into my life I once believed it helped me find my muse. Pure horseshit. Fifteen years ago, I put down the bottle and I’ve been writing my ass off ever since.

It’s okay to be yourself. Let your weirdo flag fly. If anyone tells you different, the only appropriate and dignified response is a proper, “Fuck off!” For me, I had to whisper, “Sorry, Mom.” She wanted me to stop cussing for Lent. I told her I wasn’t Catholic anymore, but she wasn’t buying that as an excuse for a foul mouth.

If I had to pick one lesson, it’d be this: it’s alright to be me.
Not the version patched together from other people’s expectations. Not the quiet kid pretending to enjoy chaos. Just me. Turns out the hardest permission to grant is your own.

Author’s Note

Never let a shitbird talk you into being something other than who you are. Of course you’re going to evolve—that’s the point of living—but growth isn’t the same as surrender. Don’t sand down your edges just to fit someone else’s blueprint. The right people will respect your crooked angles and the wrong ones will drift off when they realize you’re not bending.

Sobriety taught me this, but you don’t need a bottle to learn it. The pressure to perform is everywhere—family dinners, office politics, the endless scroll of curated lives. Remember: becoming isn’t about becoming acceptable; it’s about becoming unmistakably yourself.

Reflective Prompt

Think back to a moment when you felt the pressure to shrink, fake, or bend just to belong.

What did you trade away in that moment—time, voice, dignity, a dream?
If you looked in the mirror right now, what question would stare back at you?
What would granting yourself full permission—your own quiet yes—actually look like?

Write it down. No filters, no audience. Just you and the truth that refuses to stay hidden.

What the Silence Knows

2025/09/12Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2059, healing, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing10 Comments

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.

You Can’t Keep the Force Waiting

2025/09/07Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2053, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

How do you relax?

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Relax? I’m not even sure I know what that word means. I can define it, sure. I can even toss it into a sentence with some authority, like I’ve got the concept nailed down. But when it comes to actually doing it—executing the mysterious act of “relaxing”—I draw a blank.

That’s not to say I haven’t had relaxing moments. I’ve had a few, here and there, like finding an unexpected pocket of calm wedged between chaos and obligation. But that’s different than inhabiting a true state of relaxation. If such a state exists, it must’ve slipped past me sometime after childhood and never bothered to circle back.

However, I do have the ability to press pause in my mind in small increments. It’s become quite usual over the years. For example, I didn’t write again and ended up watching a couple of sports movies that, for some reason, had strippers in them. Before you sit in judgment—I didn’t write the movies. Still, I caught myself thinking about adding elements like that into a story. Hmmm. I like that. Excuse me for a minute while I make some notes. Okay, I’m back. Where was I?

For me, it’s more like waiting for the noise to die down rather than learning how to step out of it. And maybe that’s the rub: real relaxation isn’t about moments—it’s about being able to stay in that state, to stretch it out until it holds you. I haven’t cracked that code. Maybe I don’t even want to.

Oh yeah, relaxing. Yeah, I got nothing. So excuse me while I check out the latest Star Wars trilogies. You just can’t keep the Force waiting.

Mangus Khan: Exposed, then Reborn

2025/08/31Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2047, life, mental health, personal essay, The Daily's, writer's life, writing8 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Why do you blog?

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I didn’t start blogging out of passion. I started because somebody told me I needed a website. Truth is, I didn’t even know what a blog was. I opened an account here on WordPress, a couple more elsewhere, and thought traffic would just follow me, the way stray dogs follow a food truck. Wrong. This place sat dead for nearly ten years—so long I forgot it existed—until one random day in 2022 when a notification lit up my screen. A new like. WTF? From where? I clicked the link and landed back here, staring at the ghost of myself.

When I first began, I was faceless. Anonymous. That mask was armor, and it gave me freedom. I could bleed here, collapse here, spit out my fears and grief without worrying who was watching. At events I’d hear people talk about my work—sometimes praise, sometimes poison—and they had no idea the person standing close enough to smell their cologne was the one who wrote it. Sometimes I’d even push them, ask what they really meant, still hiding my identity like a loaded gun in my pocket.

Then came the rupture. Tragedy. Exposure. Suddenly there was a face to the words. My face. And Mangus died in that moment. The mask was gone, and anonymity was stripped clean.

Why did I come back? Simple: the people here. When nobody read my words, I read theirs. Hours spent slipping into voices from around the world, getting lost in stories that weren’t mine. Even without traffic on my end, the connection was real. Still is, when I manage to claw time out of the chaos. Since 2023 this blog has grown beyond what I imagined it could be. Grateful doesn’t come close. Appreciation feels too small. What I feel is heavier, messier. It sits with teeth in it.

Now I blog to bleed. To heal. To rage. To rejoice. To carve my words into the silence before it swallows me again. Blogging reminded me who I was before chaos dictated my breath, and it taught me something else, too: the strength was always mine. I just forgot where I left it.

Author’s Note: The support I receive from my WordPress peeps keeps me motivated and engaged. Thank you. What started as a faceless outlet has turned into something I never imagined—a place where words aren’t just spilled but witnessed. Every like, every comment, every late-night read means more than I can put cleanly into words. You all remind me that writing doesn’t have to echo in a vacuum. It can breathe. It can bruise. It can belong.

So yeah—I’ll keep showing up here, scars and all.

How I Learned to Stop Hating S.M.A.R.T. Goals (And Make Them Useful)

2025/08/15Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2031, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

How do you plan your goals?

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There’s no shortage of nifty acronyms about goals floating around the internet. Toss a dart and you’ll hit one.

When I was growing up, we didn’t talk about “goals.” We had tasks. You made a checklist, worked through it, and crossed things off. Simple. Direct. No mysticism, no motivational posters required.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I started hearing people talk about “goals” like they were magic spells. Set your goals, visualize them, and manifest your dreams. Cute. But does anyone ever stop to ask what the hell a “goal” actually means? Does it have a deadline? A measure? Or is it just a vague wish written in business casual?

When I was in the military, I leaned hard on the task-oriented system. Every mission boiled down to clear tasks that could be checked, tracked, and rechecked. Later, when I moved into social services, my organization introduced another acronym: S.M.A.R.T. goals. At first, I hated it. Not because the form was broken, but because the instructions were. People filled it out and treated it like a box-checking exercise.

So, I started using it alongside my task-oriented system. That’s when it clicked. Paired with a real process, S.M.A.R.T. stopped being fluff and started being functional.

What the Hell Are S.M.A.R.T. Goals?

It’s simple:

S – Specific: Clearly define what you want to accomplish.
M – Measurable: You can track it — numbers don’t lie.
A – Achievable: Ambitious, not impossible.
R – Relevant: It actually matters to you.
T – Time-bound: A finish line, not “someday.”

That’s it. Straightforward enough. But the trick is using it right.

How to Use Them Effectively

Most people treat S.M.A.R.T. like a worksheet you fill out and forget. That’s not planning — that’s paperwork.

Here’s what makes it actually work:

Break it into tasks. A goal is only real if you can do something today that moves it forward.
Apply P.A.C.E. thinking. Your Primary plan, Alternate options, Contingency if things shift, and Emergency fallback. Same system I use for emergency preparedness.
Review often. If you never check the plan, it dies on the page.

Real-World Example: Writing

Vague goal: “I want to write more.”

S.M.A.R.T. goal:

Specific: Publish one blog post per week on Memoirs of Madness.
Measurable: One a week = 4 per month.
Achievable: Realistic with your schedule.
Relevant: Writing sharpens your craft and feeds the community.
Time-bound: Do this for 12 weeks, then review.

P.A.C.E. it?

Primary: Write at your desk on schedule.
Alternate: Draft on your phone if you’re away.
Contingency: Record a voice memo, transcribe later.
Emergency: Jot bullet points in a notebook — messy but usable.

Suddenly, “write more” isn’t a dream. It’s a system you can actually work.

Real-World Example: Preparedness

Vague goal: “I want to be ready for blackouts.”

S.M.A.R.T. goal:

Specific: Build a 72-hour blackout kit with food, water, and lighting.
Measurable: 3 gallons of water, 9 meals, 3 working lights.
Achievable: Start with basic supplies, expand later.
Relevant: Storm season hits every year — this matters.
Time-bound: Have it assembled in 30 days.

P.A.C.E. it?

Primary: Store kit in the house.
Alternate: Keep a smaller kit in the car.
Contingency: Borrow or share with neighbors if needed.
Emergency: Improvise with what’s on hand — but only if you must.

Now, you’re not just “hoping to be ready.” You’ve got a clear target with backup layers.

Final Word

S.M.A.R.T. goals aren’t magic. They’re not perfect either. But paired with tasks and P.A.C.E. thinking, they actually become useful.

Because at the end of the day, a goal isn’t about the acronym. It’s about whether you can move it from “idea” to “done.”

Question for You: When you set a goal, do you actually break it down into tasks, or does it stay a vague idea floating around in your head? And if you’ve ever used something like S.M.A.R.T. goals — did it actually help, or did it feel like just another form to fill out?

Does Anybody Know What the Hell They’re Saying Anymore?

2025/08/13Posted in The Daily'sTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2029, Fiction, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What is a word you feel that too many people use?

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I can’t tell you when it started, but some genius decided “surreal” was the sexiest word in the English language, and everyone lined up to mangle it. Back in the day, we actually looked words up in a dictionary, underlined them, wrote them down, and tested them in sentences to see if we were using them right. Madness, right? Now it’s easier to grab a word and make shit up. Surreal used to mean dream-logic and fever visions—like stepping into a Dalí canvas where clocks melt and eyes bloom into roses. Now it’s slapped on oat milk shortages or spotting a C-list celebrity in baggage claim. “It was surreal,” they sigh, like they just returned from some cosmic vision quest. No—it was Thursday. And I still had one more load of laundry left. Do I have enough quarters?

And if “surreal” has been abused to the point of boredom, “unprecedented” is its overachieving twin. Unprecedented was used to pack heat, carry weight, and demand attention. Now it’s what people whine about while waiting for a latte—right before bragging about a thrift store “treasure” that’s just a busted lamp with a missing cord. These days, it’s duct-taped onto headlines, CEO pep talks, and press releases written by people who wouldn’t buy their own pitch. “We live in unprecedented times,” they chant, like the words alone could cover the rent or clean up the wreckage they helped cause. People actually know what the hell they’re talking about. Now that would be unprecedented.

These two words have become the lazy twins of public speech, tag teaming their way through news broadcasts, political soundbites, and influencer captions. Surreal and unprecedented. Say them together enough, and they dissolve into flavorless mush, like a stick of gum chewed until it’s nothing but rubber and spit. That’s the real surreal moment—watching language bleed out in the gutter while everyone nods along like it’s still breathing.

Author’s Note:
This one started as a gripe about “surreal” and snowballed into a two-word autopsy. I don’t expect people to stop using them—they’ve already been beaten into cliché—but maybe we could save them for moments that actually deserve them. Until then, I’ll be over here, counting quarters and waiting for the day “unprecedented” gets the dictionary funeral it deserves.

Above the Churn

2025/08/12Posted in FictionTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, FOWC, FSS, life, love, Madness Made Visible, mental health, RDP, writing4 Comments

“You funny little man.”

The words slid through my dream and cracked it in half. I came up out of the dark slow, like surfacing through tar. The TV in the next room kept spitting out canned laughter, each burst bleeding through the plaster like a bad memory you can’t scrub out.

I left breadcrumbs for them to find me. Hell, I practically lit the path in neon. So why the delay? They should’ve been here hours ago. Unless this is the variant where they let you stew first, make you sweat until you start negotiating with yourself. I’ve seen that play before.

I hope they come. No—I need them to. It’s the only thing holding the walls together. But hope’s a sucker’s bet. Optimism’s for pretty people and the kind of bastards who get served first in every bar. The rest of us? We know the rules. They get champagne. We get the backwash.

Paranoid? Maybe. But paranoia’s just the truth with the varnish stripped off. And here I am, sitting in a sweat-stained chair in a mildew-sick motel room with a suitcase full of cash at my feet. Waiting for men without faces to come take it—and maybe me—with them. People say those types don’t have a code. That’s bullshit. Everyone’s got a code. Theirs just doesn’t match yours, and it sure as hell doesn’t care about your pulse.

The suitcase sits there like a loaded confession. The clasps are worn, the handle tired, but the weight… Jesus, the weight hums in the air. Life-changing kind of weight. The “fresh start” kind. But that’s a fairy tale for the clean and the lucky.

Me? I’ve got ghosts baked into my bones. Every choice I ever made cut a groove I can’t climb out of. And no matter what’s in that case, I’m not getting out clean.

Author’s Note:
It’s been weeks since I’ve thrown down a little flash fiction. I’ve been neck-deep in the world-building swamp for a project that keeps getting bigger every time I turn a corner. Figured I’d come up for air before it swallows me whole. This one’s thanks to Fandango’s Story Starter and FOWC for tossing me the match—sometimes you just need the right spark to remember you still know how to burn.

This Is Not a Mission Statement; It’s Just the Way It Is

2025/08/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2024, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing14 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What change, big or small, would you like your blog to make in the world?

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We’ve been trained to expect clarity.
To believe every big feeling must end with a moral—
A neat conclusion, a TED Talk takeaway, a three-step solution.

But here’s the truth, I keep chewing like nasty gristle:

Some things don’t resolve.
Some stories stay jagged.
And some blogs, this one especially, aren’t built to clean up after your pain.
They’re built to leave it on the floor, still breathing.

I started Memoirs of Madness because I didn’t know what else to do with the words.

Over a decade ago, someone said every writer needed a blog if they were serious. I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t know if I was serious. I just knew I had things in me that wouldn’t stay quiet.

I wrote because I needed to. Still do.
Not to change the world. Not to craft a brand.
But because silence costs too damn much.

So when you ask me, “What change do you want your blog to make?”
I honestly don’t know.
And that’s not me being evasive. That’s me refusing to lie to you.

I could dress it up. Tell you it’s about healing. About expression. About building a community for the unseen. All of which might be true, sometimes. But defining that change in a singular, bite-sized way would flatten what this space actually is.

This blog isn’t one thing.
It’s a mirror that distorts and reveals depending on how the light hits.
It’s rage on Monday, softness on Tuesday, confession by Thursday, and grief that overstays its welcome every damn Sunday.

If Memoirs of Madness changes anything, I hope it changes the way you think about being unfinished.

I hope it disrupts that polished self you wear in front of strangers.
I hope it reminds you that not knowing is still worthy of a voice.
Those messy, unresolved, and unsellable truths still deserve the page.

I hope this blog pisses you off sometimes.
Not because I’m aiming to provoke, but because something buried in you recognized itself and flinched.

Because it sure as hell pisses me off—
dragging up things I thought I buried,
making me admit shit I’d rather leave unsaid.
That’s how I know it’s honest.

So no, I didn’t build this place to change the world.
I built it to survive mine.

And if, by some luck or accident, it helps you survive yours—
then maybe that’s the kind of change that matters most.

Kindness Shouldn’t Have a Name

2025/08/01Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2017, family, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Some lessons in decency don’t need applause—they just need doing.

Daily writing prompt

Write about a random act of kindness you’ve done for someone.

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When we were kids, life taught us early how far a nickel could stretch—and how often it didn’t. We’d walk the streets collecting bottles and cans, hoping to scrape enough together for a sugar rush at the corner store. Back then, they were Mom-and-Pop joints, the kind where everyone knew your name and your running tab of trouble. We’d stand at the candy rack, counting and recounting our coins, trying to game the system and get the most candy for the least cash. Never worked out like we wanted. Especially when a new treat hit the shelf, shiny and out of reach.

Fast forward a few decades. I’m in one of those little grocery stores that somehow survived the big-box purge. I catch sight of two kids doing that same math on the floor, coins spread out like a desperate poker hand. Something about it yanked me backward in time, to the weight of nickels in a sweaty palm and the taste of wanting more than you could buy.

So I slid the cashier a few bills and told her to make sure those kids didn’t have to choose between sour worms and chocolate that day. The store owner, in his well-meaning way, pointed me out like some small-town hero. The kids lit up, grinning at me like I’d handed them the moon.

And that’s the part I hated. Not the kids’ smiles—hell, that’s the good stuff—but the fact that it wasn’t supposed to have my name on it. My father brought strangers home, gave them a meal, a place to sleep for the night, and never said a word about it. My stepmom told me those stories later, like family lore whispered over coffee. I grew up believing you do what’s right, no matter the cost. I didn’t understand this then, but as I got older, it began to resonate.

Kindness, the way I learned it, is quiet. It’s supposed to slip in, do its work, and leave without a sound. That day, the sound of my name broke the rule I was raised on.

Typical? Not Even Close.

2025/07/292025/07/30Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2014, family, HEALTH, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Was today typical?

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If you asked me this morning, I’d have said yeah, just another day in the trenches. But now? Sitting in a half-dismantled lab, my old Mac humming like it’s judging me for abandoning it years ago, and my desktop sulking in the corner after another crash-fest—I’m not so sure.

Today was supposed to be simple: get the other MKU sites moving, feed the beast, keep the universe spinning. Instead, my main machine decided to reenact a demolition derby every time I opened a design file. After the fourth hard reboot, I did what any sane person would do—I shut the whole thing down, stared at the chaos, and muttered a few choice words about technology that I won’t repeat here.

Reorganizing the lab felt like a hostage negotiation with my own mess. Cables everywhere, notes buried under old coffee cups, and me wondering if “organized chaos” is just code for “I gave up.” Eventually, I gave in and switched to the Mac. It felt weird, like moving back into your childhood bedroom—familiar walls, but you don’t quite fit anymore.

And because I never know when to leave well enough alone, I decided an active series needed a complete rewrite. Not a tweak, not a tidy edit—a tear-it-down, salt-the-earth, start-from-scratch rewrite. Why? Because “active” doesn’t mean “good,” and I’m done posting just to keep the lights on. If it doesn’t hit the mark, it burns. That’s the rule.

So, was today typical? In some ways, yeah—just another battle between me, my machines, and the madness of trying to build something bigger than myself. But in other ways, no. Today came with surprises: chaos, frustration, a few muttered expletives, and one revelation worth keeping—this Mac keyboard? Absolute magic. The rest of my machines are getting one whether they like it or not.

Maybe that’s how most days really are in this line of work: half plan, half fire drill, always one keystroke away from starting over.

Still Breathing: A State of the MKU Dispatch

2025/07/222025/07/22Posted in ProseTagged books, Fiction, life, mental health, writing7 Comments

A vintage typewriter on a cluttered desk, exploding into birds as books tower around it—chaos and creativity in motion.

You ever walk into a room expecting your voice to boom like a prophet’s and instead get met with blank stares and TikTok scrolling?

That was me two weeks ago, stepping into a summer workshop with students aged 8 to 17. I came in with fire and myth, ready to guide them into storytelling. The younger kids couldn’t sit still long enough to absorb anything. The teens? Aloof at best. My usual trick—command the room with presence, reinforce with voice—didn’t move the needle.

I walked out thinking: I might be losing my mojo.

So I did what any story-hardened madman would do.

I built them a universe.

The Ashoma Codex rose from that frustration. An entire mythos crafted for them—a sacred order of supernatural beings bound by fire, memory, and sacrifice. Vampires and werewolves. Secret Circles. Flame-born rites. I even spun up a website just for them, with lore, rituals, and a place to submit their own creations.

And then today, I got word from their instructor: they love it.

They’re building characters. Creating art. Engaging with the world I made. Turns out they didn’t need a lecture. They needed a world that would speak their language.

It’s been a long time since I had that much fun doing something for someone else.

Forging the Forge (with Fewer Bugs and More Story)

Let’s talk about The Narrative Forge (TNF)—my dedicated space for longform fiction.

Eventually, it’ll be home to five deep-cut series:

Ashwood County – Southern Gothic horror soaked in grief and ghost stories
No Half Measures (formerly Cop Stories) – A noir detective tale where trust is dangerous and truth cuts deep
Reilly McGee: Misadventures at Crestview High – 1980s chaos, coming-of-age style, with more heartache than heroics
Bourbon and Rust – Grit, regret, and a neo-Western sense of justice
Truth Burns – Emotional aftermath and the slow claw toward redemption

The plan: post one chapter a week, rotating series. I’m kicking things off with Ashwood County as I work out the kinks and refine the reader experience.

TNF is my main focus right now. But soon, House of Tunage and The Howlin’ Inkwell will start to move forward again too—each with their own voice and rhythm. And yes, visual arts are coming as well. That site’s still under development, slowed down by the same quirks that’ve been haunting the others.

You guys remember The Knucklehead Report? I gave it its own space so I can rant, roast, or rave about the books and movies that cross my path—without crowding out the rest of Memoirs of Madness.

All of this—the new structure, the site spinoffs, the redesigns—is meant to do one thing: streamline MoM. Make it cleaner. More focused. Easier to navigate without tripping over half-finished drafts or misplaced experiments.

I don’t know which projects will thrive, but right now, building them helps me clear the noise and move forward.

Links to Explore:

🧠 The Narrative Forge – narrativeforge.manguskhan.com
🎶 House of Tunage – houseoftunage.com
✍️ The Howlin’ Inkwell – howlininkwell.com
🧨 Mangus Khan Universe – manguskhan.com

So yeah—if things have been a little quiet here, it’s not because I’ve stopped writing. It’s because I’ve been building.

Worlds. Platforms. Foundations.

Madness is still in motion.
Stay with me.

If you’ve been wrestling with your own creative chaos, you’re not alone.
Let’s build through it—one chapter, one echo, one imperfect myth at a time.

Let me know in the comments which project you’re most curious about—Ashwood County, No Half Measures, Reilly, Rust, or something else entirely.

—Mangus

Listening My Way Out

2025/07/21Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2006, life, mental health, music, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

A reflection on what I hear when I write.

Daily writing prompt

What do you listen to while you work?

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It depends on the work. And, if I’m honest, the version of me doing it.

If I’m handling logistics—email chains, platform fixes, all the invisible gears of the MKU—I’ll throw on a podcast or an audiobook. Something with steady cadence. Human voices filling the space so I don’t have to. It’s functional. Grounding. A distraction that still lets me move forward.

But when I’m writing—when the words actually matter—I need music. Not background noise. Not ambiance. Music that moves something.

There’s a point I hit when the doubt creeps in, when the old story shows up: You’re not good enough. You’re not ready. You don’t have anything left to say. And that’s when I reach for the headphones.

Because music gets me past that wall. Certain songs act like a key—one turn, and I’m not in the room anymore. I’m somewhere quieter, older, deeper. Below the part of me that edits, or performs, or tries to be clever. Music lets me slip under all that. It gives me access to the version of me that remembers things I haven’t lived yet. The version that trusts.

