Tag: reflection

Oh Look, Another Time Travel Question 

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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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Tell Yourself Whatever You Need To

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before I go dark.

Daily writing prompt
What’s something most people don’t know about you?
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Quote of the Day – 07252025

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Personal Reflection

We live in a world obsessed with answers — with clarity, closure, and clean resolutions. We’re told that if we’re still questioning, still wrestling with ourselves, still doubting — something must be wrong.

But Dostoevsky says otherwise.

He reminds us that being human isn’t about finishing the puzzle. It’s about sitting with the pieces, knowing some may never fit, and still choosing to study the shape of the whole.

The work of understanding yourself — your patterns, your wounds, your contradictions-is messy. It doesn’t earn applause. It rarely offers comfort. But it keeps you real. It keeps you soft. It keeps you from becoming machinery inside someone else’s machine.

There is no map for the soul. No straight line from broken to whole. But to be willing to stay in the mystery — to remain curious, even when the answers evade you-that’s the real work of becoming.

And that’s not a waste of time. That’s how you remember you’re alive.

Reflective Prompt

What part of your own mystery have you been avoiding — and what might happen if you studied it with compassion instead of judgment?

Quote of the Day – 07142025

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Personal Reflection

Some days it feels like you’re giving everything — time, love, energy, sanity — and you’re still told it’s not enough.
Honestly, you may feel it’s not enough.

But maybe that ache in your chest isn’t weakness.
Maybe it’s the candlelight of your soul doing exactly what it was made to do: burn to illuminate.

To create light, something must burn.
A truth that doesn’t ask your permission — it simply demands your heart.
Again and again.

The cost of giving isn’t just exhaustion.
It’s a transformation.

Reflective Prompt

What part of you has burned to bring light to someone else? Was it worth it?

Quote of the Day – 07122025

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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.

I Remember When We Talked to One Another.

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If you could un-invent something, what would it be?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

I was in public today, watching people because I’m a people watcher. Not one of those creepy people who gawk at you with sinister smiles, but one who is entirely aware of their surroundings. A by-product of my PTSD. I noticed people were inches from one another and weren’t talking. Their faces were buried in their mobile devices. What freaked me out was that nearly everyone, young and old. Myself included. Immediately, I looked around for a magazine or left behind newspaper. There weren’t any.

I opened a document on my iPad and started documenting my outrage. Yes, I’m aware of the hypocrisy of this rant, but it was either my iPad or my phone. So, I ended up at a diner with the intention of finishing this post, but I got sidetracked. There was a veteran eating with his wife, and I struck up a conversation with them. Though I don’t know the couple’s names, I learned his family had served in the military in various capacities for four generations, starting with WWII.

We began to discuss the rudeness of society and how no one talks to one another anymore. We laughed about how we get in trouble with wives and so much more. I closed my iPad and just enjoyed the conversation. They left and tried to remember the last time I had a decent conversation with a stranger. I remember today’s occurrence wasn’t a rarity but the norm.

For those who know me personally, what I’m saying may shock you. Most of you have never seen me with some sort tech in my hands. I purchased my first mobile device in the early nineties. And now I wish we could un-invent them. Even as I write this post, I have something processing on multiple devices. I started writing code in the mid-eighties. So, I’ve been working with tech in one or another for over 40 years.

I’ve witnessed or been a part of miscommunication issues; it’s ridiculous. Why can’t we just talk to one another?

Below is a bit of prose I wrote over fifteen years ago; I feel it is still relevant today. Especially the closing line, I believe, sums up my feelings on the matter.

Archaic

The pulsing glow fades on your monitor. Closing the door is one’s outlet, portal, or means to escape. Escaping the insanity that is sometimes right outside your front door. Sometimes, sitting right there in your living room, sitting on your couch looking crazy, talking about some “what?”

Thinking back, one would take a walk, read a book, or sip some lemonade while sitting on the front porch. Sitting wondering what the hell your neighbor is wearing or just sitting there letting the night breeze caress you into a calm?