Writing becomes less about expression and more about excavation. I’m not inventing—I’m uncovering. Music helps me remember where to dig.

And when it’s really working—when the song hits just right—I’m not working at all. I’m listening.

To the story.
To myself.
To whatever’s been waiting.

So what do I listen to while I work?

Whatever helps me get out of my own way.

Tarab & Bone

2025/07/182025/07/18Posted in ProseTagged 3TC, creative writing, daily exercise, healing, Ink and Wounds, life, love, mental health, poetry, Prose, writing2 Comments

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.

Notes from the Edge: Go to Sleep

2025/07/162025/07/16Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, daily-prompt, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2001, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing11 Comments

Prompt Addicts Anonymous – Session Two

Daily writing prompt

Which activities make you lose track of time?

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Are you being serious right now?

You do know I’m a writer, right?

Losing track of time isn’t a bug — it’s a feature. A built-in occupational hazard. Time slips, evaporates, gets swallowed whole. You want to know what makes me lose track of time? Existing. Creating. Trying to survive my own thoughts with a pen in my hand and a playlist I’ve overanalyzed into oblivion.

Writing. Not just any writing. The kind that starts as a whisper, then sets your spine on fire. The kind that makes your coffee go cold and your leg fall asleep. The kind where you look up and three meals have gone missing. The next thing you know, you’re ranting on a blog (Memoirs of Madness) about the phantom who comes up with these writing prompts like they’re paying attention to your ass.

“Which activities make you lose track of time?”
Go to sleep.

Because I sure haven’t.

You ever try to sleep when your brain is busy unraveling fictional timelines, reorganizing half-finished character arcs, or rewording a sentence you wrote in 2014? That’s not insomnia. That’s creative maintenance.

Then there’s music — but again, not casual listening. I’m talking full immersion. Deep dives into B-sides and dusty vinyl grooves. Emotional spelunking. What starts as one track becomes a therapy session. A confession. A reconstruction of every heartbreak I thought I forgot. That’s not a playlist — that’s a time machine. And I keep punching the return ticket.

Next thing you know, there’s a whole damn website just about music (House of Tunage), because you clearly have nothing better to do with your time than build emotional mixtapes for ghosts.
Oh yeah, go to sleep.

Thinking is another trap. Or maybe the original sin. I sit down for “a minute,” and suddenly I’m in a three-act dialogue with a dead mentor, an imaginary enemy, and the version of myself that had more optimism and less back pain. Thought spirals aren’t a time suck. They’re the prelude to every good story I’ve ever written — and the footnote to everyone I’ve abandoned.

Next thing you know, your table’s covered in monographs and marginalia. Then you have the nerve to post them like they’re literary gold on yet another website (The Howlin’ Inkwell), because apparently the only thing more dangerous than thinking is believing any of it might matter.
Wow.
…maybe I shou—
go to sleep.

And let’s not forget the premium act of staring into space. That’s not wasted time. That’s creative buffering. System reboot. Soul loading.

So no, I don’t just “lose track of time.”
I command it.
I twist, bend, and shape it to the will of the gods of story and sound.
And most days, they don’t even say thank you.

But that’s fine. Because this isn’t for them. Not really.

My job is to guide you through the splinters that only exist outside of time.
You know the place: cold, light, dark, and joyful land.
Where memory hums, story bites, and music bleeds.

Let me guide you.
Come and take my hand.
You’re looking at me like you’re confused.
Let me help you clear things up.
You look as if you need to get something off your chest.

Seriously, sit down, please.
Talk to Mangus.

But if you still think this was all just about losing track of time, I’ll allow the indulgence — just this once.
Because I whined once. In the ’70s.
Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.
Whining was allowed briefly after the bicentennial.
There was a memo.

Missed the first meeting of Prompt Addicts Anonymous?
That’s okay. We don’t judge.
But you might want to catch up before the next spiral.
👉 Session One: “Hi, My Name is Mangus…”

Author’s Note

Yes, the websites mentioned in this piece — House of Tunage, The Howlin’ Inkwell, and even Memoirs of Madness itself — are all very real. And yes, they’re all still works in progress. Like most things I love, they’re messy, unfinished, and somehow always expanding when I should probably be sleeping instead.

So if you click something and it’s half-built, half-broken, or wildly under construction… welcome to the Mangus Khan Universe.
We’re getting there. Slowly. Beautifully.
Eventually.

The MKU is under construction. But the lights are already on.

I Scream Every Time I’m Asked to Compromise

2025/07/15Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, FOWC, Ink and Wounds, life, mental health, poetry, Prose, RDP, Word of the day, writing6 Comments

I scream every time I’m asked to compromise who I am, what I believe.
There are days I walk through this like a ghost—quiet, invisible, barely tethered to the world. I’ve worn this skin too long to pretend anymore. I’ve learned that silence is never neutral. It collects. It bruises. It builds a coffin for the self.

How long did I expect integrity to outweigh ignorance?

The shame cuts deepest when I remember the things I was asked to do to be accepted. Asked to perform, asked to mute the fire, asked to shrink for the comfort of others who never deserved my story in the first place. And like a fool, I tried. I polished my voice. I spoke in softened syllables. I tiptoed like I was walking on eggshells—not to protect myself, but to protect their illusion of safety.

But here’s the truth:
Their comfort was never my duty.

This world has corrupted too much, taken too many of us who had something real to say. It props up empty vessels and paints them gold, calls it culture, calls it “marketable.” Meanwhile, those of us who bleed truth are told we’re too much, too raw, too difficult to brand.

They wanted me to smile like some hollow doll—something quiet, something that won’t fight back when they put words in my mouth. But I’m not plastic. I’m not hollow. I don’t bend like that anymore.

I carry my scars with intention now.

Let them call it anger. Let them call it ungrateful. I call it knowing. Knowing that every time I was asked to “adjust,” they weren’t asking for kindness—they were asking for obedience.

I’m done apologizing for the shape my soul takes.

Author’s Note

This piece was inspired in part by prompts from FOWC, RDP, and WOTD. Thank you all for the sparks you give. Your work matters.

Quote of the Day – 07132025

2025/07/132025/07/12Posted in Quote of the DayTagged bravery, Daily Reflection, mental health, Nikita Gill, QOTD, Quote of the Day, quotes2 Comments

Personal Reflection

I’ve spent too many nights thinking that surviving wasn’t enough. That just getting through the day, the week, the year — somehow meant I wasn’t really living. I probably read in one of those books or on a calendar. But what if we stopped measuring worth by how bright we shine and started honoring how long we held on?

Some days, the only victory is not letting go.
Not giving in.
Not disappearing.

And that, I’m learning, is a kind of bravery. The kind that doesn’t ask for applause but earns your respect in silence. Especially when no one’s looking.

Reflective Prompt

When was the last time you gave yourself credit just for surviving — not thriving, not winning—just making it through?

Quote of the Day – 07122025

2025/07/12Posted in Quote of the DayTagged Leonard Cohen, mental health, QOTD, Quote of the Day, reflection4 Comments

Reflection:

I patched everything to hide the flaws, convinced that if I could just keep the cracks out of sight, I could pass for whole. But perfection is a myth we whisper to ourselves in the dark—an illusion dressed up as safety. And all the while, the pressure built behind the seams—
quietly, until it didn’t.
Unknown to me, I was barely alive.

It didn’t shatter all at once. It was smaller than that—a moment so quiet I almost missed it. A memory I hadn’t invited. A scent that stopped me mid-breath. A sound that didn’t belong. And suddenly, something gave. The façade I had built so carefully—out of control, compliance, and silence—cracked just enough for something else to slip in. Not healing. Not grace. Just… light. Faint, flickering, uninvited.

The light didn’t fix me. It didn’t stitch the broken parts or erase the wreckage. What it did was make everything visible. Every compromise I made to keep the peace. Every silence I swallowed to be acceptable. Every version of myself I abandoned just to be tolerated. It was all still there—ugly, unfinished, honest.
And for the first time, I was alive. I was real.

Lessons in Disappearance

2025/07/09Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Ink and Wounds, life, love, mental health, poetry, relationships, writingLeave a comment

for those who know what it’s like to be visible but not believed

Every day is another lesson in invisibility.
Not the kind you choose, not the soft fade of a disappearing act.
This is the kind handed down in glances that slide past you.
In doors that stay closed just a second longer when you’re approaching.
In the space you leave behind when you’re gone, and no one notices the shape of your absence.

You become fluent in the language of indifference.
You learn the weight of unasked questions.
You memorize the way people say “I didn’t see you there” like it’s a kindness,
instead of an indictment.

There is a peculiar violence in being overlooked.
Not bruised. Not broken. Just… reduced.
Down to skin, down to stereotype, down to background noise.
They don’t mean to erase you—
and somehow, that makes it worse.

They’ll say you’re quiet.
You’ll wonder if they’ve ever actually listened.

You wear shame like a second skin.
Not because you earned it,
but because somewhere along the way,
someone handed it to you like inheritance
and you forgot how to put it down.

You stand still in a world built to move around you—
fast, loud, full of curated meaning.
And you begin to question:

Is there something wrong with me, or is there something wrong with this lens that always finds me blurred?

You’ve learned to map your pain in silence.
Each breath is a kind of protest.
Each blink a refusal to disappear entirely.

There are veins beneath your skin that look like lightning—
not because you are struck,
but because you are always just about to burn.

And yet you don’t.
Not fully.

You endure.
Not in glory. Not with applause.
But with defiance.
The quiet kind.
The kind that goes unnoticed until someone says:

“I didn’t realize you were carrying that much.”

And you smile without smiling,
because you know the truth:

You were always carrying that much.
They just never asked to know.

Do I Look Happy Enough?

2025/07/072025/07/08Posted in Poetry, ProseTagged FOWC, happiness, life, love, Madness Made Visible, mental health, mindfulness, RDP4 Comments

A quiet reckoning with the expectations we wear and the joy we fake.

When was the last time you were truly happy?

No—
not the curated kind.
Not the smile you wore for someone else’s comfort.
Not the polite laugh that tasted like performance.
Not the checklist joy: house, job, partner, post, repeat.

I mean the kind of happiness that sneaks up on you in bare feet.
The kind that doesn’t make sense but fills your ribs like breath you forgot you were holding.
The kind that doesn’t ask for an audience.
Doesn’t post itself.
Doesn’t need to be liked to be real.

Most days, we confuse peace with silence, and silence with defeat.

You tell yourself you’re content. That this is what adulthood looks like—responsibility, stability, being “grateful.”
You wear that word like a bandage.
But underneath?
There’s a pulse of something unsaid.
A throb you ignore until it bruises.

You smile at strangers. You meet deadlines. You show up.
And in between the commutes and compromises,
you start to wonder if you buried yourself in the crud of being acceptable.

The barrage is constant—
what you should want, who you should be, how you should smile.

But no one ever asks if you’re still in there.
Not really.
Not the version of you that danced alone in the kitchen at 1 a.m.
Not the you who found joy in dumb little things that didn’t need justification.
Not the version of you that wasn’t tired.

You’re silently screaming.
Every day.
And you do it with perfect posture.

Because to speak it—
to say “I’m not okay”
feels like betrayal.
Like failure.
Like you’re too much and not enough, all at once.

But here’s the quiet truth:

Maybe you haven’t been happy in a long time.
Maybe you don’t even remember how it felt.
But maybe that question—when was the last time you were truly happy?—
isn’t meant to shame you.
Maybe it’s a breadcrumb.
A way back.

Not to the person you were before the world smoothed your edges,
but to the one still flickering beneath the noise.

The one who still believes in joy,
even if they haven’t seen it in a while.

🪞Reflective Prompt

Take a moment.
Find a scrap of paper, the back of a receipt, or the notes app on your phone.

When was the last time you felt joy that wasn’t expected of you, sold to you, or shared online?
What did it feel like in your body?
What part of you still remembers?

Unapologetically Unedited

2025/07/03Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, FOWC, life, love, mental health, personal-growth, Prose, Weekend Writing Prompt, writing6 Comments

Is it hard to be a beautiful woman? People think you have the world at your feet. They think doors open for you, heads turn for you, and life bends around your presence. But they don’t see the trade. They don’t see the constant calibration—how much of yourself you shave off each day to fit into someone else’s frame. Beauty is not freedom. It’s exposure. A spotlight you didn’t ask for, that you can’t turn off.

You’re seen before you’re heard. Assumed before you’re known. People don’t meet you—they meet the idea of you. Their version. Their fantasy. Their fear. And if you don’t match it? You become a threat. A disappointment. A target. It’s not just tiring—it’s erasure in slow motion.

So you patch yourself together—smile here, soften there, silence the part that wants to speak too loudly. Over time, your identity becomes a kind of repair job. You keep the strongest parts in storage, hidden from view, waiting for a time when it might be safe to bring them out. You begin to wonder: Who am I without all the edits? What’s left when I’m not translating myself for someone else’s comfort?

You learn to play roles just to survive. To be warm but not inviting. Assertive, but not “difficult.” Intelligent, but never intimidating. Every room becomes a stage. Every glance is a calculation. When will it be okay for you to step out from behind their idea of you, letting you be who you are, not who they’ve imagined or prefer? How many masks do you have to wear before one of them finally feels like skin?

The tension doesn’t just live in your body—it rewires it. It clutches your voice before you speak. It lingers in your posture, in your smile that’s a little too careful, in your silence that’s mistaken for grace. They don’t see the moments when you swallow yourself to keep the peace. When you feel the full ache of being looked at but never seen.

Every day, you make choices that feel small but cost you something: how to walk into a room, how to hold your face, when to speak, and when to stay quiet. You tell yourself it’s just for now. Just until it’s safe. Just until they see you for real. But how long can you stay edited before you forget the uncut version?

The woman in the photo is not just posing; she’s done shrinking. Her posture is not elegance—it’s exhaustion turned into boundary. It’s defiance without apology. It’s a question you can’t ignore anymore: What happens when a woman stops choosing what’s expected, and finally chooses herself?

Not your version of her. Not the one that plays nice. Just her. Fully, freely, finally.

Author’s Note
This piece was written for Esther’s Weekly Writing Prompt, with a word prompt from Fandango’s FOWC.
Big thanks to all of you for keeping the creative fire lit week after week, day after day. These prompts aren’t just words—they’re jumping-off points, gut checks, and sometimes lifelines. Appreciate what you do more than you know. Keep ‘em coming.

Late Night Grooves # 157

2025/06/29Posted in TunageTagged HEALTH, Late Night Grooves, life, mental health, mindfulness, Tunage, writing4 Comments

WHOT Episode 157 – “Whatever Lets You Cope” by Black Foxxes

Hosted by Mangus Khan

[Static. Then silence. Then the guitar stumbles in—tentative, cracked. You already know this isn’t going to be easy.]

“This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

Episode 157.

And I’m Mangus Khan.

Still here.

And tonight… we’re not trying to rise above anything.

We’re just trying to make it to the other side.

Black Foxxes – “Whatever Lets You Cope.”

And this one?
This one isn’t loud until it has to be.

It’s about the way grief leaks into routine.

It’s about how some days survival looks like pretending to be okay just long enough to avoid the questions.

“I’ve been lying to my friends / For a little while now…”

That lyric?
That’s not drama.
That’s self-defense.

This song is the internal monologue most of us have learned how to bury.

The guitar barely hangs on.

The drums move like breath—shaky, uneven.

The voice?
It’s not asking you to feel bad for it.

It’s just telling the truth.

And here’s the truth this track gets right:

Coping doesn’t always look healthy.

Sometimes it’s detachment.
Sometimes it’s sarcasm.
Sometimes it’s not returning the call.

But it’s what gets you from one breath to the next.

And that’s what this episode is for.

Not healing.

Just honesty.

So if you’re here right now, listening in the dark—
Trying to make sense of the pieces that haven’t come back together yet—
This one’s for you.

Episode 157.
Black Foxxes.
Whatever Lets You Cope.

This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan—
Not asking you to be okay.
Just here to remind you:

***Whatever lets you cope…
Is enough.

Tonight.***”

Late Night Grooves #156

2025/06/28Posted in TunageTagged Late Night Grooves, life, love, mental health, music, Tunage, writing, Zig Mentality2 Comments

WHOT Episode 156 – “What Weighs on You” by Zig Mentality

Hosted by Mangus Khan

[A low guitar loop spirals in, tight and tense. You feel the pressure before the first word is spoken.]

“WHOT.

Late Night Grooves.

Episode 156.

I’m Mangus Khan.

And tonight… I don’t have a message.

I have a question.

What weighs on you?

What’s the thing you haven’t said out loud?

The thought that sticks to your ribs when the room goes quiet?

What’s making your bones heavy, your sleep short, your hands shake just a little when no one’s looking?

Tonight’s track doesn’t preach.
It doesn’t even fully answer.

But it asks.

Zig Mentality – “What Weighs on You.”

This song sounds like someone trying to hold their breath for too long.
The beat is tight, almost suffocating.

And the lyrics?
They’re not there to comfort.

They’re there to pull the weight out of your chest and show it to you.

“You don’t gotta say it / I already know…”

That line alone?

That’s what makes this track dangerous—

Not because it’s loud.
But because it sees you.

This isn’t about rage.
This is about the quiet, everyday heaviness most of us are too scared to name.

The pressure to perform.
The fear of letting people down.
The ache of wondering if this version of you is the one worth keeping.

Zig Mentality doesn’t yell here.

They let the discomfort sit.

The groove isn’t wild, it’s controlled chaos.

Because this track knows the hardest battles don’t make a sound.

So tonight, I’m not spinning a banger.

I’m spinning a mirror.

What weighs on you?

Episode 156.
Zig Mentality.
What Weighs on You.

This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan—
Not handing out answers.

Just waiting with you in the silence that follows the truth.

Still listening.
Still asking.
Still here.”

Baptized in Madness

2025/06/28Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1983, Fiction, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing13 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What are your daily habits?

View all responses

What I owe to the women who made me, and the ink I spill because of them.

Let’s dive a little deeper into that whole “I write every day” thing.

Give me a second while I get comfortable. Gotta grab my coffee and smokes. Yeah, yeah—I know smoking is bad and all that. We’ll pretend I’ve already heard the lecture.

Now that that’s out of the way, let me just say: I don’t have some hyper-structured routine where I spring out of bed at 5 AM shouting slogans like, “Today’s a new day, people!” or “Good Rising!” If that’s your vibe, live your truth. Go for it. I support people being themselves and embracing that shit with gusto.

But that’s not me.

If I’m awake during those early hours, it’s because I’ve pulled an all-nighter—writing, researching a current project, or chasing a half-formed idea that refuses to shut up. My mornings aren’t about starting the day. They’re about finally ending one.

The first part of my day—when it actually begins—requires the following:

COFFEE!!

Don’t even think about trying to have a meaningful conversation with me before I’ve had it. At the start of my day, I live by a strict code: Coffee and Silence. Even Guppy, my cat, adheres to this policy, which honestly says a lot. But let’s be real: cats do whatever the hell they want, whenever they want. That she chooses to respect this boundary is a minor miracle.

Secondly, Guppy appears on my left like clockwork for her daily dose of affection. This lasts precisely as long as she deems necessary. Again, if you have a cat, you already know—you don’t run anything. They run the house, the schedule, and your emotions. If you think otherwise, I hate to break it to you: you’re in a Jedi mind trick, and it’s time to let that delusion go.

After nicotine and caffeine levels have reached acceptable levels, there’s a period of reevaluation. More sleep? Errands? Or—let’s be honest—more sleep, because I’m an insomniac and probably didn’t get enough rest at any point in the last week.

Rarely do I actually crawl back into bed. Instead, I shuffle into my office, fire up some tunes, refill my coffee, light another smoke, and check the overnights, which, in my world, just means figuring out what’s happened while I was crashed.

Memoirs of Madness is currently my primary connection to the outside universe. And while it might not seem like it, that blog takes a lot of planning and work behind the scenes. The content? All generated by me. Every sentence. Every theme. Every overcaffeinated ramble and emotional deep dive.

I wish I could blame the mistakes—or hell, the crappy posts—on someone else. But I can’t. And honestly? I’m not sure I would even if I could.

One of the reasons I take this blog so seriously is twofold.

First, before my wife passed, she took my hand and said, “You are a writer now. The soldier, and everything else you needed to be, is over. This is who you are now.” I didn’t say a word. I just listened.

Then there was another time—she was looking back over her life and asked me, “Honey, could you write about the things you do, the way you do… without leaving the life you have?” Again, I stayed silent. I didn’t have an answer then. I’m still not sure I do.

Second, my madre. She gave me the kind of quiet encouragement that allows you to stretch without fear. No loud cheering. No grand declarations. Just steady presence and a gentle nudge at the exact right moment. She never told me who to be—but she always made room for me to find out.

I owe those women a debt I can never repay.

So my fingers will forever be stained with ink.

There’s another huge motivator I didn’t mention earlier.

My editor.

She’s constantly complaining that I never finish stories. “There you go again, starting another one,” or “You better not start something new before finishing the last damn thing.” I usually hit her with a snarky comeback, and she always fires back with: “You need to come visit me, honey. So I can choke you.”

She doesn’t actually want to choke me. She just wants me to read from my current journal—what she calls “The Juice.” That unpublished gold I’ve been holding out on. The stuff that lives in fragments and whispers and half-finished brilliance.

Because of her, I really do work my ass off trying to stay focused on my open projects. When I actually managed to finish a couple of series this year, she called me, worried. Legit concern in her voice.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I assured her I was fine. Just trying—really trying—to get my words onto the page the way I’ve always meant to. Like I’ve been doing the entire time she’s known me.

Yes, I’ve been failing.
Spectacularly.
But hey, I’m still trying.

Memoirs of Madness has existed in one form or another for nearly fifteen years, but I’ve only been working on it consistently since 2023. Not everything I write ends up on the blog—some pieces aren’t ready, some never will be—but I’ve gotten more comfortable sharing my thoughts publicly.

Part of that shift came from exhaustion. I grew tired of people pretending they knew who I was, where I came from, or where they thought I should go. All those projections, assumptions, labels—they never fit.

So I made a choice: to release my truth. Whether it’s good, bad, brilliant, petty, tender, or outright despicable—it’s mine.

And that’s why I keep showing up.

—

Listen—
It’s time for evolution. For revolution.
Time to learn from our mistakes.
To speak our truth, as our gift demands.

In 2025, my pen has been on fire.
Walk with me—
things are only getting hotter.

This is what it means
to be baptized in madness.

Awe Without Agreement

2025/06/24Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1979, life, love, mental health, spirituality, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

How important is spirituality in your life?

View all responses

Why Spirituality Still Guides Me, Even Without Certainty

Spirituality isn’t just important in my life—it’s foundational, not in a rigid or performative sense, but like a compass in the dark: quiet, steady, essential. It’s how I move through the world—not by chasing answers, but by honoring mystery and the many paths people take to find meaning.

Over time, I’ve come to see that spirituality isn’t about being right. It’s about being rooted in humility, in compassion, in the ability to hold tension without needing to control it. It’s about making space for someone else’s truth, even when it doesn’t look like mine.

A person’s spiritual journey is personal and should be respected, not ridiculed. Whether it winds through scripture, silence, ritual, or raw experience, that path isn’t mine to judge—only to witness with reverence.

This isn’t some foolish notion born from reading obscure texts. It’s something I’ve witnessed—men and women of different beliefs working side by side to feed the hungry, to care for the sick, to comfort the grieving. Not because they shared beliefs, but because they shared purpose. That, to me, is sacred.

This ideal is the basis of my forthcoming work, Understanding Without Agreement—a reflection on interfaith understanding, sacred plurality, and the shared longing beneath our differences. It challenges the notion that coexistence requires compromise and instead affirms that belief and respect can live side by side.

Spirituality shows up in sacred texts and indigenous rhythms, in Buddhist stillness and Sufi fire, even in the honest discomfort of philosophical critique. It’s not a uniform—it’s a mosaic. And every piece matters.

So yes, spirituality is vital in my life. Not because it solves everything, but because it keeps me human. It teaches me to listen deeper, to live with open hands, and to believe—fiercely and tenderly—that awe is bigger than agreement.

Surviving the Shipwreck: Truth, Even If It Makes Us Uncomfortable

2025/06/23Posted in Challenges, ProseTagged books, creative writing, daily exercise, life, love, mental health, Prose, Random Thoughts, Reena S Xploration Challenge, writing7 Comments

Who writes history, anyway?

Is it a bunch of old men in a room, swirling sherry like it’s holy water, declaring what mattered and what didn’t with the confidence of people who’ve never been told to clean up after themselves? Do they lean back in leather chairs and decide what’s worth remembering, while the rest of the world cleans the dishes, changes the linens, and quietly disappears?

Because let’s be honest—history isn’t what happened. It’s what survived. It’s the polished version of a chaotic past, curated by those with power, perspective, and the privilege to speak uninterrupted.

But what about the ones who made that version possible?

Why don’t we ever hear about them? The people who provided the comfort, the nourishment, the spark. The woman who changed the sheets so a “great man” could sleep through the night. The friend who uttered a half-thought over coffee that later became a manifesto. The cook who fed the movement. The janitor who unlocked the building where the protest was planned. The lover who reminded someone they were human before they put on the mask of leadership.

History applauds the speech, but forgets the breath it took to say it.

We’ve been sold the idea that history is boldface names and bronze statues. But most of what matters happened in kitchens, back porches, alleyways, and hands calloused from lifting, not pointing.

We know the architects of nations. But never the bricklayers. We memorize the names of authors, but forget the unnamed soul who said something beautiful that stuck. We forget that for every “visionary,” there was someone behind the scenes keeping them afloat. Holding the ladder. Mending the net.

So no—history isn’t just written by the victors. It’s written by survivors. By omission. By spin. And often, by those who had the means to make a record in the first place.

The rest? The ones who lit the fires, bore the burdens, whispered the truths?

They became the silence between chapters. The invisible ink.

But if you look close—really close—you’ll find them. In the margins. In the echoes. In the way a melody lingers long after the singer is gone.

Because history wasn’t built on sherry alone. It was built on sweat, sacrifice, and souls that never asked to be remembered—just not to be erased.

But what happens when they get it wrong?

When, the ones holding the pen decide the truth is inconvenient? When the story is shaved, polished, and repainted, so it gleams just right in the museum light? What happens when history becomes less about remembering and more about marketing? About preserving an image, not a truth?

That’s when history turns into myth. Not the kind with gods and monsters, but the kind where the villains are edited out, and the uncomfortable questions are filed away—lost behind locked drawers labeled “context.” You know, for our own good.

And maybe they don’t mean to lie. Maybe they just optimize. Smooth the edges. Add a little glow to the legacy. After all, who doesn’t want their heroes to look heroic? Their country to feel noble? Their ancestors seem wise?

But shaping the past for the best possible result isn’t harmless. It’s rewriting the foundation while pretending the house still stands the same. It’s how entire generations learn pride without accountability, patriotism without honesty, nostalgia without nuance.

And what’s left behind in that process?

The guilt that never gets named. The reparations never paid. The patterns that repeat because we swore they never happened in the first place. The echo chamber grows louder, but the echoes grow fainter—until all we hear is what we want to hear, and not what needs to be heard.

See, history can be a mirror. Or it can be a mask.

One tells you the truth, whether you like it or not.

The other flatters you, and hopes you don’t look too close.

So maybe the question isn’t just who writes history?
Maybe it’s who dares to revise it, once they know better?

Because if we only protect the polished version, if we only pass down the parts that make us proud, then we’re not honoring the past.

We’re embalming it.

And you can’t build a future on something you’ve buried just to keep the story pretty.

But what about when they don’t just get it wrong?
What about when they try to remove history altogether?

Really? That’s the move?

As if tearing down a statue makes the blood it commemorates magically dry up and blow away. As if banning a book unpublishes the pain it contains. As if not teaching something means it never happened.

We’ve seen it before: whole eras scrubbed clean, classrooms sterilized, uncomfortable truths repackaged into “heritage,” or ignored entirely. Entire peoples flattened into footnotes, if mentioned at all. Because someone decided it was better to forget than to face it. Better to be comfortable than be honest.

But here’s the truth, they’re afraid of:
You can’t remove history.

You can burn the documents. You can whitewash the walls. You can call it “divisive,” “unpatriotic,” or “too upsetting for children.”
But history isn’t gone—it just goes underground into stories told at kitchen tables. Into songs, poems, and scars passed down like heirlooms. Into eyes that still remember, even if the curriculum doesn’t.

The attempt to erase history is always a confession. A silent, trembling admission that the truth still hurts. That it never really stopped. It’s not about healing—it’s about hiding.

And hiding doesn’t protect anyone. It just keeps the cycle clean enough to repeat.

So no—you don’t get to skip the hard chapters because they make your heroes look human, or your institutions look cracked. That’s not erasing history. That’s erasing accountability.

And let me tell you—if your story can’t survive the truth, maybe it wasn’t a story worth keeping in the first place.

Maria Popova got it right:
History isn’t what happened. It’s what survives the shipwreck of judgment and chance.

So maybe it’s time we stop polishing the deck chairs and admit we helped steer the damn ship.

Maybe it’s time we stood by the dusty words in old books—the ones that dared to say things like honor, integrity, and truth. Not just when it’s convenient. But when it’s hard. When it means admitting that the past wasn’t all parades and progress. That some of it—hell, a lot of it—would’ve earned us a solid whoopin’ from our mothers, wooden spoon in hand.

So, excuse me while I go through a stack of biographies on Lincoln.

Because if we’re going to keep telling the story—
Let’s at least try to get it right.

Author’s Note
Forgive the rant—but not the passion. That part, I won’t apologize for. The ranting? Yeah… I might’ve gotten a little carried away.

This piece was written for Reena’s Xploration Challenge #386. I try to jump in when I can remember to pull my head out of a book long enough to notice.

Wait—what page was I on?

Black Card Revoked (And I’m Okay With That)

2025/06/23Posted in Challenges, ProseTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, life, mental health, music, Prose, Random Thoughts, Sunday Poser, writing2 Comments

Am I a Snob?

I wish I could say no. That I’m above all that—ego, elitism, the subtle flexes wrapped in “taste” or “refinement.” I’ve tried, seriously. I’ve had the talks, done the therapy. I even cracked open the workbooks—are they still called that? Maybe it was a podcast. Or one of those journaling things we do when someone who shouldn’t matter (and whose name I can’t even remember) says something that sticks. It latches on like gum to your shoe, and suddenly you’re spiraling.

You know the kind of advice—like taking relationship tips from a guy who’s never had a girlfriend. Come to think of it, I’ve never even seen him talk to a woman.

Food Snob? Maybe. But It’s Personal.

“Nothing stays the same”—that’s the mantra we mumble when something doesn’t taste like it used to. The moment hits, and the only explanation that feels right is, “The bastards changed the formula.” Maybe they did. That’s possible.

But what’s also possible—and we hate admitting it—is that the stuff always tasted like garbage. We just didn’t know better. No one had the heart to tell us, because we loved it. And love, especially the nostalgic kind, can turn trash into treasure.

Still, when that old flavor hits different, I dig in. I refuse to accept that it’s me who changed. No—they changed it. And now it’s a matter of principle. “The bastards changed the formula” isn’t just a phrase. It’s my truth. I’m sticking to it.

Culture Snob? Absolutely.

Let’s be real—taste isn’t just personal. It’s cultural.

As a Black man in America, I grew up hearing things you couldn’t say out loud today. Not in public, anyway. Stuff like, “White folks don’t make potato salad like Black folks.” And everyone around the table would nod, mouths full of Granny Smith’s version, hoping for seconds before it disappeared. Because we all knew the danger of ending up with Ms. Johnson’s version. She never quite got it right. But her rhubarb pie? That had fifty things going on, and every one of them hit.

It’s remarkable how the world now dictates what’s considered refined. What’s divine? Overhyped restaurants serve up culture on a plate and call it status. Sure, sometimes it’s good. But nothing compares to the food from our cookouts, our picnics, our church socials. That food had soul. That food knew where it came from.

Now we pay $25 for a steak that comes out wrong and has to be sent back, just to taste decent—something we could’ve cooked at home better and cheaper, with seasoning that actually makes sense. But we do it anyway, because it makes us feel like we belong to something. Like we’re part of a club. Even if that club leaves us hungry and a little hollow.

That right there? That’s the bullshit I’m done with.

Ideology Snob? Let’s Get Real.

Let’s talk ideology. The code we live by. The beliefs hardwired into us through culture—whether we chose them or not.

They show up in how we talk, how we dress, what we read, the music we blast, and the stuff we secretly love but feel judged for.

And here comes the contradictions.

I’ve been told, “You act white.” Like that’s a crime. “I’m pulling your Black card.” “You’re an Oreo—Black on the outside, white on the inside.”

I used to carry a bag of Oreos with me. I liked them. And the same people who said that crap? They’d always take one when I offered. Hypocrites, the lot of them.

Then there are the stereotypes. Once, it was sweltering out, and some coworkers brought watermelons to beat the heat. One of my White friends waved and said, “Hey, we’ve got some watermelon!”
I shouted back, “I’m good, thanks.”

He came over to my truck looking confused.
“Hey man,” he said, “we’ve got some watermelon.”
“I don’t eat that shit,” I said flat.
He raised an eyebrow. “Next thing you’re gonna tell me is you don’t eat fried chicken.”
I looked at him and said, “I prefer mine baked.”

Truth? I love fried chicken. But my wife had me on baked for my blood pressure. That moment wasn’t about the food. It was about reclaiming space. Drawing a line. Saying, you don’t get to define me.

People try to strip your identity when it doesn’t fit their version of what Black is “supposed” to be. But if you stand still too long, they’ll say you’ve stopped growing. You can’t win. So you make your own rules. You claim the parts of yourself they don’t understand, and keep walking.

Music Snob? Nah. Just a Metalhead.

I’m a metalhead. But really, I love music across genres. Blues, jazz, hip hop, classical, metal, whatever hits. If it moves me, I’m in.

But I’ve caught flak for it. Side-eyes at shows. People coming up to me, tilted heads, awkward grins: “Are you enjoying yourself?” Like, I crashed the wrong concert. Like metal has a sticker on it that reads “For White Folks Only.”

Really? That’s your question?

As if I need permission to feel that same raw, gut-deep power you feel. As if I have to prove I belong. I didn’t know loud music came with gatekeeping.

Let’s be clear: music doesn’t segregate. People do. And the real pandemic? It’s not my playlist. It’s the weirdo energy and backhanded doubt people carry around like a badge.

The Labels Don’t Stick.

Stereotypes. Prejudices. Respectability rules dressed up in soft language and cheap slogans. You can’t run from them. We’re told to be ourselves, so long as it fits the mold. Be different, but not too different. Be authentic, but stay in bounds.

Nah. I’m done with that.

So I wear the names they throw at me. I carry them, not as scars, but as proof. Proof that people will always try to box you in. But boxes are for storage, not for living. And if they actually knew me—or tried—they’d realize we’d probably get along just fine.

I love exploring culture. I love discovering new food, ideas, and perspectives. I don’t just tolerate differences. I chase it. That doesn’t make me less Black. It makes me human.

And if I’m anything?

I’m weathered. But I’m true.

Author’s Note:
This rant was written for Sadje’s Sunday Poser, which I genuinely enjoy. It gives me space to think about real things—stuff that hits closer to home than all those philosophies written by dead people.

No, I don’t believe in ghosts.

Well… maybe?

Okay, that came out of nowhere.

Morning Vibe: No Rush, Just Breath

2025/06/222025/06/22Posted in TunageTagged George Winston, HEALTH, life, meditation, mental health, mindfulness, Morning Vibe, Tunage8 Comments

Track: “February Sea” – George Winston

Some mornings don’t need a soundtrack that lifts you up—they need one that lets you sink in. That’s what “February Sea” by George Winston does. It doesn’t try to motivate you. It doesn’t chase drama. It just exists, quietly, patiently, like it knows exactly what kind of emotional weather you’re in and doesn’t mind sitting with you in it. It’s one of those pieces that doesn’t build toward anything grand. No climax. No message wrapped in a bow. It’s spacious and soft, full of pauses and held breath. Honestly, it sounds like memory in musical form—tentative, slow, a little cold around the edges, but still incredibly human.

I keep coming back to this track on Sundays, especially when the world feels like too much. There’s something sacred about its stillness. Not in the performative, overly dramatic way we sometimes package the word “sacred,” but in the deeply personal, quietly necessary way. This is reflection music—not the kind you put on to feel wise or aesthetic, but the kind that helps you actually stop and feel something real. Sometimes you don’t even realize how much you’ve been holding until you hear a song like this and finally, finally, exhale.

And let’s talk about that exhale for a second. Because we’re not just talking breath—we’re talking release. The kind of release that hits your shoulders, your chest, your heart. This track gives you permission to stop bracing. To unclench. To admit that maybe the week wore you out more than you let on. Reflection like this isn’t indulgent; it’s maintenance. It’s how we gather up all the pieces we scattered during the hustle and say, “Okay, this is where I’m at. Let’s begin again.”

George Winston doesn’t give us answers in this song. He gives us space. And sometimes, that’s so much more valuable. “February Sea” feels like someone leaving the door open while you sit in your feelings—no judgment, just presence. There’s an emotional honesty to that kind of soundscape. No fluff. No manipulation. Just you and your thoughts, floating together in a room full of soft piano and the kind of air that feels a little heavy, but safe.

So if you need a track that won’t tell you how to feel but will let you feel whatever rises, this is the one. Not flashy. Not fast. But true. And on a Sunday morning, sometimes that’s exactly what you need.

Suggested Pairings (for a quiet morning arc):

“Weather Storm” – Craig Armstrong
Moody and cinematic, like walking through fog with intention.
“Be Still My Soul” – Liz Story
A hymn reimagined as a gentle unraveling of emotion.
“Only” – RY X
Minimal vocals and breathy vulnerability.
“Georgia” – Vance Joy
That moment when emotional warmth returns, slow and steady.
“Hope” – Michael Giacchino
A film score whispers that feels like the edge of something new.

Closing Thought:
Another morning. Another chance.
Sometimes what you need most isn’t movement—it’s stillness.
Let this be your breath, your mirror, your reset.
Carry it with you.

Shuggie’s Boogie: The Kind of Guitar Playing That Makes You Question Your Life Choices

2025/06/162025/06/16Posted in TunageTagged creative writing, life, live music, love, mental health, music, Shuggie Otis, Song Lyric Sunday, Tunage, writing6 Comments

TUNAGE – SLS

In the endless debate about great guitarists, you know the names. They’re on every list. Hendrix. Clapton. Page. Santana. Occasionally, a few lesser-knowns sneak in—someone you maybe don’t know, so you check them out, nod, and go, “Okay, yeah, I see it.”

But there’s another tier. The ones who don’t make the lists. Not even the cool-guy “most underrated” lists. They’re ghosts. Phantoms. Legends whispered about in liner notes and sampled by producers who dig deeper than algorithms ever will.

Shuggie Otis is one of those.

Listening to Shuggie’s Boogie from Live in Williamsburg is like that moment in a bar when you stop in for a bite, thinking you’re just killing time. You sit down, order something greasy, maybe a beer. Then the band starts playing. No intro. No warning. You take a bite… and stop mid-chew. Fork halfway to your mouth. What the hell is happening on that stage?

You forget the food. You forget your phone. You just listen.

That’s what this track is. It blindsides you.

Shuggie doesn’t approach the guitar like a technician. He approaches it like someone who’s got something to say. This isn’t about speed or theory—it’s about attitude, feel, and intention. Every phrase lands with the kind of swagger that only comes from living a weird, sideways kind of life through music.

And the band? Locked in like they’ve been rehearsing for a world tour no one told you about. His son, Eric Otis, adds guitar textures like he’s painting in the shadows of his dad’s lead lines. Nick Otis, Shuggie’s brother, holds down drums with a groove that feels more instinct than effort. James Manning on bass is the glue—thick, steady, unshakeable.

The horns—Larry Douglas (trumpet, flugelhorn), Michael Turre (baritone sax, flute, piccolo, backing vocals), and Albert Norris—aren’t just dressing. They’re characters in the story, adding stabs and swells that make you lean in closer. And Russ “Swang” Stewart on keys knows exactly when to tuck in a note and when to let it bloom.

This isn’t a polished, clinical performance. It’s gritty. There’s some dirt under its nails. Some bark in the tone. But that’s why it works. There’s a certain beauty in letting the edges stay frayed. It’s alive. Like something could fall apart at any moment… but never quite does.

Shuggie recorded the original Shuggie’s Boogie when he was 17. Which is already annoying, because it was brilliant even then. But this live version? It’s deeper. Older. Wiser. Looser. He stretches out, takes his time, throws notes like curveballs that somehow always hit the strike zone.

It’s the sound of someone who doesn’t need to be on a list to prove anything.

If you’re into guitar playing that hits your chest more than your brain, this is your track. If you’ve ever dropped your fork because of a solo… well, maybe you already know.

And if you’ve never heard of Shuggie Otis? Good. You’ve got some listening to do.

Notes from a Feeble-Minded Insomniac

2025/06/15Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1970, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing11 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What’s the oldest thing you own that you still use daily?

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What’s the oldest thing I own that I still use daily?
The last time I answered this question, I mentioned my old pickup sitting in the driveway. It’s beat to hell, leaks a little oil, and rattles like a shopping cart on gravel — but somehow, it still runs. That felt like a solid answer. It felt true.
Except it wasn’t. Not really.

The honest answer hit me while I was sitting at my desk, trying to draft some notes for another post. I was overthinking the structure, second-guessing the tone, basically chasing my own tail. After a while, I leaned back, shook my head, and muttered, “I’ve been using my brain too much.”

And just like that — Eureka.

I’ve been the feeble mind of an insomniac since birth.
Okay — maybe not technically insomniac at the start. Back then, I stayed up past my bedtime mostly out of spite. Perhaps a little orneriness, too. Hard to say. But I do remember using that word — ornery — and now that I think about it, a fair number of women have used it to describe me over the years. So, maybe they were onto something.

I’m a constant learner. Always have been. I believe if you go a day without learning something, you’ve wasted it.

Most people think learning has to mean reading, working, studying, building — something active. But I’ve learned more just by paying attention. Not scrolling, not zoning out — observing.

I don’t Google “brain-boosting activities.” I just rely on my favorite tool: active listening. That might sound simple, but it’s one of the sharpest tools we’ve got.

The thing is, most people don’t actually listen — they wait to respond. You can see it happen: someone’s still mid-thought, and the other person’s already loading up their reply. If we’d just let people finish, then respond or ask a decent question, most of our conversations would be ten times better.

Now, I’m not pointing fingers here — I’ve cut people off after 30 seconds of dumbshit like it’s a reflex. I’ve been trying to stretch my tolerance up to 90 seconds, but somehow it always snaps back to 30. Still, I’m working on it.

A lot of my friends and family talk about how they can’t remember shit anymore. I get it. I’m right there with them. I might’ve single-handedly made the Post-it Note company profitable.

But I’ve got a few tricks. For one, I carry a journal with me everywhere and write things down. Yeah, I know you can make notes or record memos on your phone, but here’s the thing — when you physically write something, you remember it better. Science backs that up. Not that I need some egghead in a lab coat to tell me what works for me.

Like yesterday, I was talking about chasing the start of a story, sitting at my laptop… but I skipped a step. First, I write a few notes in my journal. Random lines, loose thoughts, things that feel like they matter. I also keep a microrecorder on hand for fast ideas when I’m out — then I transcribe those into a binder.

I’ll sometimes spend weeks researching a topic before I write a single sentence for a story. Somewhere in one of the dozen journals scattered around my house, there’s a note — a clue — waiting to tie it all together.

“Today was a good day. I wrote a sentence.”
— James Joyce

I keep that quote close. It’s a reminder that one good sentence is worth more than a thousand shitty ones.
No fluff allowed. Ever.

Another way I keep the engine running is by going back and reading my old notes.

Earlier this week, I was flipping through a binder from ten years ago and found a scribble about a quirky love story set on Friday the 13th. Sound familiar? It should — I think I finally wrote that story last year.

Looking back shows you two things: growth and delusion. You see yourself in these raw, unfiltered snapshots — how sharp you were, or how far off base. Sometimes I shake my head at my younger self and think, Jackass.

But that’s part of the deal. This brain — stubborn, scattered, always working something out in the background — it’s the oldest thing I own, and the most used. And like that old pickup, it’s still running. Somehow.

Sometimes I look back and wonder how my late wife ever put up with my scattered, feeble-minded antics. The half-finished thoughts, the notebooks everywhere, the midnight mutterings about plot twists or people-watching revelations.

Then it hits me — maybe she just had a predilection for the company of psychos.

God knows, I gave her plenty of material. But she stuck around, laughed at the chaos, and made room for it. That counts for everything.

The Moment That Catches You

2025/06/14Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1969, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Describe one of your favorite moments.

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Throughout my life, I have had numerous moments that make me smile, chuckle, and even cry. That’s not unique — we all carry those. So, I won’t go there. Instead, I’d like to discuss something else. Something quieter, but deeply personal.

The moment a story begins.