Saddened, we are by the daunting realization that a clever array of ones and zeros now defines our existence. Once complete, syllable vocabulary is reduced to an abbreviation of some unknown order. Deviance is becoming the norm, as the once social norm is fading into a deviant wasteland.

Identities expanded behind hexadecimal veils in fleeting hopes of discovering who we are. All the while, all that is necessary is to stand in front of the mirror facing the face they have come to hate. Yearning for some form of validation of who you are or what you are. Searching for answers that can only be found within ourselves.

If surrendering one’s identity is the price we must pay in the pursuit of progress, then may I forever be archaic.

Morning Air – 20 Years Later

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PROSE – REFLECTION

The morning chill creeps through my layers as I sit on my porch, twirling my finger playfully in my whiskers. I swallow a sip of coffee while tugging at them, lost in the depths of my thoughts. The amber glow of the collision between night and dawn illuminates the horizon. Today, a man was born that brought so much light to the world. His presence hurled us out of a darkness that had engulfed us for nearly a hundred years—a man whose vision, courage, and devotion to humanity will never be forgotten.

Sipping coffee, I watch the lights turn on one by one as the neighborhood awakens. A community in which I could have never lived if it wasn’t for this man’s efforts. Not because where I live now is better than where I grew up. Society’s attitude is better. I remember the speech of this brave man as a child being replayed every year during my youth: a vision of hope, love, determination, and courage. His speech or vision served as a beacon representing one of hell of a dream.

Now a seasoned man, I wonder if my efforts in life have helped fulfill that dream. We fought for God, Country, and the ideal of freedom. We spent countless hours away from home in pursuit of the vision on the mountaintop. The endless miles walked for the dream of the Promised Land. No mile did I walk alone. Each mile walked and every hour spent away was in the faith that a moment of hatred was erased. I hoped they would ring the bell of freedom. A sound heard in the souls of each man and woman in the land. A faith I held on to with all my might, even though it was sometimes fleeting.

Each time I heard the word Jew, it took away a little bit of hope. Whenever I heard the word cracker, freedom’s bell rang a little softer. Every time I heard the word spick or chili pepper, humanity’s love got a little weaker. Each time I heard the nigger humanity’s dignity lessen. However, each time I heard these, we fought harder to fulfill the dream of a man we had never known. We risked our lives to fulfill a dream our forefathers wrote nearly two hundred years before my birth.

I look upon my granddaughter, who shifts under her blanket of freedom provided by the fulfillment of this dream, a granddaughter who turns a year older today. She is allowed to live in a world and taste the crispness of a freedom that wouldn’t have been without his dream. A smile comes across my face as I finish my coffee. I smack my lips because I, too, taste the crispness of freedom in the fresh morning air.

Now, I’m a great-grandfather. I still taste the crispness of freedom in the morning air. It’s rather tasty!

Taking Care of Business

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What could you do more of?

PROSE – DAILY PROMPT

As thinking about this prompt, I keep coming back to central idea I have used for most of life.

“Take Care of Business”

However, today it takes on new meaning. I spent a tremendous amount of time worrying about taking care of the needs of others. I accomplished this in some of the most clever ways. The needs of others were the most important to me and in many ways it remains so. However, in my current physical state this can no longer be the priority.

Somehow, I must move beyond my natural inclinations and focus on myself. Somehow, I need to apply the wisdom I’ve gained to myself. I say these things out loud hoping I will listen. I question my ability to render assistance to anyone if I’m not able to hold up my end. Let’s be clear here, holding up my end is taking care of myself to I can live the fullest life possible. My family and friends would be grateful.

Perhaps, they could think of me, without wondering if I’m doing the right things. Of course they can.

If you will excuse me. I have some business to tend to. Its lunch time and there’s a disgustingly delicious salad waiting for me.

~thank you for reading~

Where do I Begin?