It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just a flicker — a stray thought, a memory, an odd image that won’t let go. But for me, that moment is electric. It’s the exact point where imagination kicks in, where the real world and the possible world start to blur. It might come during a walk or while staring out a window. No fanfare. Just that quiet spark that tells me: there’s something here.

That’s the kind of moment I treasure. Because from there, anything can happen.

Most of my story ideas come when I first wake up. There’s this moment — half-dream, half-thought — where I catch a fragment of something in the corner of my mind. I turn toward it. I chase it. And if I’m lucky, I chase it long enough for it to turn around and catch me.

That chase is what charges me. Stumbling through the dark, following breadcrumbs left by a story that doesn’t want to be found—not yet. The clues never come in order. They show up like scattered pieces of a massive jigsaw puzzle, except there’s no picture on the box. The image only reveals itself as you fit the pieces together. And even then, sometimes you’re wrong. Fooled. Thrown off.

And honestly? That’s when things get sexy. That’s when the story pushes back, when it fights you a little, when it demands more.

But we must be honest — to get the real stories, the good ones, you’ve got to look into the abyss. That’s where they live—just sitting there, waiting, watching, and daring you to prove you’ve got the patience, the grit, the nerve to piece them together.

You have to be careful, though. When you’re deep in it — in the thick of the story — you can lose everything. It can vanish like a wraith. One second, it’s there, close enough to feel, just long enough to let you know it could be something. The next, it’s gone. Because maybe you weren’t ready. Maybe the story saw through you. Weighed you. Measured you. Found you wanting.

Doubt stands at the edge of the Shadow, glaring with that slight, sinister grin — the kind that chills you deeper than you care to admit. You start to hear the whispers oozing from its lips. At first, you ignore them. But slowly, they start to take hold. You feel them crawl under your skin, digging their nails in. Their shrieks serenade your soul.

You have to resist. You have to defend the faith — in yourself, in the work, in the chase. Sometimes that’s all a writer has. Belief and maybe a little luck. If your courage holds.

So you scream back: “GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

Then you breathe. Settle. Take the next step on the path.

I sit down in front of my laptop. Coffee on one side. A smoke. Guppy curled up by my feet. I take a deep breath.

And I write the first word.

Bucking the Tiger’s Odds and Surviving

2025/06/12Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1967, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing10 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What are you passionate about?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Remembering who I am after nearly losing everything

If you had asked me what I was passionate about before this moment, I probably would’ve said, “I have no idea.” Not because I didn’t care, but because I forgot. Not in the usual way—like misplacing keys or losing track of time. I forgot because I let other people’s voices drown out my own.

A few close friends once told me I didn’t take my writing seriously.

That wrecked me.

Because if there’s one thing that’s never left me—never betrayed me, never faded—it’s writing. It’s been the thread stitching my life together from the beginning. So when someone said I didn’t take it seriously, I started questioning everything. If not this… then what?

Then someone else told me I’d turned my back on music. The very thing that once felt like oxygen. It used to pulse through me. Now I was being told I’d abandoned it?

That’s when it all started unraveling.

I spiraled. Hard.

I had no idea what the hell I was going to do. My world had changed so much while I was sick, and I hadn’t prepared—not mentally, not emotionally—for what surviving would feel like. I’d braced for death, not for life after it.

Then one day, out of nowhere, I whispered an old mantra:
“I don’t give a fk.”**

I said it so often that someone actually bought me socks with it on them. No joke.

That one line cracked something open. I started writing again. Drawing. Creating anything I felt like. Not for approval. Not for applause. For me.

And something strange happened—I picked up my pen and wrote better than I ever had. My drawings? It was like I’d never stopped. Like all the time I thought I’d lost hadn’t dulled my skill—it had sharpened my edge.

Even my editor noticed. Called me up and asked, “What happened?”

I couldn’t answer. Because I didn’t know.

I didn’t sit around analyzing it. I didn’t break it down into steps or label it some kind of comeback story. I just kept doing my thing.

I followed my curiosity. Researched whatever the hell I wanted to. Filled my head with what most people would call useless facts—until they needed them. Until the moment a random question popped up and I wasn’t just throwing out some recycled opinion off social media—I had real input. Valuable insight.

Then it hit me:

Everything I’ve learned in my life touches the work I create.
All of it. The random facts. The scars. The late nights obsessing over things no one else cared about. I spent a lifetime gaining knowledge—not for grades, not for clout, but because learning was my first passion.
And now, I remember how to apply it.

That’s passion. Not a performance. Not a brand. Just living and learning because it feeds your soul.

It’s not perfect. I still lose my way. I still forget what lights me up.

But I always come back.

Because I remember now:
I almost died.
And I didn’t.

So what am I passionate about?

I’m passionate about not living like I’m already gone.
I’m passionate about writing with truth, not for claps.
I’m passionate about being better, not louder.
I’m passionate about the quiet work of staying true to what matters—especially when no one’s watching.

I remember who I am, even when I’m the one trying hardest to forget.

Peace, Integrity, Humility — And Other Ways to Make Life Harder on Yourself

2025/06/08Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1963, life, love, mental health, mindfulness, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What are the most important things needed to live a good life?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

What are the most important things needed to live a good life?

For me, it really boils down to three things: peace of mind, integrity, and humility.

Peace of mind isn’t just a cute idea you chase after you’ve ticked off the career boxes and bought the right brand of meditation app. It’s the whole point. It’s being able to sit alone-no noise, no phone, no endless doomscrolling — and not feel like your own brain is trying to mug you. Without peace, all the money, likes, and shiny milestones mean exactly squat.

Integrity — the forgotten art of not being a sellout. Not the performative kind either. I’m talking about the real-deal, do-the-right-thing-even-when-it-sucks integrity. It’s what you do when no one is throwing you a parade or handing you a blue checkmark for it. It’s not glamorous, but it’s what keeps you from waking up one morning wondering how you turned into exactly the kind of person you used to roll your eyes at.

Humility — the secret sauce that keeps peace and integrity from congealing into self-righteous nonsense. Humility isn’t about shrinking yourself or apologizing for existing. It’s about remembering that no matter how many gold stars you’ve earned, you’re still a deeply flawed work-in-progress. You’re not the sun — the world doesn’t revolve around you.

And this leads into something a lot of people miss: Yes, living a good life is about not surrendering — not selling your soul at clearance prices. However, it’s also about recognizing that not everything revolves around you and your needs. Crazy, right? We tend to think our opinions, our feelings, our “truth” are the centerpiece of existence. And sure, it’s great to find like-minded people who “get” you, who nod when you talk and make you feel validated. But here’s the kicker: real growth often comes when someone challenges you, when they offer a perspective you hadn’t even considered because you were too busy broadcasting your own.

That’s why it’s imperative — life-or-death for your soul — to keep an open mind without compromising your integrity. It’s a balancing act, no doubt. But nothing in life is purely black and white, no matter how much we’d love for it to be. Life is lived in the messy, uncomfortable gray zones where two things can be true at once — where right and wrong aren’t always neon signs but flickering streetlights.

Why is it so hard to live by these values today?

Because society basically runs on encouraging the opposite.

We sit around and moan about how broken everything is — how shallow, how divided, how exhausting. And, sure, the system’s cracked. But let’s not kid ourselves — these aren’t new problems. We’ve been fighting the same internal battles — pride, impatience, ego — since we were toddlers throwing tantrums over the wrong color sippy cup.

What’s changed? The chaos is just faster now, noisier, harder to tune out. Peace of mind? Good luck finding it when your entire life is competing with ads, outrage, and hot takes. Integrity? Tough sell when the world loves a good shortcut and sells out faster than concert tickets. Humility? Ha — humility doesn’t trend well. Loud wins. Big wins. Modesty doesn’t even get a participation trophy.

And let’s be real: the stuff we’re so furious at “out there” is often just a slightly uglier reflection of what’s going on inside of us. The same insecurities, anger, and fear. Society didn’t invent these flaws — it just put them in a sparkly package and added a 24/7 subscription model.

So you have to stay close to yourself. Not the Instagram-ready highlight reel, but the actual human being — the one who’s weathered real triumphs and real faceplants. The one who’s fought for peace of mind, integrity, and humility the hard way. These aren’t luxury accessories — they’re battle armor. They’re what protect you when the world, very efficiently and very loudly, tries to drag you into its circus.

At the end of the day, nearly everything you think you own — the job, the house, the accolades, the opinions of others — is rented. Temporary. The only thing you actually own is whether you stayed true to who you are — whether you fought the quiet, ugly battles that no one clapped for.

Living a good life these days isn’t about winning. It’s not about being the loudest, or the richest, or the most-liked. It’s about holding the line. It’s about not surrendering — but also about keeping your mind open without folding your integrity into a paper airplane every time someone disagrees with you.

And no — this isn’t some “Live, Laugh, Love” nonsense I ripped off a cool poster or skimmed in a self-help book. This comes from a lifetime of getting it wrong — repeatedly. Only to finally, stubbornly, start figuring out what actually matters and what doesn’t.

Here’s the rub: I still screw it up on the regular. I’m not handing you a blueprint — I’m handing you a work-in-progress. But the difference is, now I know it when I mess up. And I keep working at maintaining the few things I know are worth the fight: peace, integrity, humility.

If mistakes were to be made, I’ve made them. Lessons to be learned? I’ve learned them — well, some of them. The most important thing is, I haven’t been afraid to live.

If I can do it, you can too.

Because at the end of the day, the likes fade, the trophies collect dust, and the noise dies down. All you’re left with is yourself — hope you made good company. Otherwise, it’s gonna be a long, awkward ride to the end.

Lessons That Endure: Faith, Reflection, and the Blank Page

2025/06/03Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, books, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1958, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing8 Comments

Daily writing prompt

List three books that have had an impact on you. Why?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Usually, I might point to a novel, a collection of poetry, or a dense work of philosophy. But today, I want to get back to basics — to the books that have stayed with me through different seasons, roles, and realities. They’ve been a steady hand through chaos, offering balance when the world tilted. They’ve shaped the man I am, no matter what hat I wear.

The Holy Quran — More than a religious text, the Quran is a blueprint for living with intention. It shaped my sense of purpose, grounded me in morality, and instilled a discipline that influences every aspect of my life — from how I treat others to how I carry myself through adversity. Within Islam, I’ve unfolded the idea of knowing thyself — not just knowing who I am, but who I am becoming. The Quran compels me to grapple with justice not just in the world, but within myself. It reminds me that mercy is strength, and that life, no matter how loud or long it seems, is fleeting. Through every trial and triumph, it’s been a mirror, a guide, and at times a necessary challenge.

The Holy Bible — Where the Quran shaped discipline and self-knowledge, the Bible opened the door to grace and forgiveness. Its parables and letters taught me that real strength isn’t just standing tall — it’s knowing when to kneel, when to forgive, and when to let go. The Bible reveals the resilience of the human spirit in the face of suffering, and insists that hope — fragile but fierce — is always within reach. It taught me that failure isn’t an ending; it’s often a beginning. That forgiveness isn’t weakness; it’s power. And that love, even when costly, is worth it. Across the stages of my life, it has met me where I was — sometimes offering comfort, sometimes issuing a hard call, but always pulling me higher.

The Quran and the Bible complement each other — a dialogue between discipline and grace, justice and mercy. And the blank notebook helps me unpack the wisdom each holds.

A blank notebook — Unlike the printed word, a blank notebook offers no guidance — just space. It’s where the noise fades and my own voice rises. Over the years, notebooks have held my dreams, doubts, plans, and questions. As a soldier, I fought for God, doing all I must — but no more. Yet I also answer to God. In the blank pages, I unpack the wisdom that often pushes me outside my comfort zone. This ritual clears my mind. Writing turns chaos into something I can hold and study. The notebook has been a silent witness to every version of me — the ambitious, the lost, the certain, the questioning. It reminds me that growth is messy, nonlinear, and worth recording. More than a tool, it’s a companion—patient, unjudging, and always ready for what comes next.

Vigilance by Another Name

2025/06/02Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1957, fear, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What fears have you overcome and how?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Fear: My Old Friend Rides Shotgun

You get older and realize you didn’t know a damn thing.

When I was young, fear was the one thing I wasn’t allowed to show. Not in my house, not in the Army, and sure as hell not in front of my family. Fear was the enemy. It was a weakness. It was that voice in your head you learned to silence—or at least pretend you couldn’t hear.

In the Army, fear was treated like a virus. You didn’t talk about it; you didn’t acknowledge it. You locked it down, put on your war face, and moved forward. To hesitate was to risk everything—your mission, your men, your skin. So you learned to shove it deep down somewhere you didn’t have to feel it.

However, the amusing thing is that, while in battle, I realized fear was my friend; it kept me alert. But we didn’t call it fear. We called it vigilance. We used phrases like “Stay Alert, Stay Alive” or the popular one, “Head on a Swivel.” No matter the catchphrase, we learned to understand that fear was a part of the job. But we never said that aloud.

In so many ways, fear gets a bad reputation. It’s been a part of us since the beginning. We need to understand how to use it, just as we do with anything else in life. Fear doesn’t forget. You can pack it away and bury it under years of deployments, promotions, and medals, but it never really goes away. It waits. Patiently.

Fear didn’t vanish when I left the battlefield; it simply found new arenas. When I became a husband and later a father, I thought maybe fear would find a new home somewhere far away from me. After all, what’s scarier—enemy fire or a newborn that won’t sleep for three days? Turns out, fear adapts. It’s just as present when you’re staring at hospital monitors as it is when you’re huddled in a foreign desert waiting for the next move.

All the darkness I’d seen in the world—the villages reduced to rubble, the faces of men who wouldn’t make it home—I wanted to protect my family from it. Shield them from the kind of pain that doesn’t heal, the kind that sticks to your bones. I knew I couldn’t stop the world from being what it is, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to roll over. There’s nothing worse than feeling helpless when the world decides to teach your child a lesson. You want them to grab the world by the horns and kick its ass. When they do something courageous, we applaud them, exhaling because we know it could have gone another way. But you have to trust that the things you taught them will catch hold. They often surprise you because they have been listening all along. And let me tell you, they didn’t make it easy.

Fear stayed with me even as they grew. I swear it’s their job to scare the shit out of you, and they seem to take that job pretty seriously. Like the time, my son decided to jump out of perfectly good airplanes because he “wanted to be all he could be.” I considered banning television in the house. Or when my daughter drove cross-country in a beat-up car with a prayer and a gas card. Every bold move they made had me aging in dog years, and I have the gray hairs to prove it, but damned if I wasn’t proud.

I spent decades pretending I had it all under control. I kept fear on a short leash, convinced that ignoring it was the same thing as mastering it. But no matter how many battles I fought, how many bills I paid, or how many “Dad of the Year” moments I racked up, fear was always there, waiting for a crack in the armor.

It wasn’t until I retired—hung up the uniform, no more missions, no more late-night phone calls, just silence and the old ghosts I’d tried to outrun—that I finally sat still long enough to hear it clearly. Fear wasn’t the enemy. It never was. It was the warning system, the gut check, the part of me that said, “Hey, maybe charging headfirst isn’t always the best plan.”

These days, I no longer fight fear. I listen to it. I don’t let it steer—I’ve still got too much pride for that—but I let it ride along. We’ve made peace, old fear, and I.

Funny thing is, now that I’ve stopped pretending I’m not scared, I’ve never felt braver. Fear, that old companion who kept me vigilant on battlefields and restless nights, still rides with me. Only now, we’re on better terms—I trust it to keep me sharp, and it trusts me to keep moving forward, one step smarter than the man I used to be.

The Strength in Fracture

2025/05/27Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, FOWC, life, mental health, Poems from Another Time, poetry, Prose, RDP, writing2 Comments

PROSE – FOWC & RDP

We find strength when we crack, not despite it, but because of it.

There’s something deeply human about breaking.

Not the kind of collapse that’s loud and chaotic—but the quiet kind. The kind that sneaks in slowly, pressing against your foundation until one day, without warning, you feel it: the shift, the splinter, the give. And then the silence that follows. That’s the feeling these images evoke. A visceral, wordless Yikes that lingers in the gut.

You don’t see the break coming. But when it arrives, it’s undeniable.

In the first image, we see a heart—not soft, not red, but forged from slabs of cold, cracked stone. Split down the center, it doesn’t bleed. It doesn’t scream. It simply opens, revealing a light that neither heals nor blinds. This is not a symbol of destruction. It’s a portrait of vulnerability. Of strength that dared to yield. And that’s the paradox: what we build to protect us can also be the very thing that prevents us from feeling, from growing, from becoming.

There have been times I cracked. Times when all I could do was sift through the rubble and pretend I was okay. On the outside, I held. On the inside, it was layers of damage—quiet, hidden, untreated. It wasn’t dramatic. It was ordinary, and that’s what made it dangerous.

And just when you think it can’t go deeper, it does.

The second image strikes harder. A head—presumably human—layered with thick, dry slices of rock, features obliterated by the burden of their own defenses. You don’t see eyes, mouth, or even expression. You see the consequence of endurance.

We do this, don’t we? We pile on the layers: expectations, roles, trauma, silence. One by one, they smother the self underneath until we become unrecognizable, even to ourselves. And when someone asks us how we’re doing, the reaction is automatic: “I’m fine.” But the truth is buried somewhere deep, wedged between layers too heavy to lift alone.

But what if the face we hide becomes the face we lose?

The final image is a tunnel of shattered stone tiles, a fractured pathway bathed in harsh, white light. It’s hard not to see this as a metaphor for transformation. The path isn’t smooth. It’s jagged. Uneven. And yet it leads forward.

That light? It’s not salvation. It’s exposure. Clarity. Maybe even a challenge. The only way through is through. You walk over the wreckage of everything you thought would last, everything you thought you were, and you move anyway.

These images aren’t just art. They’re mirrors. They ask you to look closer—not at the cracks in the stone, but at the fractures within yourself. The places you’ve gone numb. The truths you’ve buried. The parts of you are still waiting to be unearthed.

So yes, Yikes might be your first instinct. But maybe that discomfort is the doorway to something deeper. Maybe the real reaction isn’t fear, but awakening. What if breaking is not the end of the structure, but the beginning of something raw, real, and finally alive?

What have you layered over instead of facing?
What parts of you are still buried beneath the rubble?
And if you followed the cracks, where would they lead?

I Thought I Could Fix Everything—Until I Couldn’t

2025/05/26Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1950, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What are you good at?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

I’m good at solving problems—the real ones. The messy, inconvenient, “everything’s-on-fire” kind that show up at 2 a.m. I was that guy—the one you call when it’s all falling apart. And by sunrise, I’d be walking away with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other like nothing happened. Crisis averted. No medals. No meltdown. Just fixed.

Fixing things became my identity. Not in some poetic, savior-complex kind of way—but because someone had to do it. Appliances, busted cars, computers, money problems, broken plans—you name it. I’d lock in and work it until it bent or broke for good. Most people panic in chaos. I get focused.

So naturally, when I asked my family what I’m good at—for a course assignment—they stared at me like I’d just asked them to name all my past lives. Eventually, a few mumbled agreements trickled in. But when it came time to list my flaws? Oh, that list rolled off their tongues like they’d been practicing for a roast. That’s when it hit me—people don’t always see the person holding the whole thing together. They just assume the mess disappears on its own.

And still, amid all that, my stepmom—the queen of unsolicited truth bombs—drops this: “Honey, you can’t fix everything.” I laughed, of course. That’s what people say when they’ve given up too soon, right? When they haven’t stepped back, taken a breath, and tried again from another angle.

But with time, her words started to stick. Not because she was right about everything, but because I started to see the limits of even my best efforts. I realized that every problem has a solution, but I wasn’t the solution to every problem. That stung, but it also freed me. I didn’t have to carry every broken thing. I didn’t have to make everything work.

Still, if there’s a problem with a fix in it, I’ll find it. That’s what I do. I bring logic into chaos, patience into panic, and if the solution exists, I’ll get there. But now I know when to fix, when to walk away, and when to just be present in the wreckage with someone else.

So yeah. What am I good at? I’m good at being the one who shows up when it matters. The calm in the storm. The fixer with a sense of humor and a pretty solid track record. And just enough wisdom now to know when I’m not the answer—and to be okay with that.

My Life Goals Include Coffee

2025/05/25Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, daily-prompt, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1949, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What does “having it all” mean to you? Is it attainable?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

“Having it all” sounds like the title of a self-help book ghostwritten by someone who drinks green juice for dinner and cries in their Tesla. It’s vague enough to seem profound, and just specific enough to make you feel like you’re failing.

What does it even mean? A six-figure job with no after-hours emails? A partner who remembers anniversaries and does the dishes? Inner peace, abs, well-adjusted children, and a well-stocked fridge — all at once? That’s not a life. That’s a fever dream.

Ask the right person and they’ll tell you exactly what “having it all” means. They’ll say it with that glazed, TED Talk confidence that screams, “I rehearse my affirmations in the mirror.” Usually, some nonsense about balance, intention, or monetizing your passion. And sure, we let it slide — because we’ve got more urgent problems like whether there’s enough coffee to survive the morning, and if Steve from accounting is going to hog the microwave again.

The truth is, “having it all” is a capitalist carrot. It’s designed to keep you chasing, spending, comparing — never arriving. You can climb every rung, hit every milestone, and still feel like you’re missing something. That’s the point. It’s a treadmill, not a destination.

Is it attainable? In theory, maybe. In this reality? With this rent? With this 47-tab browser brain and a body held together by caffeine and vague dread? Not likely.

For me, “having it all” means waking up without a panic spiral, drinking a full cup of hot coffee in peace, and ending the day without wanting to fake my own death. That’s it. That’s my utopia. If I’ve got that, I’m doing alright.

Maybe it’s not about chasing some polished version of success that looks good on LinkedIn. Maybe it’s about carving out just enough quiet, food, love, and laughs to keep going.

My life goals include coffee. The rest is flexible.

Holding the Line: Fractures and All

2025/05/23Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1947, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What personal belongings do you hold most dear?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”
— Edmund Burke

For years, I stood for what I believed couldn’t be broken: humor, integrity, truth. It’s not the kind you post about, but the kind you lose sleep over. The kind you keep when it costs you something.

I stayed steady. I didn’t cut corners. I thought it would mean something if I just held the line long enough. That my convictions would carry weight. They’d hold the chaos back, even if only a little while.

But then came the choice.

It wasn’t dramatic. No burning building, no lives on the line. Just a conversation in a quiet room, a decision no one would see. And we told ourselves it was for the greater good. That by bending, we could protect more.

The cost was one truth I didn’t speak. One silence I allowed. It didn’t feel like a betrayal at the time. It felt strategic. Efficient.

But the lie lived on, and others paid for it.

The nameless suffered the consequences for what I didn’t expose. Integrity fractured, honor destroyed. I started to look at myself differently—not with anger but with confusion. We told ourselves we were the good guys, but were we?

“The intention is nothing without the action. It is not the consciousness of men that determines their being, but their social being that determines their consciousness.”
— Karl Marx, Preface to A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy (1859)

And maybe we still are. But not without damage.

Because the most challenging part isn’t the decision—it’s living with what it took from you. You go home. You look in the mirror. You wonder if the person staring back is still you.

And then, today, it happened again.

Another quiet moment. Another conversation behind closed doors. A shortcut. A lie I could’ve told. No one would’ve known.

But I did something different.

I said no. My voice cracked, but I held the line. I walked out knowing I’d made things harder for myself. But I also walked out, still able to breathe.

I’m not who I was before the compromise. I don’t think I ever will be. But I haven’t gone completely. There’s still a part of me that recoils at the easy road. A part that still whispers: “Not this. Not again.”

I fight for that voice now.

Not to be redeemed. I’m long past chasing purity. I fight to guard what remains intact—to protect the sliver of soul that refuses to rot.

Because if I let that go, I’m no longer making hard choices for the greater good. I’m just protecting myself. And that’s where corruption truly begins.

That whisper—fragile as it is—is still mine.
And for that, I fight.

Because if I can keep that alive, I haven’t lost everything.

The Stuff They Give Up (So the Rest of Us Don’t Have To)

2025/05/17Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1941, family, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What sacrifices have you made in life?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Everyone makes sacrifices. That’s just part of being an adult—along with bills, back pain, and pretending to understand how taxes work. But some sacrifices don’t get enough credit. They’re quiet, constant, and totally underappreciated. Let’s start with parents.

Parents: The Masters of Silent Sacrifice

Sure, everyone knows parenting is hard. But it’s not just about surviving diaper blowouts or sitting through 300 replays of Frozen. It’s about the real, behind-the-scenes sacrifices. Like the mom who takes a job she doesn’t love just because it comes with decent health insurance. Or the dad who eats the last two bites of crusty mac and cheese instead of cooking himself dinner—again.

Parents give up more than time and money. They give up peace and privacy. They trade dreams for dental plans. And let’s not forget sleep. You could power a small city on the energy parents lose just trying to get a toddler to bed. It’s not glamorous. No one hands out medals for making it through a meltdown in Target. But these sacrifices shape lives. Quietly. Powerfully.

First Responders: Showing Up When It Counts

Then there are first responders—firefighters, EMTs, police officers—the folks who run toward danger while the rest of us are Googling “how to escape a burning building.” These people give up a lot too.

They miss holidays, birthdays, sleep… you know, all the fun stuff. And what do they get in return? Stress, trauma, and the joy of paperwork. Lots of paperwork. Plus, they carry memories most of us couldn’t handle—gritty, painful, unforgettable moments that stay long after the sirens stop.

And yet, they keep showing up. Not for glory. Not for a gold star. Just because someone has to—and they’ve decided it’ll be them.

The Sacrifices We Don’t See—But Should

Here’s the thing: whether it’s a parent sacrificing their sanity during a four-hour kindergarten play, or a paramedic showing up at 3 a.m. because someone else’s world just fell apart—these acts deserve more than a passing “thanks.” They deserve to be seen. Respected. Remembered.

Because at the end of the day, sacrifice isn’t always some big, dramatic gesture. Most of the time, it’s a thousand small decisions made out of love, duty, or just sheer stubborn commitment to doing what’s right.

And maybe a little caffeine.

Camping: Because Paying to Be Miserable Is Apparently a Thing

2025/05/16Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1923, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing13 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Have you ever been camping?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

An open letter to everyone who thinks bug bites and canned beans are a good time.

Look, I get it. “Camping is so refreshing,” they say. “It’s healing! It helps you disconnect!”

Cool. So does turning your phone off and taking a nap in a real bed. Because let’s be honest—camping is just voluntary homelessness with snacks.

Yes, yes, I’ve heard the propaganda:

“It reduces stress!”
“It reconnects you with nature!”
“You’ll sleep better!”

Really? Have you ever tried sleeping in a zipped-up nylon taco, on top of a rock, while a mosquito EDM festival rages six inches from your face? Nature isn’t hugging you. It’s hazing you.

Let’s get into it.

1. The Weather Is a Liar
The app said sunny. You packed shorts. Now it’s 3 a.m., your sleeping bag’s a sponge, and you’re praying your tent doesn’t collapse in the downpour. Mother Nature doesn’t care about your forecast—she’s here to ruin your socks and your spirit.

2. Bugs: The True Camp Counselors
“Oh, just a few mosquitoes,” they said. Wrong. It’s an insect Thunderdome out there. Mosquitoes, spiders, ants, bees—plus one raccoon with dead eyes and a chip addiction. You’re not at the top of the food chain. You’re on the menu.

3. You Paid to Be Miserable
Congrats! You dropped $300 on gear to cosplay as a frontier orphan. No mattress. No bathroom. No fridge. Just you, the dirt, and a can of baked beans sweating in your backpack. It’s like glamping, minus the “glam.”

4. The Bathroom Situation (A Horror Story)
It’s midnight. You’re squatting over a questionable log. One hand’s holding a flashlight, the other is praying to the god of not-peeing-on-poison-ivy. This isn’t “rustic.” It’s trauma.

5. Fresh Air Exists in Cities Too
If you want to breathe clean air, open a window. You don’t have to wander into the woods like some kind of Wi-Fi-less pioneer to feel “connected.” There’s a park near your house. It has benches and cell reception.

6. Campfire Cooking Is a Scam
Grilled hot dogs on a stick you found near a squirrel nest? Wow. Truly the Iron Chef experience. And let’s not forget the burnt marshmallows—nothing says “nature cuisine” like charred sugar goo stuck to your molars.

7. Sleep? In This Economy?
Nature sounds peaceful… until you’re trying to sleep. Then it’s either murderously silent or an audio jungle of crickets, raccoons, owls, and something growling that you’re definitely not Googling right now. You won’t get REM. You’ll get hypervigilant.

Final Thoughts
Camping is a beautiful, wholesome way to deeply regret your choices. If your idea of fun is working hard to be cold, itchy, hungry, and slightly feral—great! Have at it.

As for me? I’ll be inside. With flush toilets, strong coffee, and the blessed hum of air conditioning. Nature can stay outside where it belongs—preferably behind a double-paned window. With a lock.

How to Fall Apart (and Call It Progress)

2025/05/11Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1935, life, love, mental health, philosophy, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What does freedom mean to you?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

A discussion about becoming unraveled, unburdened

What does freedom even mean? It’s like one of those made-up words everyone thinks they understand, but no one actually does. We toss it around in debates, slap it on bumper stickers, or turn it into a hashtag. Then we try to sound deep by asking, “In what sense do you mean — philosophical, political, personal?” But let’s be honest: most of that is just smoke to dodge the real answer. Which is, simply: I don’t have a clue.

We often treat freedom like a buzzword—something we claim, defend, hashtag, or stick on the back of a truck. It’s sold as autonomy, choice, and the sacred right to do whatever we want whenever we want. But real freedom? It’s not that flashy. It’s quieter, more internal, often inconvenient, and much harder to define. You don’t notice it on a billboard, and it won’t trend for long. It might even be harder to see, because it begins not with what we do, but with how we perceive—how we see ourselves, others, and what we think life owes us.

Across spiritual traditions—Buddhism, Taoism, Sufism, Christianity, Judaism, Islam—a pattern emerges: we are not free by default. We’re born into inherited scripts, societal myths, and a mess of cravings, fears, and projections. Most of our lives are spent reacting to things we don’t even understand. It’s like trying to win a board game where the rules are vague, the instructions are missing, and someone keeps changing the goalposts when you’re not looking. No wonder we’re tired.

Freedom, in the deeper sense, isn’t about getting our way. It’s about seeing clearly enough that we’re no longer at the mercy of every craving, trigger, or existential itch. In Buddhism, this means recognizing dukkha (suffering) and its cause, tanhā (craving). Sufism centers on taming the nafs — the unrestrained, insatiable ego. Taoism discusses abandoning the exhausting need to force outcomes and instead moving with the current.

Christianity points us to the idea that freedom comes not through control but through the purification of the heart. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” Not “they shall win,” not “they shall be promoted,” but see. It’s not exactly the promise of a six-figure salary, but it might be worth more. Judaism and Islam also make it clear that freedom is not about breaking the rules, but living in alignment with something truer and eternal. In other words, you’re not the center of the universe — and that might be the best news you’ll hear all day.

This challenges our cultural obsession with control. As Ishmael shows us, modern civilization has wrapped freedom in the myth of domination. We think freedom means being the boss—of nature, of time, of each other. But domination isn’t freedom. It’s just anxiety in a power suit. The more we try to force the world to match our expectations, the more we suffer when it doesn’t.

And yet, even when we “get it,” the work is anything but linear. Sometimes, the path to freedom involves breaking down. Not the tidy kind of unraveling you read about in memoirs, but the ugly, confusing, no-GPS type of collapse. And oddly enough, that might be necessary. Because falling apart can strip away what was never really you. It can expose what’s underneath the performance, the control, the coping. You meditate one morning and snap at someone by lunch. You let go of a toxic habit, then dream about it for a week.

That’s because fundamental transformation creates cognitive dissonance—the friction between the polished self we’ve been taught to perform and the inconvenient truths trying to surface, like realizing that your definition of success might be making you miserable, or that the life you built isn’t the one you actually want. The system shakes when what we’ve believed can no longer hold up to what we’re beginning to feel. It’s disorienting. But that disorientation is a gift. It’s how the mind makes space for something more honest.

That’s not regression. It’s evidence you’re alive and paying attention — maybe even transforming.

Absolute freedom isn’t being untouchable. It’s being touchable without falling apart. It’s having enough self-awareness to recognize when you’re being hijacked by old stories, and enough stillness to pause before you reenact them. Learning to laugh at your own nonsense is key before it convinces you it’s the voice of God. You don’t destroy the ego; you learn not to take it so seriously.

And here’s the kicker: understanding isn’t the end of the journey—it is the journey. Freedom begins the moment you start to see differently: when the illusion cracks just enough to let in the light, or, just as often, when the darkness teaches you to feel your way through. The dark isn’t the enemy; it’s where the roots grow, where silence speaks, where real seeing begins. Understanding doesn’t guarantee peace but gets you in the room with it. And that, on most days, is freedom enough.

Perhaps today marks the opening of a much deeper conversation—scary, uncomfortable, and sometimes downright mean. A conversation that shakes the foundation of who we think we are, or who we’ve been told to be. It may challenge the ideals we’ve long held sacred. My question is this:

Do we need that kind of disruption to be free?

I know I do. Yeah, I’m scared. I’m frustrated. I’m pissed off. But I also know it’s necessary—because this discomfort is where I grow into the man I actually want to be.

Corner Wisdom

2025/05/04Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1928, family, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

List the people you admire and look to for advice…

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

There have been plenty of people in my life I’ve admired and turned to for advice—too many to name, if I’m being honest. So instead of listing names, I’ll talk about a time in my life.

When I was a young buck, there were a few older gentlemen who used to hang out by the market. These cats preached—not religion, but life. No dogma, just wisdom. I’d stop by with a bag of penny candy and listen in.

Some of them also posted up at the barbershop, dropping the same kind of knowledge. I always wanted to be that cool—calm, sharp, and respected, with something real to say.

I’d go home and tell my auntie and MiMi about those guys. They’d tell me to stay out of grown folks’ business—and let me know which ones to steer clear of. But most of those men knew MiMi, so I was safe. Nobody messed with MiMi’s kinfolk.

Looking back, I probably wasn’t getting the full picture—just a watered-down version of what they were really saying. But I appreciated every bit I was able to soak up. It stuck with me.

Though I admired those men and wanted to be like them, I never thought I’d get there. Then one day, at my niece’s wedding, I was cutting up with my brothers, just talking mess, making people laugh. This young lady nearby was cracking up at us. Then she said, “I hope I’m this cool when I get old.”

We were floored. We’re a lot of things—but cool? That one caught us off guard.

But I’ll always remember this: people will remember your example more than your advice.

Maggot Brain: Where Beauty and Despair Collide (and Punch You in the Gut)

2025/05/01Posted in TunageTagged creative writing, daily exercise, Fiction, life, love, mental health, Song Lyric Sunday, Tunage, writing9 Comments

TUNAGE – SLS

Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain isn’t just a record — it’s a reckoning. Released in 1971, it captured the psychic temperature of a country unraveling. War abroad, decay at home, distrust in the air, and the so-called counterculture burning out in real time. Maggot Brain took all that noise, that grief, that disillusionment — and turned it into one of the most brutally honest LPs ever pressed.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t safe. It was spiritual, political, cynical, funky as hell, and deeply weird — like a sermon preached from the edge of a nervous breakdown.

Maggot Brain captured the attitude of the entire country within a single LP. There was literally a track that spoke for everyone. If you were angry, it had you. If you were confused, it held you. If you just wanted to dance your way through the end times, Funkadelic had you covered. Every track hit a different nerve, and none of them asked permission.

There are songs that groove hard (You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks), others that mock the stupidity of it all (Super Stupid), and ones that crack open a deeper existential dread (Wars of Armageddon). But all of it orbits the title track. Maggot Brain isn’t just the opener. It’s the altar. It’s the cry at the center of the storm.

Eddie Hazel doesn’t play Maggot Brain. He doesn’t even perform it in the traditional sense. He haunts it. Possesses it. Bleeds into it. And once it begins, you don’t get to be a casual listener anymore. You’re drafted. No warning. No warm-up. Just a single, ghost-drenched guitar note that slides into your chest like a whisper you weren’t supposed to hear.

It’s not loud. It’s not fast. It just is. And that’s more terrifying than any distortion pedal at full blast. Hazel creeps in like a rogue spirit — smooth, silent, uninvited — and by the time you realize what’s happening, you’re already in it, stripped of cool and composure, emotionally pantsed.

You don’t get a beat to grab onto. No vocals to decode. Just a guitar screaming in slow motion. It’s like standing in the middle of a storm you can’t see but definitely feel. The grief is palpable. The rage is buried just deep enough to make you nervous. And right when you think you’ve got it figured out, the damn thing shifts and you’re spiraling again. Welcome to Maggot Brain — cognitive dissonance with a six-string.

Because let’s be real: this song shouldn’t work. It’s ten minutes, mostly one instrument. No verse. No chorus. Not even a satisfying drop. But for ten minutes, Eddie Hazel demolishes every “rule” about what music is supposed to be, and you love him for it. Or maybe you hate him for making you love it. Either way, you’re in it.

And no, you don’t walk away saying, “cool solo, bro.” You walk away dazed, like you just remembered a dream you never had. Or like your soul got mugged, politely. This is the kind of music that picks a fight with your expectations and then hugs you while you cry.

I still remember the first time I heard it — in a smoke-filled room full of strangers pretending not to be high. No one talked. No one moved. We were all just… held. Not by the music, exactly, but by whatever was trying to speak through it. We didn’t share a moment. We survived one. And we were better for it, or at least quieter.

Hazel doesn’t “solo.” He confesses, and we are his priests. Every bend, every scream from those strings is a sin laid bare. And by the end of the song, we have no choice but to grant absolution. Not because we’re qualified, but because he earned it. Because whatever he was holding, he handed it to us. And in some strange, sacred transaction, we took it.

His playing doesn’t follow any tidy roadmap. It stumbles through grief and grace, melting down and pulling itself back together like a nervous breakdown that found religion. There are moments where you think he’s going to lose it entirely — and maybe he does. But somehow, that’s the point.

You want to make sense of it, but your brain is two steps behind the whole time. Because it’s pretty and ugly. Gentle and violent. Hopeful and hopeless. Your heart’s trying to lean in while your head’s going, “Are we okay??” That’s the dissonance. That’s the magic. That’s why it hits harder than any perfect pop chorus ever could.

And George Clinton, cosmic genius and probable chaos wizard, gave Hazel just one instruction: “Play like your mother just died.” Which is both tragic and kind of a dick move, but clearly — it worked. What came out wasn’t a song. It was a slow, spiritual detonation. Hazel didn’t perform grief — he offered it. Raw. Untuned. Unfiltered. The kind of thing most of us spend our lives trying not to feel.

The track never resolves. No big finale. No grand crescendo. Just a long fade into silence, like a memory slipping back under the surface. It’s not done with you — it’s just gone. Until the next time you’re reckless enough to press play.

And I wonder: for those ten minutes, did Eddie Hazel serve as a guide to enlightenment?
Not the neat, monk-on-a-mountain kind.
The messier kind. The gut-punch kind.
The kind that grabs you by the heart, shakes something loose, and leaves without saying a word.

Maggot Brain #479 on 2003 list

Ego, Snacks, and the Search for Peace

2025/04/20Posted in ProseTagged blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, life, mental health, poetry, Sunday Poser, wisdom, writing10 Comments

PROSE – REFLECTION – SUNDAY POSER #230

At my core? Still me. Still sarcastic. Still curious. Still low-key allergic to group think and people who say “per my last email.” But life—especially this past year—shifted something in me. A life-altering moment has a way of stripping you down to the truth, whether you’re ready or not.

It made me realize I’ve been sitting on a set of gifts I’ve treated like party tricks. I can do more. I should do more. Sure, I could keep yelling into the void about the uncultured swine running the world (still baffled by how that happened). And if I accidentally handed them the keys somewhere along the way, then yeah—I’ve got some things to atone for. Maybe even finish the time machine in the basement.

But mostly, I’ve just changed in the way that matters: I’ve started trying. Less coasting, more choosing. Less needing to be right, more needing to be honest.

Wisdom? Not exactly my department. I’ll never be that guy. Never been that smart, and I’m okay with that. What I am is honest enough to admit I’m a deeply flawed man. Whatever good I carry, I got from my mother. The rest is a work in progress.

Marcus Aurelius said, “Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.” I’m trying. Some days better than others. And like in Sufism, where they speak of the nafs—the lower ego—it’s a constant fight. Not to eliminate your ego, but to tame it. To bring it into balance. Peace doesn’t come from pretending to be pure—it comes from wrestling with your own chaos and not letting it win.

And honestly? If King Solomon—the wisest man to ever live—couldn’t get it all right…

I think I’m good.

Chronicles of a Social Media Peepaw

2025/04/20Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1914, life, mental health, social-media, The Daily's, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

How do you use social media?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Episode 1: Apparently, I’m “Doing It Wrong”

I don’t know how to use social media. That’s not false modesty—it’s a fact. And my grandkids make sure I never forget it.

“Peepaw, I just don’t understand,” is something I hear far too often, usually after I’ve posted something harmless like a photo of my cat licking a plate of spaghetti. The photo’s blurry (again), the caption’s too long, and apparently I’m using hashtags like I just discovered them yesterday. Which, to be fair, I kind of did.

What really riles them up are those blurry photos. “You literally have a good camera!” they protest, as if I’m dishonoring a sacred artifact. And they’re not wrong. I do have a good camera—it’s a sturdy old DSLR that doesn’t connect to the cloud, but it’s seen more family moments than most smartphones. It just takes a little work to upload. That’s what USB cables are for, right?

And let’s not forget—they got their start in tech by watching me work. I had wires running through the garage office before they could spell “HTML.” I was the one patching together PCs, fixing drivers, and explaining what RAM was. Now they’ve got degrees and job titles like “UI/UX designer,” and suddenly I’m the tech-challenged grandparent who needs an intervention.

I never set out to be the cool grandpa. I just wanted to share a few thoughts. Maybe post a picture of my chili (my chili is the truth). I wanted to cheer them on when they land a new job or adopt another rescue dog. But apparently, there are rules—unspoken, constantly shifting rules—and I’m breaking all of them.

That’s okay. I’ve made peace with being their favorite internet punchline. If “Peepaw doesn’t get it” gives them something to laugh about, I’m happy to play the part.

Besides, this is just the beginning. There’s a whole internet out there for me to misunderstand.

Memoirs of Madness: Writing Is the Only Way Through

2025/04/17Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, healing, life, love, mental health, Moonwashed Weekly Prompt, Prose, Random Thoughts, writing2 Comments

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.

Nothing, Babe: A Travel Philosophy

2025/04/162025/04/16Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1910, life, mental health, The Daily's, writing15 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What place in the world do you never want to visit? Why?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

To me, this is a loaded question. Like there’s just one place you’d never want to visit, as if you hear a name like Topeka and just decide: absolutely not.

I’ve been around. I’ve seen beauty in unexpected places and tension in spots that looked picture-perfect. So saying I’d never go somewhere feels rigid, and life’s too unpredictable for rigid rules.

But I won’t lie—there are places I instinctively avoid.

Some of that’s just gut feeling. I avoid places with names that don’t sit right—Bone Gap, Jim Falls, Slidell. Part of it is how they sound, part of it is associations I can’t quite shake. Sounds silly, but names carry weight. They trigger memory, emotion, or sometimes just a weird vibe that tells you to keep moving.

Then there are practical reasons. I don’t mess with places where monkeys outnumber people. That’s not fear—it’s realism. Monkeys throw things. I know myself well enough to admit I wouldn’t handle that gracefully. I don’t believe in animal cruelty, and I don’t want to find myself in a moral showdown with a macaque.

Then there’s the deeper stuff. As an American soldier, I’ve seen how quick misunderstandings can turn into something worse—especially when we didn’t know the customs or context. That always struck me as ironic, considering how much we pride ourselves on our ‘attention to detail.’ It taught me to respect where I go and to prepare before I get there. It also taught me that sometimes, respecting a place means knowing when not to go.

When my ex-girlfriend said, “No places with a history of cannibalism,” I didn’t laugh it off. That was her line, and I respected it.
But I couldn’t help myself—I looked at her and said, “So… just to be clear—California’s out, right? That whole Donner Party thing. Colorado too. Can’t forget Alfred Packer. Oh—and Virginia. Jamestown had a real rough winter.”
She stared at me, confused. “Wait… what happened in Virginia?”
I took a long sip of my drink, nodded slowly, and said, “Nothing, babe. Just history being weird again.”

Some places carry histories that deserve reflection, not vacation photos.

So no, I don’t have a definitive “never” on the map. But I have instincts, boundaries, and experiences that shape how I move through the world. That’s not fear—it’s awareness. And in a world this big, I think that’s fair.

What My Mother Taught Me, What My Family Gave Me

2025/04/15Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1909, family, life, love, mental health, The Daily's, writing5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Describe a positive thing a family member has done for you.

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

“Do as I say, not as I do,” the classic parental phrase, never touched my mother’s lips. However, “Because I said so,” not only repeated — it seemed like it should be on a plaque above the door. I even used it with my children, and they used it with theirs. However, this isn’t the most important lesson she gave me. What she demonstrated my entire life is how to be steady, even in the most challenging situations life has to offer.

She raised me by herself, so every bump, scrape, and broken bone — she was steady. Honestly, I don’t know how she did it. I remember being on the verge of losing it with my own kids, and I had a wife to back me up. To do it all alone? I don’t have the words.

That steadiness she showed me has served me well throughout my entire life. No matter what, I stay steady. I might be pissed off while I’m doing it — that trait definitely comes from my father. He had two modes: super cool or absolute death. Nothing in between. He kept people guessing because you never knew how he’d react. People say I do that too. I always swore I’d never be anything like him… well, oops.

It’s said that in life you have two families: the one you’re born into and the one you choose. My mother gave me the tools to build both. Her steadiness became my anchor, and whether I was dealing with work, parenting, or just the everyday chaos of life, I leaned on what she taught me — stay calm, handle your business, don’t fall apart.

And yeah, maybe I inherited some of my dad’s unpredictability too. But thanks to her, the foundation underneath is solid. That balance — between calm and chaos, between knowing when to hold it together and when to let it fly — that’s something I’ve carried into every relationship I’ve built, chosen or otherwise.

My chosen family has shown up for me in ways I never could’ve imagined. I’m truly blessed to have them in my life. Like all my family, they’ve been incredibly patient with me. I can be a lot sometimes — I know that. But they hang in there.

The challenges in life never really stop coming. But when you’ve got people who stick with you, who steady you, who love you even when you’re not at your best — you can get through anything.

In life, we have two families: the one we’re born into and the one we choose. I’m grateful for both.

The Change That Brought Me Back

2025/04/10Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, blogging, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1904, life, mental health, Mental Wellness, The Daily's, writing19 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Describe one positive change you have made in your life.

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

After my health started to improve, I made a quiet promise to myself: take it slow, do it right, and make the changes stick. Not just another sprint followed by burnout. Not another performance. Just something real.

To be honest, I didn’t have much choice. Getting my strength back has been a crawl, not a comeback montage. The days of jumping up, yelling “I’m okay, I’m okay!” while secretly scanning the room for lost cool points—those are done. By the time I realized chasing cool points was just another layer of nonsense, the damage was already in motion.

So I made a deal with myself: if I ever got my strength back, I’d write my butt off. Not for validation. Not to prove something. Just because I have things to say, and writing is how I say them best.

My editor always believed in me—even when I didn’t believe in myself. I’d whine about low engagement, tweak my style constantly, chasing some imaginary formula for success. I forgot the quote a dear friend gave me when I first started posting:
“Better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self.” — Cyril Connolly.

Now I get it. And I’m not just writing again—I’m enjoying it. Actually enjoying it. Not refreshing analytics or stressing over reach. Just creating.

And it’s not just writing, either. I’ve been drawing again. Editing film. Playing with my cat—who may or may not have been a dog in a past life. (I’ll get into that another day. It’s a whole thing.)

But yeah, I’m creating again. Fully. Freely.
And that’s the change that brought me back.

Cut That Shit Out!

2025/04/09Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1903, HEALTH, life, mental health, self-care, The Daily's, writing11 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What’s the most fun way to exercise?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

A journey through fitness, false identities, and finally figuring your shit out

Fun Way to Exercise, You Say? Let’s Get Delusional.

Let’s start here: Olivia Newton-John basically rewired an entire generation’s brains with “Let’s Get Physical.” She morphed from wholesome sweetheart to headband-wearing fever dream, and somehow we all collectively agreed that writhing in a leotard was fitness. We never really recovered, emotionally or sartorially.

Then there was Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, reminding us that it’s totally fine—encouraged, even—to be obsessive about your passions. Especially if your passion includes dumping water on yourself mid-dance. That “Maniac” scene wasn’t just exercise—it was aspirational chaos. It made sweating look like a personality trait.

Even Popeye tried to get in on it. He wasn’t just pushing spinach; he was pushing the idea that vegetables could give you freakish forearm strength and the confidence to punch boats. No one wanted to be the 90-pound weakling on the beach getting sand kicked in their face. We worked out—not for health, not for longevity—but for the attention of a girl who may or may not even know our name.

Jane Fonda came along and made aerobics a spiritual obligation. Suddenly we were all cult members, grapevining for our lives, and gym bros looked at us like we were losing our minds. You tried aerobics? RESPECT. That’s not cardio. That’s performance art.

And Richard Simmons? That was a whole vibe we still don’t fully understand. Sequins, shouting, sincere encouragement—somewhere between motivational speaker and glitter elemental. Whatever it was, it worked. People moved. They sweat. They cried. They believed.

My step-madre? She was in the trenches with Tae-Bo. Billy Blanks screaming from the TV, and her throwing punches in the living room like a woman possessed. I still don’t know if it was for fitness or because she thought Billy was fine. She’ll never say. She holds secrets like a vault, and no one has the access code.

Supplements & Shenanigans

Just when you thought the movement was enough—enter the supplement era.

We started popping Flintstone Chewables like they were candy (because they were), then graduated to Centrum when we wanted to feel like grownups who still couldn’t swallow pills. Then came Geritol Tonic—that was the truth. Took a sip and blacked out in enlightenment.

Protein shakes replaced food. Creatine replaced logic. Ginseng, ginkgo biloba, and questionable powders scooped into shaker bottles at 6am because someone on the internet said it would “enhance vitality.”

We were building bodies. Fueling potential.
And slowly, maybe accidentally, getting nowhere near wholeness.

Mind, Body, Spirit… and Other Marketing Buzzwords

(Now With 12 Unnecessary Challenges, Just Like Hercules!)

Eventually, the workouts and pills and VHS tapes weren’t enough. People started exercising their minds. Started researching things like inner peace, balance, self-actualization—whatever that is. People wanted to genuinely like themselves. Be whole. Mind, body, and spirit.

Sounds good, right?

But come on—is that even real?
Is that obtainable?
With the flood of curated nonsense, the influencers, the unsolicited life advice, the algorithmic chaos—how does anyone even begin to weed out the bullshit?

Hercules had twelve trials. You? You’ve got:

Unread emails,
Burnout,
Repressed childhood trauma,
And a morning routine you’re too tired to follow after Day 3.

He had to slay lions and capture magical deer. You have to:

Journal without spiraling,
Set boundaries with your toxic cousin,
And drink water instead of iced coffee for once.

Same energy.

We all want to feel better. More “aligned.” But instead of holy quests, we get wellness content. Instead of oracles, we have mood boards and moon water. Instead of epiphanies, we get an Instagram carousel of “ways to raise your vibration.”

You started exercising your body.
Then your mind.
Then your spirit—probably via breathwork, moon phases, or a yoga class in a converted warehouse with exposed brick and emotional lighting.

And when that didn’t quite fix the aching void?

People started turning to God.
Or the Universe. Or Source. Or the Vibe Manager in the Sky, depending on your belief system.

Every path, every name—people started reaching out, up, and through, looking for a way to cleanse the demons and purify their spirits. Not just the metaphorical demons either—like, the real ones. The ones whispering, “You’re not enough,” while you’re trying to do a downward dog and not weep into your yoga mat.

Prayer, meditation, sacred texts, incense, tarot, gospel, gospel-adjacent YouTube playlists—anything to feel like you’re not just a sentient to-do list trying to find peace in a collapsing world.

Because after you’ve tried all the earthbound answers, sometimes the only thing left is the divine shrug of surrender.

The Real Labor: Showing Up For Yourself

So here’s the thing.

Exercising isn’t fun.
If you think it is—cut that shit out. Seriously. Stop lying to the rest of us who are dragging our carcasses through spin class wondering if our souls are leaking out with every drop of sweat.

But exercising your entire being?
Taking the time to figure out what you actually need?
That’s different.
That’s hard. That’s a process. That’s showing up and sitting in the silence. It’s being real enough with yourself to stop pretending. And yeah, you need to cut that shit out, too.

This isn’t a 30-day fix.
It’s a lifelong pursuit.
One that changes as you do. One that requires you to keep showing up, even when you don’t feel like it, even when no playlist or dopamine hit is waiting.

But if you do it?

If you do the real work?

The reward… it has no words.

It’s a feeling.
Quiet. Deep.
Solid as bedrock.

The feeling of becoming whole—not perfect, not pure, not finished—just complete in the way only honesty can make you.

And at the center of all of this is one simple truth:
The point of this is to Do You.
No qualifiers. No “better” or “best” or whatever recycled buzzword is trending this week. Just you, fully and unapologetically.

As the great Oscar Wilde said,

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”

You are enough. You always have been.

And if someone tries to tell you otherwise, or if your own brain starts slipping back into that goofy self-hating soundtrack?

Cut that shit out.

About the Author

Mangus Khan did a yoga pose once, and it hurt like hell—respect to anyone still doing that on purpose. He owns a towering stack of unread self-help books, which now function as either a faux end table or a regal perch for his cat, who loves him unconditionally despite the obvious madness. He believes in growth, sort of. He believes in showing up, sometimes. And he definitely believes in cutting that shit out.

War, Wisdom, and Other Lies I Tell Myself at Dawn

2025/04/05Posted in ProseTagged books, creative writing, Fiction, FOWC, life, mental health, Prose, Ragtag Daily Prompt, SocS, writingLeave a comment

PROSE – FOWC, RDP, SoCS

“Damn, you’re ancient! What was it like to be one of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders?”

One of the kids on my team tossed that gem at me this morning. Smirking like he just reinvented comedy. I wanted to fire back—something about his hairline already surrendering—but I let it ride. Not because I’m mature. I’m just tired. And honestly? The way the squad erupted in laughter… it was worth the hit. They needed the laugh more than I needed the win.

I’ve never really understood the logic of soldiers. Still don’t. We sign up to follow orders we don’t write, from people we’ll never meet, for goals we’re not allowed to fully understand. And we’re supposed to be fine with that.

Back when I was their age, I like to think I was different. Noble. Thoughtful. Maybe even angelic. (Okay, maybe not angelic. More like… less of a jackass?) But that could just be the rose-colored fog of memory, or the result of years spent rewriting my own origin story like a drunk screenwriter.

There’s something ritualistic about the way the morning unfolds out here. The dawn eats the night. First sip of bitter coffee. First cigarette. The world still quiet enough to pretend it’s not completely unhinged. I watch them wake up—slow, clumsy, half-zombies with bedhead and bad attitudes. Too young to have rituals, too new to know those rituals might one day keep them sane.

I remember one morning, I hit them with Sweet Leaf by Black Sabbath. Volume up, sun barely over the ridge. Half of them looked like they’d been shot in their sleep. The other half just looked confused. I let it rip while running them through live-fire scenarios. Brains not even warmed up, bodies still clunky from the cold.

It wasn’t for fun. Okay—it was a little fun. But mostly it was about pressure. Teaching them to operate before they’re ready, because the world doesn’t care if you’re ready. Expect the unexpected, I told them. It’s a cliché until you’re bleeding because you didn’t.

Eventually, they’ll get it. Or they won’t. Some learn the rhythm. Others burn out trying.

Each day, we stand there like portraits—young faces with old eyes—propping up a cause that shapeshifts depending on who’s holding the microphone. Marching to the beat of some distant desk jockey who calls themselves a leader because they can attach a PDF to an email. And no one questions it.

That’s the part I can’t let go of. No one questions it.

“War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.”
— George Orwell, 1984

I’ve never fully understood that quote. I’ve got pages of half-drunk, sleep-deprived ramblings trying to unpack it. You’d think, with age, I’d get closer. Clarity, wisdom, all that crap they promise you comes with gray hair. But no. The notes get weirder. The handwriting worse. The questions louder.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe wisdom isn’t about finding answers. Maybe it’s just about asking better questions—and knowing when to shut up and pass the coffee.

Sun’s up. Time to pretend we’ve got it all figured out again.

This post was written for Ragtag Daily Prompt, Fandango, and Stream of Conscious Saturday.

Covid-19: When the Shit Got Real

2025/04/02Posted in The Daily'sTagged blog, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1896, life, love, mental health, Prose, The Daily's, writing2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

How have you adapted to the changes brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Remember when “unprecedented times” became everyone’s favorite phrase? A true statement for the memories of most of the world’s inhabitants, but it still got on my nerves. I held my breath, waiting for someone to throw in the word surreal and say something like, “It’s so surreal, these are unprecedented times.” I swear, I would’ve walked away screaming as someone gently muttered, “Poor fella, everyone’s so overwhelmed.”

So—real talk: How did you adapt to the chaos Covid-19 dropped into our lives?
Did you start baking sourdough? Rethink your entire career? Form a codependent relationship with your couch? Go over your data plan because Netflix, RPGs, and Zoom somehow became a lifestyle?
Grow a beard that now has its own personality? (How’s that going, by the way?) Man, that time produced some truly unfortunate facial hair. Mine looked like a depressed squirrel had taken up residence on my face for a solid month. Eventually, it evened out—but the trauma lingers.

For me, my home became my fortress of solitude—equal parts sanctuary, bunker, and blanket fort. I was lucky: my stepmother, who lived through WWII, told me to stock up on essentials before the lockdown. And I listened.

The provisions—dry goods, paper products, all the basics you don’t think about until they vanish—were stacked neatly and inventoried like I was prepping for the end times. All of it sat on those hideous, industrial metal shelves that belong in basements or crime scenes, not in the middle of a living room.

But they got the job done. Ugly, but reliable. Kind of like the year itself.

I still can’t believe I actually listened, but it made all the difference. It was like the world we knew vanished before our eyes. People became mean and rude for what seemed like no reason.

But looking back, I think it was fear. Everyone just wanted something—anything—they could control. A place that felt safe.

While the world panicked under a double pandemic—Covid, that beast right there in your face that you had no idea which way it would attack, and Hysteria, the silent rogue creeping in from the shadows—I stayed still, battling my own fears.

Even though I was stocked, prepared, trained—it only provided the illusion of calm. A false sense of control.

I knew it. But I leaned on it anyway.

Because sometimes pretending you’re okay is the only way to survive long enough to actually be okay.

But I’ve been here before—in a different kind of war.

In battle, I was surrounded by people who didn’t just know how to survive. We knew what it took to live—no matter how damn hard it got.

That kind of clarity doesn’t leave you. It changes how you move through silence, how you handle fear, how you hold yourself when no one else is watching.

And because of the kind of isolation that comes with PTSD, I didn’t mind being cut off from people. If anything, it gave me space to finally look at my life without distraction.

I realized medication couldn’t fix everything. I had to put in the work. I had to face the demons—even when it felt like I was the demon.

It’s wild, the stories we tell ourselves about what happened to us. Over time, they twist. They shape how we react, instead of letting us respond.

I saw people pretend they were fine—but you could see the cracks.

You offer to help, because you know that darkness. You’ve walked alone in it. And you don’t want anyone else to be there if they’re not ready.

But the rub?

Sometimes, ready or not, you have to walk it anyway.

We’ve made strides in breaking the stigma around mental health. But no one wants to admit they need help—because no one wants to feel different. Or maybe the better word is broken.

But here’s the truth:

It’s okay to be broken. Everyone is. Some more, some less—but broken just the same.

And so we cope. We sip something, cry in the car, buy stuff we don’t need, gamble what we shouldn’t, scroll endlessly, smile when it’s easier than explaining.

All of it—just trying to hold the pieces together.

The world is big. So vast. And we are connected in so many different ways.

So I have to ask—why do we live it so small?

Speak your truth. As Uncle Walt said: sound your barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.

You never know when your words will reach someone at just the right moment—when they need it most—to begin to heal.

We are not alone.

How Not to Lose My Mind by 6 A.M.

2025/04/01Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1895, life, mental health, mindfulness, personal essay, personal-growth, self-care, writers on writing, writing4 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What are your morning rituals? What does the first hour of your day look like?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

My cat is my alarm clock. Not metaphorically — literally. She’s the first thing I hear every morning, howling like she’s been abandoned in a void, despite living a life of uninterrupted luxury.

There’s no snooze button, no soft chime, no graceful start. Just claws on the floor, judgment in her eyes, and a relentless demand for breakfast.

So I get up. Not because I’m ready to greet the day, but because feline terrorism leaves no room for negotiation.

I feed her. I grind the coffee. These are the sacred rites of passage — the steps that transform me from a disoriented gremlin into someone who can form sentences.

If anything delays this ritual, I take it personally.
Why are you playing with my emotions? Who told you this was cool?

Once caffeine levels are in the green and nicotine’s holding the line — check, check — and the cat has retreated to whatever sun-drenched corner she’s claimed, I begin the real work: protecting my peace.

And look — I didn’t arrive at this approach because I’m naturally serene or some monk-in-disguise.

I got here because of the life I’ve lived. Because of the dents.
Because there are days when my mind goes rogue and starts offering me metaphorical jackets with buckles on the back.

“Give that a new coat,” it says. “It’s very nice. Leather straps. Fastens in the back. Do you want a new coat, Mr. Khan?”

And I answer like I’m seriously weighing the options.

“If you’re good, we’ve got lime Jello for you… You like lime, don’t you?”

And lime Jello is the truth. You don’t mess with lime.
Last time I cut up? They gave me lemon. No one likes lemon Jello.

That’s just mean. Downright mean.

So yeah, I’ve had to learn how to manage my mind, not just for peace — but for survival.

Calm isn’t some Instagram aesthetic for me. It’s a lifeline.
A way to keep the louder voices quiet and the darkness at bay.

That’s why I keep close something Alan Watts once said:

“Muddy water is best cleared by leaving it alone.
What we see as a clear mind is not the result of frantic activity.
It is clear as the morning, not because we scrubbed the sky, but because we left it alone.”

That line sticks with me because it echoes something ancient — something every major religion or philosophy seems to touch on:

The idea of inner stillness.
Of knowing yourself before engaging with the noise of the world.

In Sufism, Rumi wrote:

“There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen.”

In Buddhism, from the Dhammapada:

“Better than a thousand hollow words is one word that brings peace.”

And from the Bible, in Psalms:

“Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)

Different traditions. Same thread.
Peace isn’t something you chase. It’s something you uncover — when you get quiet enough.

That’s what I’m after each morning.

Some days it’s just coffee and silence.
Other days, a bit of journaling or staring into the void like it owes me money.

The practice doesn’t matter as much as the pause. The space.
The reminder that I get to choose how I show up — even if some days, that choice takes everything I’ve got.

But some mornings, I skip it.
The ritual. The silence. The pause.

Maybe I oversleep.
Maybe I pick up my phone before I breathe.
Maybe I think, “I’m fine, I don’t need it today.”

That’s the trap.
(Cue Admiral Ackbar voice: “It’s a trap!” — and yes, it absolutely plays in my head every time I skip my rituals like I’m going to be fine.)

Because when I skip my rituals, life turns to quicksand.
And no one’s coming to save me.

There’s no helpful rope, no dramatic movie rescue.
Just me, slowly sinking, pretending I can claw my way out of the churn.

I’m three seconds from a panic attack — except it doesn’t always look like panic.

Sometimes it’s quiet.
Like holding your breath without realizing it.
Like being trapped inside a breathless gasp, chained in place by something invisible.

A prison with no walls, but no doors either.

The anxiety doesn’t fade. It just lingers. Constant hum, just under the skin.
Everything feels urgent. Every noise too loud. Every thought too fast.

I forget what I was doing mid-sentence. I lose time. I react instead of respond.

And the worst part?
I can’t tell if it’s me or the world — and at that point, it doesn’t matter.

But I have to remember — the power to escape is within.

Not in some motivational-poster way.
Not in the “just breathe and manifest your peace” kind of way.

I mean that literally.

The same rituals I sometimes skip — the breath, the stillness, the silence, the coffee, the pause — they’re the tools.

The rope in the quicksand.
The key to the prison that looks like it has no door.

I have to choose to reach for them. Even when I don’t feel like it.
Especially then.

It’s not about fixing everything in that moment.

It’s about reclaiming one inch of space.
One breath. One clear thought.

Enough to remind myself that I’m not just a body riding out the chaos —
I’m a person with the ability to shift, to respond, to say:
“Not today. We’re not drowning today.”

A new pot sputters.
Serenity in a sip.

The cat breathes easy on her perch beside me, no longer screaming like the world’s on fire.
She’s fed. I’m fed — in my own way.

My eyes open each day at 5 a.m. Not by choice, but by necessity.
That’s when the mind starts. That’s when the first storm rolls in from the backcountry of my brain.

I wade through the madness in the regions of my mind, step by step, breath by breath.
No armor. Just ritual.

This — the coffee, the quiet, the stillness — this is how I survive myself.

I use these rituals to breathe.
To feel.
To live.

It’s 6 a.m.

You’re Not Just One Thing

2025/03/31Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1894, life, mental health, personal-growth, self reflection, self-discovery, self-improvement, The Daily's, writing23 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Which aspects do you think makes a person unique?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

We hear it all the time—be yourself, own your story, embrace what makes you different. But underneath all the self-help slogans lies a tougher set of questions:

What actually makes a person unique?
Do we truly want to be different—or has “being unique” just become another trend to follow?

In a world where authenticity is marketed, curated, and hashtagged, it’s easy to confuse standing out with just fitting into a different mold. Sometimes, the pressure to be different starts to feel like pressure to be the same kind of different as everyone else.

And if your values or beliefs don’t match the current narrative? Suddenly, you’re not seen as “authentic”—you’re outdated. It’s become almost unpopular to carry forward ideas from previous generations, even if they still ring true for you.

So maybe the better question is this: What genuinely sets someone apart—not just on the surface, but underneath?

Let’s break it down.

It’s Not Just Traits—It’s the Mix

We like to think people are unique because of specific traits—talent, personality, interests, quirks. But that’s only part of the story. Lots of people are funny. Lots of people are driven. Lots of people love photography, or books, or fitness, or whatever else fills their feed.

What actually makes someone unique isn’t what they have—it’s how it all comes together.

Think about it—we’ve got all these phrases and ideals that define what’s considered attractive or impressive: “She’s out of my league,” “He’s the total package,” “Tall, dark, and yummy.” But what makes someone stand out isn’t universal. It’s a matter of perspective—and perspective is as unique as the person doing the observing.

Two women can look at the same man and see completely different things. One might be drawn to his confidence. The other might notice the way he listens. Sure, they might agree on some traits, but certain qualities hit differently for each of them. The same goes for men looking at women. It’s not just about who someone is, but how they’re seen.

That’s the thing about uniqueness—it’s not just defined by the individual. It’s also shaped by how others experience them.

What Actually Makes Someone Unique?

If it’s not just traits or appearances, then what does shape a person’s uniqueness?

Here’s the real mix:

1. Life Experiences
Where you’ve been and what you’ve been through leaves a mark. Not just the big, dramatic moments—but the subtle stuff, too. The way you were raised, the schools you went to, the losses you’ve dealt with, the opportunities you got—or didn’t get. Two people can share the same background on paper and still have completely different stories because the details matter. How you felt in those moments, what you took from them—that’s what shapes you.

“We are not the same person we were a year ago, a month ago, or a week ago. We’re constantly evolving.” – Bob Dylan

2. Values and Beliefs
What do you care about? What would you stand up for—or walk away from? Your internal compass, even if it evolves over time, sets you apart. Especially when you’re not afraid to hold onto a belief that’s no longer trendy or socially rewarded.

But here’s the thing—our values don’t come out of thin air. They’re shaped by what we’ve lived through. The hard lessons, the turning points, the people who’ve impacted us (for better or worse)—they all influence what we believe is right, what we think matters, and what we refuse to compromise on.

“Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice.” – Steve Jobs

3. Perspective
You and someone else could be in the same room, hearing the same words, living through the same event—and walk away with two completely different takeaways. That’s perspective. It’s built on your experiences, your beliefs, and your personality. It’s what makes your voice different when you tell a story, give advice, or solve a problem. It’s the lens through which you see the world, and no one else has that exact lens.

“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” – Anaïs Nin

4. Habits and Patterns
It’s easy to overlook, but the way you move through daily life says a lot. How you react to stress. How you celebrate wins. Whether you overthink or dive in headfirst. How you communicate. How you rest. These patterns—formed over time through repetition, trauma, trial and error—become part of your personal rhythm. And even if they seem small, they help define how others experience you.

“First we make our habits, then our habits make us.” – Charles C. Noble

5. Choices
This is where it all comes together. Every day, you make choices—what to do with your time, who to keep close, what to speak up about, what to ignore. And over time, those decisions stack up and start to shape the path you’re on. Some people let life decide for them. Others step in and make intentional moves. Either way, your choices are the clearest expression of who you are—and who you’re becoming.

“You are free to choose, but you are not free from the consequences of your choice.” – Anonymous

The Myth of a Fixed Identity

We act like identity is something you’re born with. Like it’s a fixed list of traits you carry for life: shy or outgoing, creative or logical, introvert or extrovert. But real life doesn’t work like that.

People change.

And not just in surface-level ways. The core of who you are—your beliefs, your boundaries, your goals—can shift over time. Sometimes because of trauma. Sometimes because of growth. Sometimes because you simply outgrow the story you’ve been telling yourself.

The idea that there’s one “real you” hiding somewhere, waiting to be discovered, is a nice thought. But it’s not that simple. You don’t find yourself—you build yourself. Bit by bit. Choice by choice. Day by day.

“The self is not something ready-made, but something in continuous formation through choice of action.” – John Dewey

So if you feel like you’re changing, evolving, rethinking things—that’s not a crisis of identity. That’s you becoming more you.

Why This Matters in Real Life

All this talk about uniqueness isn’t just for introspection or personality quizzes. It has real weight in how you live.

Knowing what makes you unique helps you stop chasing someone else’s version of success. You stop comparing yourself to people who are on completely different paths. You start making decisions that actually align with you—not just what looks good on paper or plays well on social media.

It also changes how you connect with others. When you understand that everyone’s shaped by a different mix of experience, values, and perspective, you build empathy. You listen differently. You judge less. You become more curious and less quick to assume.

And here’s the kicker: knowing your own uniqueness helps you spot your strengths—even the ones you didn’t know you had. The way you solve problems. The way you see people. The way you stay calm under pressure. These things might feel ordinary to you, but they’re often what make you valuable to others.

“Too many people overvalue what they are not and undervalue what they are.” – Malcolm Forbes

So this isn’t just about self-discovery—it’s about self-awareness that leads to better choices, stronger relationships, and a life that feels more like yours.

Final Thoughts

All of this is easier said than done. Truth is, no matter how open-minded we are or how willing we are to stand out from the crowd, life has a way of pulling us back into old habits. Not because we’re ignorant. Not because we think those habits are right. We go back because they feel safe.

Comfort is familiar. Change isn’t.

And sometimes, even the most self-aware people still choose the version of themselves that feels known—even if it’s smaller than who they’re becoming.

“Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.” – Oscar Wilde

So yes, being unique takes effort. It takes intention. But the point isn’t to be different for the sake of it—it’s to be honest about who you are, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s uncomfortable.

That’s what makes someone truly stand out.

Masterpiece Monday

2025/03/10Posted in Portrait of the DayTagged AI Generated Images, Art Therapy, Masterpiece Monday, mental health, Mental Wellness, photo editing, Portrait of the Day, POTDLeave a comment

Small Scene Addiction

2024/11/06Posted in Articles, The Daily'sTagged Addiction, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2114, HEALTH, mental health, social-media, technology, writingLeave a comment

Daily writing prompt

How do you manage screen time for yourself?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Several years ago, I posted the following somewhere on one of my socials.

“Curb your addiction; Netflix is not a lifestyle.”

I said this because, at the time, Netflix was the hottest new thing. I believe we should read and spend with our families instead of having faces glued to a screen. It remains my opinion on the matter. However, the current trends and versatility of mobile devices aren’t lost on me. I read the other day and posted on this blog every day for over six months. Looking back at that period, I realize it was done using one of my mobile devices.

My preferences are my desktop for any major creative endeavor, such as video or photo editing, and my laptop when I’m writing fiction. One can’t go anywhere without observing someone lost on their screens. I suppose it is the way of the world, as they say. However, I was amazed when I discovered that someone studied this behavior and named it. It’s called Small Screen Addiction.

Here are the particulars:

Understanding Small Screen Addiction

Overview of the Issue:

Small screen addiction, often referred to as screen dependency disorder, is a growing concern among children and adolescents. This phenomenon encompasses excessive use of devices such as smartphones, tablets, and computers, leading to compulsive behaviors that can negatively impact mental and physical health. As technology becomes increasingly integrated into daily life, understanding the implications of screen addiction is crucial for parents, educators, and health professionals.

Extent of Screen Addiction:

Research indicates that a significant number of young people exhibit signs of screen addiction. A 2021 survey by Common Sense Media revealed that 75% of teenagers felt compelled to respond immediately to notifications, while another study found that teens checked their smartphones a median of 51 times per day. Symptoms of screen addiction include preoccupation with screens, withdrawal symptoms when not using devices, and a loss of interest in activities previously enjoyed. The American Academy of Pediatrics has raised alarms about the detrimental effects of excessive screen time on children’s development and well-being.

Mental and Physical Health Consequences:

The consequences of small screen addiction are multifaceted. Physically, children may experience issues such as insomnia, back pain, vision problems, and headaches due to prolonged screen exposure. Psychologically, increased screen time is linked to higher rates of anxiety, depression, and social isolation. Studies have shown that children who spend excessive time gaming or on social media are at greater risk for mental health issues. Furthermore, the addictive nature of screens can disrupt normal brain development in children, affecting areas responsible for impulse control and empathy.

Behavioral Indicators:

Parents and guardians should be vigilant for signs that may indicate a child is struggling with screen addiction. Key indicators include:

Preoccupation with screens: Constantly thinking about or planning to use devices.
Withdrawal symptoms: Experiencing irritability or anxiety when unable to access screens.
Loss of interest in other activities: Neglecting hobbies or interests that do not involve screens.
Aggressive behavior: Increased irritability or aggression when screen time is limited.

Strategies for MitigationTo combat small screen addiction, experts recommend several strategies:

Establish Screen Time Limits: Setting clear boundaries on daily screen usage can help manage exposure.
Encourage Alternative Activities: Promoting physical activities or hobbies that do not involve screens can foster healthier habits.
Model Healthy Behavior: Parents should demonstrate balanced screen use to set a positive example for children.
Utilize Technology Mindfully: Encourage mindful engagement with technology using apps that track usage and promote breaks.

When reading this information, I was taken back primarily by the initial data focusing on the small-scene addiction effect on children. It makes me want to visit all the grandchildren and snatch their phones away. “Gave a damn book!” I see myself yelling in my rant. Of course, my grandchildren would look at me and wonder what Peepaw was going on as they glanced up from their screens. I’d have no hope of assistance from my children because they would wonder about the recipe, outfit, and lifestyle of a person they haven’t a clue about.

However, this got me wondering about the effects of small-screen addiction in adults. Here’s what I found.

Physical Health Effects

Eye Strain and Vision Problems

Prolonged screen use can cause digital eye strain, leading to symptoms like dry eyes, blurred vision, and headaches.
Excessive screen time may increase the risk of myopia (nearsightedness).

Musculoskeletal Issues

Poor posture from prolonged screen use can result in neck, shoulder, and back pain.
Repetitive motions can lead to conditions like carpal tunnel syndrome.

Sleep Disruption

Blue light emitted by screens can interfere with melatonin production, disrupting natural sleep cycles.
This can lead to insomnia and poor sleep quality.

Sedentary Lifestyle

Excessive screen time often correlates with reduced physical activity, potentially contributing to obesity and related health issues.

Mental Health Effects

Anxiety and Depression

Studies have shown a link between excessive screen time and increased risks of anxiety and depression in adults.

Cognitive Changes

Screen addiction can lead to structural changes in the brain, particularly in the frontal lobe, affecting attention span, decision-making, and emotional control.

Social Isolation

Excessive screen use can lead to withdrawal from real-world social interactions, potentially causing feelings of loneliness and social isolation.

Stress and Mood Disturbances

Constant connectivity and information overload can increase stress levels.
Compulsive checking of devices can lead to mood swings and irritability.

Reduced Productivity

Screen addiction can interfere with work performance and daily responsibilities.

Attention and Focus Issues

Frequent multitasking across devices can lead to difficulty maintaining focus and reduced cognitive control.

Other Effects

Dopamine Feedback Loop

Screen use can activate the brain’s dopamine reward system, creating addictive patterns similar to substance addictions.

Altered Brain Chemistry

Prolonged screen addiction can potentially alter brain chemistry and structure, affecting areas responsible for cognitive control and emotional regulation.

Well damn! This is the only thing I could say after reading this data. Excuse me while I charge my phone and iPad and process this data.

I’m Richer than I’ve Ever Been

2024/10/062024/10/06Posted in The Daily'sTagged blogging, creative writing, Dailyprompt 2082, life, mental health, poetry, Sufism, writing1 Comment

Daily writing prompt

What would you do if you lost all your possessions?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

This question reminds me of times when I was a youngster. I remember those horrible confrontations about stealing something; you have no idea what the other person was talking about. That special toy or prized possession has mysteriously vanished, and the only logical explanation is that you stole it. It doesn’t matter how much you profess your innocence; the injured party is convinced. Friendships are destroyed over something that may have cost less than five dollars. The battle between them is bad enough, but when the parents got involved, the issue seemed to be about something other than the vanished item.

I wish this scenario I described was limited to childhood, but sadly, it isn’t. I’ve seen longtime friends destroyed over something like this. I’ve seen people beaten over the loss of possessions. The strangest thing is that most of the time, vanished items either turn up or are taken by someone other than the accused. However, the damage has already been done. Some relationships recover, but they never were like they were before. That’s true, the actual loss… the friendship.

I’ve learned this concept through my own loss. I’ve lost all my possessions several times over the years. Some items aren’t replaceable. I can say honestly that losing some of these items was very painful. I remember a friend was Native American, he carried a leather pouch filled with pebbles. There wasn’t anything special about those pebbles that I could see. However, one day, I asked him about it. I was curious. Other friends told me to mine my own business. So, I dropped it.

At the time, I carried something from each of my children in a zip-lock bag. During the quiet moments, I would pull them out, look at them, and remember what I was fighting for; every mile I walked, every sleepless night, and the duties performed for God and Country so my family could have a better life. I believed that. It’s what held me together. I did this privately. One of those moments, my friend came and sat next to them. He was quiet for a long time. We just sat in the peace of the moment.

After a while, he pulled his pouch from his hip and began to tell me about it. He said each pebble contained a memory of an event that happened in his life. I listened with a perplexed expression. He smiled and said, “Dick Tracy”. I was holding a Dick Tracy trading card in my hand. My youngest daughter had given it to me before deployment. Then I got it.

Throughout my studies, I have learned a great deal about spirituality. I came across this passage some time ago, and it is relevant to this prompt:

Ibrahim Adham said, “Faith in God will be firmly established if three veils are cast aside:

“Feeling pleasure in possessing anything;
“Lamenting over the loss of anything;
“Enjoying self-praise.”

al-Ghazzali

Fadiman, James. Essential Sufism (p. 173). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Living up to this philosophy is very difficult. I struggle with it constantly. However, I still maintain the possessions that mean the most to me. These are the relationships I have developed over the years. Most material things can be replaced. Each person we interact with is unique, and our relationships with them are also exceptional. As I’ve said, I have had to rebuild several times. It’s hard work and not fun, but it can be done if you’re still breathing. Because life is our most important possession. The relationships you develop within that lifetime can be the difference between living and existing. Because of this, I’m richer than I’ve ever been.

But, Of Course

2024/05/22Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1946, journal, journaling, mental health, personal-growth, Random Thoughts, The Daily's, writing6 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Do you have any collections?

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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

I have several collections of various things that captured my interest over the years. I could go on about my book, music, or my hard drives filled with unsorted data to be used at some unspecified time. No data is bad data. However, I have a collection that may be a tad unusual. To the point of interesting in a peculiar way.

Unintentionally, I began to collect unused journals. There are of various sizes and types. This collection started by accident. One of those collections that just appear, and you don’t realize you started until you do.

If you ask me there something with each of these journals. Either it’s the binding, the paper, the size, or a combination of everything. I’ve actually found a few of these journals that could work in a pinch, but they didn’t work with my pen rotation. Now, I when hear a writer begin discussing pen and paper combinations, they have a became a pretentious dick. I’m fully aware that I fit this category. I’m okay with it. I’ve even this excuse for not writing. Yep, I’m that guy.

However, because of my oddity, I learned how to make own journals. Just when you think it can’t get any worse. I can’t write on anything lighter than 24lbs paper. Don’t let me get started on the proper pen rotation. We don’t have enough time for the rant that ensue from my dissatisfaction of inferior writing instruments of today. I find myself pondering with the following query “why?”

Enough of that, I have another collection I’d like to share this evening. I’ve been painstakingly assembling for decades. It’s my annuals of “Weak Ass Excuses for not Writing.” I assure you it is quite impressive. There are several volumes of horseshit. I thump through from time to time for giggles.

I Don’t Have Time for This … I’m a Grown @$$ Man.

2024/01/02Posted in The Daily'sTagged bloganuary, bloganuary-2024-02, creativity, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1805, HEALTH, mental health, play, The Daily's14 Comments

Do you play in your daily life? What says “playtime” to you?

While working on my undergraduate degree, I had the Psychology of Play course. I immediately tried to drop the course as a grown-ass man; I had no time for play. The idea was ridiculous. The whole affair was an utter waste of time. It was a required course, so I had no choice but to complete this buffoonery. Over the preceding weeks, I actually learned a great deal about “play,” and the only buffoon; was me.

Play is a fundamental aspect of human behavior that has intrigued psychologists for decades. From childhood to adulthood, play serves various purposes and significantly impacts our mental and emotional well-being.

The Benefits of Play

Play is not just a frivolous activity; it serves several important purposes. One of the primary benefits of play is its role in promoting cognitive development. When we engage in play, our brains are actively processing information, problem-solving, and enhancing our creativity. Play provides:

A stimulating environment for learning and exploration.
Allowing us to develop essential cognitive skills such as problem-solving.
Critical thinking.
Decision-making.

Moreover, play also aids in the development of social skills. Through play, we have interaction, cooperation, and conflict-resolution opportunities. Whether playing team sports, engaging in cooperative board games, or participating in imaginative play, we learn how to communicate effectively, work together, negotiate, and compromise. These social skills acquired through play are crucial for building and maintaining relationships in childhood and adulthood.

Play as a Stress Reliever

Play has the remarkable ability to alleviate stress and promote relaxation. When we immerse ourselves in play through sports, games, or hobbies, our minds focus on the present moment, diverting attention from daily worries and concerns. This mental shift allows us to recharge, reduce anxiety, and improve our overall mood.

Engaging in play also activates the release of endorphins, commonly known as “feel-good” hormones, which further contribute to stress reduction and a sense of well-being. The enjoyment and pleasure derived from play can act as a natural antidote to the pressures and demands of everyday life, providing us with a much-needed escape and a sense of rejuvenation.

The Therapeutic Power of Play

In recent years, psychologists have recognized the therapeutic potential of play. Play therapy has emerged as a valuable tool in helping individuals, particularly children, express their emotions, cope with traumatic experiences, and develop problem-solving skills. Playing allows individuals to explore difficult situations in a safe and non-threatening environment, leading to emotional healing and personal growth.

Play therapy allows individuals to communicate their thoughts and feelings symbolically, making expressing and processing complex emotions easier. Through play, children can act out scenarios, create narratives, and use various play materials to represent their experiences and emotions. This process helps them gain insight, develop coping strategies, and resolve their challenges. Play therapy can be a transformative experience, enabling individuals to overcome difficulties, build resilience, and improve their overall well-being.

Conclusion: Nurturing the Playful Spirit

In conclusion, the psychology of play reveals its profound impact on our lives. Play enriches our mental and emotional well-being, from cognitive development to stress relief and therapeutic benefits. As we navigate through the complexities of life, it is essential to nurture our playful spirit and make time for activities that bring us joy and fulfillment.

We should embrace play as an integral part of our lives, regardless of age or responsibilities. Whether it’s engaging in recreational activities, pursuing hobbies, or simply allowing ourselves to be spontaneous and playful in our daily lives, we can experience the transformative effects of play.

So, let us prioritize play, create opportunities for playfulness, and uncover the immense benefits it has to offer. We can enhance our cognitive abilities, strengthen social connections, reduce stress, and promote emotional well-being by fostering our playful spirit. Let play be a source of joy, creativity, and personal growth.

The Memory Palace

2023/12/27Posted in ArticlesTagged article, cognition, From the Stoop, HEALTH, learning, memory, mental health, writing3 Comments

As we get older, we often find we don’t remember things the way we used to. I asked a doctor once about my failing memory, and his response was less than gratifying. I’ve never been one who took sweeping generalizations seriously. Despite aging, several conditions have an impact on memory. I’ve listed a few.

Alzheimer’s disease is a progressive brain disorder that affects memory, thinking, and behavior.
Dementia is a general term for a decline in cognitive ability severe enough to interfere with daily life.
Mild cognitive impairment is a condition that involves a slight decline in cognitive abilities but is not severe enough to interfere with daily functioning.
Stroke occurs when the blood supply is disrupted to the brain, leading to damage in brain function, including memory.
Traumatic brain injury is a brain injury that occurs as a result of a blow or jolt to the head and can lead to various cognitive impairments, including memory problems.
Depression is a mood disorder that can affect memory and cognitive functioning.
Anxiety disorders are mental health conditions that can contribute to memory difficulties.

As a person living with PTSD, I have issues with my short-term memory. Through researching the different conditions that affect my memory, I discovered several techniques that can assist with any memory issues one may be experiencing. One of the techniques I found that sounded sort of cool was a technique called a Memory Palace. Let’s take a look at an overview of the technique.

Memory Palace, also known as the Method of Loci, is a powerful technique used for centuries to enhance memory and recall. This technique involves creating a mental map or imaginary location, such as a house or a palace, and associating each piece of information with a specific location within that space. Individuals can effectively store and retrieve vast amounts of data by visualizing and navigating through this memory palace.

History of the Memory Palace Technique

The Memory Palace technique dates back to ancient Greece and Rome, where orators and scholars widely used it to memorize speeches, poems, and other important information. The Roman orator Cicero popularized the method, who believed associating ideas with vivid mental images created a lasting impression in the mind. This technique has been employed by many notable figures throughout history, including Aristotle, Sherlock Holmes, and even modern memory champions. Understanding the historical roots of the Memory Palace technique provides insight into its longevity and effectiveness as a memory enhancement tool.

How the Memory Palace Technique Works

The Memory Palace technique leverages the brain’s ability to remember spatial information. It capitalizes on the fact that our minds are naturally adept at recalling physical locations and their details. By mentally placing pieces of information in specific locations within a familiar or imagined space, we create a structured and organized system for storing and retrieving information. The process involves choosing a memory palace, mentally walking through it, and associating data with different locations. This technique allows readily recalling stored information by navigating through the memory palace. Understanding the inner workings of the Memory Palace technique helps individuals grasp its effectiveness and apply it to their own memory improvement goals.

Applications of the Memory Palace Technique

The Memory Palace technique has a wide range of applications and can enhance memory in various areas of life. Students can utilize this technique to remember complex subjects, such as history timelines or scientific formulas. Professionals can employ it to remember important details for presentations or speeches, ensuring a confident and accurate delivery. The Memory Palace technique can also improve language learning, memorizing scripts for acting or public speaking, or even remembering a grocery list. The versatility of the Memory Palace technique makes it applicable to various fields and everyday life scenarios.

Benefits of the Memory Palace Technique

The Memory Palace technique offers several benefits for memory improvement. Firstly, it provides a structured and organized system for storing and retrieving information, making it easier to recall. Individuals create strong mental connections that aid in memory retention by associating information with specific locations within a memory palace. Additionally, the visualization and navigation involved in the Memory Palace technique engage multiple senses, further enhancing memory and recall. This technique also promotes creativity and imagination, as individuals create vivid mental images to associate with the information they want to remember. Lastly, the Memory Palace technique is a practical and effective approach to enhancing cognitive abilities, regardless of age or educational background.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the Memory Palace technique is powerful for enhancing memory and recall. Its historical roots, working principles, applications, and benefits highlight its effectiveness as a memory enhancement technique. By leveraging the brain’s natural ability to remember spatial information, individuals can create a mental map that serves as a structured system for storing and retrieving information. Whether you are a student, professional, or simply looking to improve your memory, the Memory Palace technique offers a practical and effective approach to enhancing your cognitive abilities. Embrace the power of the Memory Palace and unlock your full memory potential.

If you find yourself or someone close to you experiencing cognitive issues, please seek assistance from a healthcare professional.

Cradled

2023/09/212023/12/26Posted in PoetryTagged creative writing, daily exercise, mental health, poetry, Random Thoughts, writingLeave a comment

POETRY – iNTROSPECTION

Cradled within a chair,
For I am soothed and warmed by life’s mystical treasures.
As I turn the pages of time’s forgiving grace.

Dyslexia: Understanding and Overcoming Challenges

2023/09/192023/12/26Posted in ArticlesTagged article, dyslexia, From the Stoop, mental health7 Comments

When I first heard the word Dyslexia, I didn’t understand what it meant. Oh, I’ve always been able to define the term. Yet, my understanding was rudimentary. It wasn’t until I had a conversation with someone who lives with the condition that I gained a better undestanding of the condition. As I researched the content of this article I still found my understanding to be lacking. There are so many different dynamics to the condition. Let’s get into it.

Dyslexia is a complex learning disorder affecting individuals’ reading, writing, and spelling ability. It is important to note that Dyslexia is not a reflection of intelligence or effort but rather a neurological condition requiring support and understanding. Dyslexia can be hereditary, making recognizing and supporting those with it important. They may also need help with memory, time management, and understanding jokes and idioms. Today, I want to examine the signs and symptoms, the diagnosis process, available support, effective coping strategies, and types of the condition. This information is only an overview and not meant to replace professional assistance.

Signs and Symptoms

Recognizing the signs and symptoms of Dyslexia is crucial for early identification and intervention. Some common indicators of Dyslexia include:

Difficulty in Reading: Individuals with Dyslexia often struggle with word recognition and decoding. They may need help reading fluently and require extra time to process written information.
Spelling Difficulties: Dyslexia can also manifest as spelling difficulties. Individuals may need help spelling words correctly and may rely on phonetic spelling or guesswork.
Writing and Organizational Challenges: Expressing thoughts and ideas in writing can be challenging for people with Dyslexia. They may struggle with organizing their thoughts on paper and find it difficult to write coherently.
Understanding and Following Instructions: Dyslexia can impact an individual’s ability to understand and follow instructions. Impairing their ability to perform daily tasks that require following directions.
Sequencing and Memory Difficulties: Individuals with Dyslexia may struggle with sequencing and remembering information, affecting their ability to comprehend and recall details in academic and everyday settings.

Diagnosis and Support

Diagnosing Dyslexia involves comprehensive evaluations conducted by professionals trained in learning disabilities. These evaluations assess reading and writing abilities and cognitive processes related to language and literacy skills. Early diagnosis and intervention are crucial for providing appropriate support and strategies to help individuals with Dyslexia succeed academically and in other areas of life.

Support for individuals with Dyslexia may include:

Multisensory Instruction Techniques: These techniques engage multiple senses, such as sight, sound, and touch, to reinforce learning and improve reading and writing skills.
Assistive Technologies: Various assistive technologies, such as text-to-speech software or speech recognition tools, can assist individuals with Dyslexia in accessing and processing written information.
Individualized Education Plans: Individualized education plans (IEPs) are customized objectives outlining specific accommodations, modifications, and goals for students.
Reading Intervention Programs: Reading intervention programs focus on improving reading skills, comprehension, and fluency. These programs may include specialized techniques and strategies tailored to the needs of individuals with Dyslexia.

Coping Strategies

While Dyslexia presents challenges, individuals with Dyslexia can develop various coping strategies to manage their difficulties and enhance their reading and writing skills. Some effective coping strategies include:

Breaking Down Words: Breaking down words into smaller parts can make them more manageable for individuals with Dyslexia. This technique helps improve word recognition and decoding abilities.
Visual Aids and Color-Coding: Visual aids, such as charts, diagrams, and color-coding, can enhance understanding and retention of information. Using colors to highlight important concepts or organize ideas can be particularly helpful.
Practicing Reading Aloud: Reading aloud helps individuals with Dyslexia improve their reading fluency and comprehension. This practice allows them to hear the words and sentences, reinforcing their understanding.
Utilizing Assistive Technology Tools: Assistive technology tools, such as speech-to-text software or digital spell-checkers, can assist individuals with Dyslexia in writing and editing tasks.
Seeking Support: Seeking support from teachers, peers, and family members is essential for individuals with Dyslexia. Encouragement, understanding, and assistance can create a supportive environment that fosters growth and success.

Types of Dyslexia

Dyslexia can manifest in different ways, and there are various types of Dyslexia that individuals may experience.

Phonological Dyslexia is the most common type of Dyslexia. Individuals with this type of Dyslexia have difficulty connecting sounds to letters or groups of letters. They may struggle with phonemic awareness, which is the ability to identify and manipulate individual sounds in words. Phonological Dyslexia can make it challenging for individuals to sound out words, decode unfamiliar terms, and spell accurately.
Surface Dyslexia involves individuals having difficulty recognizing words as whole units. Individuals with this type of Dyslexia may struggle with sight word recognition, which can impact reading fluency. They may rely heavily on decoding strategies and work with irregularly spelled words. Surface dyslexia often coexists with phonological Dyslexia.
Rapid Naming Dyslexia, or rapid automatized naming deficit, involves difficulties in quickly naming or retrieving familiar objects or symbols. Individuals with this type of Dyslexia may have trouble with fluency and speed in reading and writing tasks. They may experience delays in processing visual information and struggle with word retrieval.
Visual Dyslexia, also called visual processing disorder, relates to difficulties in processing and interpreting visual information. Individuals with visual Dyslexia may experience challenges in recognizing and differentiating letters, numbers, or symbols. They may have trouble with visual tracking, affecting reading comprehension and fluency.
Attentional Dyslexia is associated with difficulties sustaining attention and focus during reading tasks. Individuals with this type of Dyslexia may find it challenging to stay engaged while reading, leading to decreased comprehension and slower reading speed. Attentional Dyslexia is often seen in individuals with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).It is important to remember that these types of Dyslexia are not mutually exclusive, and individuals with Dyslexia may exhibit a combination of these difficulties. Additionally, the severity of Dyslexia can vary from person to person.Understanding the different types of Dyslexia can help educators, parents, and individuals with Dyslexia develop appropriate strategies and interventions to support reading and learning. By recognizing individuals’ specific challenges, we can create an inclusive and supportive environment that empowers individuals with Dyslexia to reach their full potential.If you or someone you know struggles with Dyslexia, remember that resources, support networks, and interventions are available to help. Together, we can break down barriers and promote a more inclusive society for individuals with Dyslexia.

Dyslexia in Adults: Symptoms, Treatments, and More

Dyslexia and ADHD: Know What to Do When They Happen Together

Conclusion

Dyslexia is a unique learning disorder requiring understanding and support. By raising awareness about Dyslexia and providing the necessary resources, we can empower individuals with Dyslexia to reach their full potential. Remember, Dyslexia doesn’t define a person’s intelligence or capabilities. With the proper support, interventions, and strategies, individuals with Dyslexia can succeed in various areas of life and contribute their unique talents to the world.

Skywriting – 090120231253

2023/09/01Posted in ProseTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2036, Introspection, mental health, Prose, self awareness, writing5 Comments

What motivates you?

PROSE – INTROSPECTION

I sit thinking about the question before me. As usual, I overthink everything. Qualification is a necessity before answering the simplest question: insanity, a worthy description of my state of being and actions. I believe I’m slow dancing on the edge, but I’m drowning in the middle of an abyss I conjured.

The only thing that keeps me going is my grit. My ability to withstand all I subject myself to. No person has the power to affect you unless you allow them to. Yes, the power they have over you was gifted to them by you. I know, right? That’s the rub. Understanding this concept is the easy part.

Regaining your power won’t be easy. It may be the hardest thing we have to do.

Learn to swim …

I’ll see you in the deep end. I’ll be the guy struggling just like you.

My Unspoken Charge

2023/08/152023/10/27Posted in The Daily'sTagged creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-2025, Introspection, mental health, Prose, reflection, writingLeave a comment

What is the most important thing to carry with you all the time?

PROSE – REFLECTION

On a table, items are lined up in a certain order. These are the things I take with me each day. The items on the table may change for time to time depending on what is in store for the day. However, there are certain things that I carry regardless.

To answer this question, I suppose line them up; spread them out, look at them individually making a determination of their importance. Then perhaps them in some sort of order. I’m not sure which sorting method I’m going to use, but that’s not what important at the moment.

If I know myself, I’d like to think I got a pretty good handle of who I am. Though I admit I surprise myself now and again. I’d asking the question, “How did things get this way?”

Now I know the purpose of every item on the table and why its there. My question of how? Is simply an exercise of gaining the understanding how these items became important enough to make to the table. If you look at it, something as simple of a yes or no could have altered the way I do things.

An altered decision of undefined place in time, could possibly alter the items on the table. A black pen could be blue, wristwatch instead of pocket watch, etc,. It’s becomes clear to me, none of the items on the table are that important. For they could be changed by answers to questions I didn’t know to ask.

So, what is my most important thing to carry with me daily?

My humanity

No matter what goes on, I still must be truest form of myself.

Be decent and kind,

Despite…
what is said
what is done

Despite …
what is felt
what is not

Despite…
pain
fear
hate
torment
agony

Joy

Yes, there’s joy
Love as well
Grace, compassion

I must stand and remain steady

This is my unspoken charge

Eastbound and Down

2023/06/262025/02/13Posted in The Daily'sTagged challenge, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1978, healing, inner peace, inspiration, mental health, Peaceful, Prose, Random Thoughts, self awareness, The Daily's, writing3 Comments

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.

Afternoon Reading

2023/06/24Posted in ArticlesTagged article, mental health, self awarenessLeave a comment

I found this article while browsing the web today … Check it out

www.thisiscalmer.com/blog/7-books-to-read-if-you-need-a-mental-health-boost

Trees – CBWC

2023/06/092023/06/24Posted in PhotographyTagged black & white, black and white photography, CBWC, Cee's Photo Challenge, daily exercise, mental health, Photography9 Comments

I’m continuing on my journey into Black & White Photography. I found this challenge last night at Cee’s Black and White Photo Challenge..

I found this tree on a walkabout. I found myself wanting to stick my hand in the hole. The only thing preventing this was the tree was too tall.

After this shot, I got tired and needed to sit down. I almost sat on here but looked down and saw its condition and snapped a shot instead.

I can’t remember where I was with this shot, but I think it’s a cool shot.

Water Birds – CBWC

2023/06/092023/06/08Posted in PhotographyTagged black and white photography, CBWC, Cee's Photo Challenge, daily exercise, mental health, photo editing8 Comments

As you know, I have been exploring the photography side of my creativity. Today, I discovered an old challenge concerning birds. So I pulled out some photos of water birds. Here’s my entry for Cee’s Black and White Photo Challenge

Me Scared? You Better Watch Your Mouth!

2023/06/052023/06/11Posted in ProseTagged challenge, creative writing, daily exercise, dailyprompt, dailyprompt-1957, fear, mental health, Prose, self awareness, writing7 Comments

What fears have you overcome and how?

I’ve spent most of my life conquering fear; at least, I thought so. As a child, we are taught to be tough and not be afraid of anything.

“Are you chicken?”

“What you yella?

Phrases like these quickly appear in my memory when I think of fear. I remember I wanted to be brave, strong, and courageous. For the most part, I feel I accomplished it on some level. I followed the rules and worked hard, volunteering for every crappy assignment to prove to myself and those around me that I feared nothing. Unwittingly, I was actually making a fool of myself. My friends and superiors felt my actions were to curry favor, not prove my courage.

One day in the barracks, I discovered this when I overheard some soldiers discussing my actions. There I was, staring into the face of what I believed to be my greatest fear, mockery. As this continued, I became numb to everything. My attitude damaged my relationship with my wife and children. I had no idea I was suffering from the effects of PTSD. To be honest, I’d never heard of it. Something I regret, I regret it still.

Tragedy and disappointment became my watchwords. However, facing death from something that didn’t carry a rifle became the catalyst of my new mindset. I realized something. I don’t control anything. Then I asked myself, “Why am I trying to conquer an emotion that innate.” So I began to embrace my fear. I took a decade digging into myself, trying to understand my fear. What I figured out was the following:

Once you begin to understand one’s fear, one realizes there is no shame in being afraid. It protects us; keeps us harm.

So, my greatest fear is I’m afraid of being afraid. How I conquered it? I didn’t. I embraced it. Once I accepted this concept, I began to find peace.

The Day I Lost My Courage

2023/06/042023/06/11Posted in ProseTagged cancer, creative writing, daily exercise, essays, mental health, self awareness, writing7 Comments

SHORT ESSAY – REFLECTION

I never dreamed I had what it took to become a writer. It was more than the usual self-doubt, more like an evaluation of my skills. My mastery of the language was smattering at best. Writing for myself was the only way to feel the joy I desperately desired. My sketches were rudimentary, but I still enjoyed the process occasionally. However, writing is the thing that gets my motor running, as they say. Even after becoming a widower, I kept writing; I began my first novel within the first month. Over the next three years, I took loss after loss. Though wretched like a tsunami with no quarter, I continued to write.

Despite all this tragedy, I created a poetry show and taught workshops about writing poetry. In many ways, my writing career had begun to take off. Then one day, I felt a little off. It felt different than previous experiences of this sort, so I went to the doctor. I was fully prepared to be told I was suffering from several underlining symptoms of my PTSD. It’s peculiar how once you have a diagnosis of something, it becomes the cause of EVERYTHING that ails you. However, today was different; the physician stated

“although unlikely, but it is probable.”

Really, bro? This is how you’re going to start things off? I screamed in my head but gave a tempered response, “I see; when will the test results return?”

A couple days later, I got the news. A confirmation of something I already knew to be true. The doctor had a lot to say, but the only thing I heard was

~You have Cancer~

He was still talking. Still, I heard nothing. Then, my once-decent vocabulary was reduced to one-syllable words.

“Well damn!”

“Fuck!”

“Okay, Okay”

“Fuck!”

The doctor finally stopped talking and ended the call. There was a numbness that took hold, and I can’t quite remember feeling much after that. It seemed as if this feeling was my permanent state for the next couple of years. Even through everything, I was just numb. I befriended people I would never have and shared things usually kept private.

It was as if I didn’t recognize myself. It was me talking to these strangers and sharing these private things. Something was wrong. It wasn’t just me, for I share the wisdom of their secrets in the lines I write. As if it is my duty or something I can’t quite name or describe, to share what is learned in the space between clarity and confusion.

Even now, years later, I can’t tell what I’ve learned. Perhaps, as I write these lines and others like them, lessons will become clear. It took me years to talk about my experience, years to write, and years to share.

I could talk about this experience forever; perhaps I will share more one day. However, for now, I’ll share my feelings about the news that day. Tell you how it stripped away my courage. Slowly tearing away the essence of my existence. I barely wrote a word after that. Somehow, I felt I’d had this coming. I deserved this fate.

Somedays, I hear the echoes of the haunting memories of that man. I’d love to say I’ve shed its torment and walked around free. That wouldn’t be honest. It took me years to regain my courage. With a bit of luck, I can maintain it. We all know luck is all a person needs if their courage holds.

~thank you for reading~

Let Me Tell You About

2023/05/302024/01/13Posted in PoetryTagged creative writing, daily exercise, mental health, poetry, self awareness, writing1 Comment

POETRY – INTROSPECTION

Let me tell you about
the man trapped inside
the one residing in the bowels of madness

His armor is rusted & dented
but his sword remains sharp
as he grips the hilt, he tastes
the blood of the unhealed wounds
beneath the scars

He’s been in that life for so long
he’s forgotten the other
yet, he wonders, if there’s something else
one day, I will tell him about peace.

~thank for you reading~

Memorial Day in Black & White

2023/05/292023/05/31Posted in Art, PhotographyTagged black & white, daily exercise, memorial day, mental health, Monochrome Madness, photo editing, Photography3 Comments

Today we honor the fallen; I observed them by teaching and passing on some of their lessons. Here are some photos of today’s shoot in black and white.

My grandson capturing a glimpse of the world.

Weekend Sky #1

2023/05/262023/11/05Posted in PhotographyTagged cellphone photography, mental health, nature, personal development, Photography, self awareness, Sky pictures, weekend sky3 Comments

For over a month, I have been admiring the posts concerning the Weekend Sky Challenge. I snapped a few with my phone. I’m unsure how the challenge works, but here is an attempt.

I caught this pic with my phone a couple Saturdays back.

A friend of mine suggested that I explore all my creative outlets. So I decided to pull out my camera and started snapping a few pictures. Art therapy is an excellent way to relieve stress. Mental health awareness is critical in society at the moment, and I don’t see an end anytime soon. Perhaps, you can start a hobby or return to an old one.

I hope my previous articles concerning mental health provided a little insight into a subject that seems to be touching us all in one way or another.

Coping Strategies for Anxiety

2023/05/262023/12/26Posted in ArticlesTagged Anxiety, coping skills, creative writing, mental health, mental health awareness month, mindfulness, writing2 Comments

Introduction

Anxiety is a normal part of life, and everyone experiences it at some point. However, when anxiety becomes excessive and starts interfering with daily activities, it can indicate an anxiety disorder. Anxiety disorders are among the most common mental health disorders affecting millions worldwide. The good news is that many coping strategies for anxiety can help individuals manage their symptoms and improve their quality of life.

In this blog post, we’ll discuss some of the most effective coping strategies for anxiety that you can implement today.

Practice Mindfulness

Mindfulness is a type of meditation that involves focusing on the present moment and accepting it without judgment. Studies have shown that practicing mindfulness can help reduce anxiety symptoms and improve overall well-being. Mindfulness can be practiced in many ways, including guided meditation, deep breathing exercises, or simply by paying attention to your thoughts and emotions.

One way to practice mindfulness is to set aside a few minutes daily to focus on your breath. Simply sit or lie down in a quiet place and pay attention to your breath as it enters and leaves your body. Whenever your mind starts to wander, gently bring it back to your breath. With regular practice, mindfulness can become a powerful tool for managing anxiety.

Get Enough Sleep

Sleep has a significant impact on mental health, and lack of sleep can exacerbate symptoms of anxiety. Getting enough sleep each night is essential to help manage anxiety symptoms. Adults should aim for at least 7-8 hours of sleep each night. Developing a consistent sleep schedule and creating a relaxing bedtime routine can also help improve sleep quality.

If you’re having trouble sleeping, there are several things you can try to help improve your sleep quality. Avoid caffeine and alcohol in the evenings, which can interfere with sleep. Ensure your bedroom is cool, dark, and quiet, and avoid using electronic devices in bed. If you continue having trouble sleeping, ask your doctor for additional guidance.

Exercise Regularly

Exercise is an effective coping strategy for anxiety as it helps to release endorphins, which are natural mood boosters. Regular exercise can also help reduce anxiety symptoms and improve overall physical health. It doesn’t have to be intense exercise; even light activities like walking or yoga can be helpful. Aim for at least 30 minutes of moderate exercise most days of the week.

If you’re new to exercise, start slowly and gradually increasing your workouts’ intensity and duration. Find an activity that you enjoy, such as dancing, hiking, or swimming, and make it a regular part of your routine. You’ll not only feel better physically, but you’ll also benefit mentally by reducing your anxiety symptoms.

Seek Professional Help

While these coping strategies can be effective, they may not be enough for everyone. If you’re struggling with anxiety, it’s important to seek professional help from a mental health professional. They can provide you with additional coping strategies and tools to manage your symptoms and offer support and guidance as you navigate your anxiety.

Several types of therapy may be helpful for anxiety, including cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT), which focuses on changing negative thought patterns, and exposure therapy, which helps individuals confront their fears in a safe and controlled environment. Your mental health professional can help you determine the type of therapy that is best for you.

Conclusion

Anxiety can be challenging to manage, but with the right coping strategies, it is possible to live a fulfilling and productive life. Mindfulness, sleep, exercise, and seeking professional help are just a few strategies to help individuals manage their anxiety symptoms. It’s essential to remember that everyone’s coping strategies may differ, and finding what works best for you is important. Don’t hesitate to ask for help if needed – remember that help is available, and you are not alone.

~thank you for reading~

Understanding Anxiety: Causes, Symptoms, and Coping Strategies

2023/05/242023/05/23Posted in ArticlesTagged Anxiety, creative writing, daily exercise, inner peace, mental health, mental health awareness month, writingLeave a comment

Anxiety is a common mental health issue affecting millions of people worldwide. According to the World Health Organization, anxiety is the most prevalent mental health disorder, with an estimated 1 in 13 people globally suffering from anxiety. Anxiety is a feeling of unease, worry, or fear ranging from mild to severe. The symptoms of anxiety can vary from person to person, and it can affect people from all walks of life.

This blog post aims to provide an understanding of anxiety, its causes, symptoms, and coping strategies.

Causes of Anxiety

Anxiety can be caused by a combination of factors, including genetics, brain chemistry, life experiences, and environmental factors. Some people may be more susceptible to anxiety due to their genetic makeup, while others may develop anxiety due to traumatic life events or ongoing stress. Environmental factors such as work-related stress, financial difficulties, and relationship issues may also contribute to anxiety.

Genetics

Research has shown that anxiety disorders tend to run in families. A person’s genetic makeup may make them more susceptible to developing anxiety disorders.

Brain Chemistry

Imbalances in certain chemicals in the brain, such as serotonin and dopamine, can contribute to the development of anxiety disorders.

Life Experiences

Traumatic life experiences, such as abuse, neglect, or the death of a loved one, can trigger anxiety disorders. Chronic stress from work or personal relationships can also contribute to developing anxiety disorders.

Environmental Factors

Environmental factors such as work-related stress, financial difficulties, and relationship issues may also contribute to anxiety. Exposure to stressful situations or trauma can trigger or worsen anxiety symptoms.

Symptoms of Anxiety

Anxiety can manifest in various ways, and the symptoms can vary from person to person. Some common symptoms of anxiety include:

Excessive worrying
Restlessness
Irritability
Difficulty concentrating
Muscle tension
Insomnia
Panic attacks
Avoidance behaviors
Physical symptoms such as sweating, trembling, and heart palpitations

Coping Strategies for Anxiety

There are several coping strategies for anxiety that can help manage symptoms. Cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT) is a type of therapy that can help individuals identify and change negative thought patterns and behaviors that contribute to anxiety. CBT has been shown to be effective in treating anxiety disorders.

Mindfulness meditation, exercise, and relaxation techniques such as deep breathing and progressive muscle relaxation can also help reduce anxiety symptoms. Regular exercise, in particular, has been shown to improve mental health and reduce symptoms of anxiety.

Individuals with anxiety can also benefit from making lifestyle changes such as getting enough sleep, eating a healthy diet, avoiding caffeine and alcohol, and engaging in enjoyable activities. These lifestyle changes can help to reduce stress and improve overall well-being.

It is also important to seek professional help if anxiety symptoms are interfering with daily life or if you are experiencing suicidal thoughts. A mental health professional can provide additional support and guidance in managing anxiety symptoms.

Conclusion

Anxiety is a common mental health issue that can significantly impact a person’s quality of life. However, there are effective coping strategies available to manage symptoms. By identifying the causes of anxiety, recognizing symptoms, and utilizing coping strategies, individuals with anxiety can take steps towards improving their mental health and overall well-being. Remember that seeking professional help is not a sign of weakness, but rather a courageous step towards taking control of your mental health.

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