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

PROSE – INTROSPECTION

If you are like me, when reading this prompt, you’re which pearl of wisdom to drop. What insight makes the city today. There are so many to use from. I think it changes depending on what’s happening in a person’s life. I say this because I had a different perspective as I started drafting this post. I think I was going to speak on relationships or something. Yes, I see my notes.

Today, I returned to work after being ill. I’m still not 100 percent, but I’m doing better than before. I sat at my desk, looking at stacks of files, and began to get worried. Immediately, I felt bad for being sick and would never get caught up. I took a deep breath, opened my notebook, and reviewed the items I was working on before I got sick.

I began making a list on my whiteboard and second work brain and saw a message I had left myself.

“Manage your Expectations”

I leaned on the edge of my desk and thought about the message. Then, a coworker stopped by to check on me but really needed to vent about the workload. So, I went into this rant about expectations and managing them.

When we finished, I returned to working on the pile on my desk, but with clarity and a sense of ease. I wished I had learned this when I was younger, but I didn’t. I can’t remember when I discovered it. I’m unsure why I left it as a message to myself. I suppose it doesn’t matter when it comes down to it. It’s what I needed to hear now.

~thanks for reading~

I Got Drunk in Korea; Woke up in Japan.

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Share a story about the furthest you’ve ever traveled from home.

PROSE – REFLECTION

I wish I had a wonderful, delightful tale about this title, but I don’t. Unfortunately, I’m unable to offer the sorted adventure due to one fact. I don’t remember a thing from that night. I went so far as to ask friends for their account of the evening’s activity. Nothing!

The overall opinion of the everyone involved that night is the following:

“Man, I can’t tell you,” one said, as he shook head with I can only describe as look of shame on his face. I immediately thought the worst.

“Man, tell me.” I exhaled deeply squaring myself, “I can take it.” I assured him. He shook me off.

He sat there quietly for several minutes as if he were trying to decide if he was ready to be the herald of bad news. Then, slowly, he began his tale. Quickly, I realized what he was holding back had nothing to do with me.

As I talked to the rest of my buddies their tales were similar. One work up in a tree. Another in a ditch with a woman.

“Really, dude?” I asked. He just nodded

“Name?” I asked, he shrugged.

“Japan, huh?” he asked, I nodded

“Cool, you made out better than we did,” he said, looking up towards the sky as if it had some universal truth waiting to be discovered behind the clouds. I also found myself looking up, searching for what I imagined to be the same thing or some truth completely different. Neither, I can be certain about. Then I heard his voice bringing me back.

“You can’t remember anything, brother…blessing…no shame” he said.

I nodded thinking there’s that

Journaling: Releasing the Good, the Bad & the Ugly

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ARTICLES

I can’t remember why I started writing things down in a notebook. I don’t think I care. Hand journaling is a simple yet effective way to gain insight into your thoughts and emotions. It’s a practice that has been used for centuries, and for good reason. Writing by hand lets you slow down and connect with your thoughts and feelings. And with the world’s communication state, we all could pause before we tell someone how it is.

One of the great things about hand journaling is that it requires no special tools or equipment. All you need is a pen and paper. You can choose a notebook you love or use whatever you have. It is vital to make it a regular practice, even just for a few minutes a day.

Now, I mean everything I said about not needing any special equipment. But, I can see how someone may believe they need something special regarding their paper and pen. I know a guy who journals daily but is so particular about his journals that he makes his own. He took the time to figure out the paper and binding that worked for him.

Now, I don’t expect many of you to get carried away like this gentleman. You may read the stuff he writes a few times a week. I suppose I could get him to write a blog post, making a journal from scratch one day. One of the main reasons I don’t, his head is already big enough.

When you sit down to journal, try to let go of any expectations you might have. You don’t need to write a masterpiece or even complete sentences. The goal is to get your thoughts and emotions down on paper. You might write about something specific that happened that day or jot down whatever comes to mind. Don’t worry about grammar or spelling – write.

As you make hand journaling a regular habit, you’ll notice some benefits. For one thing, it can be a great stress reliever. Writing down your thoughts and feelings can help you process them so they don’t feel overwhelming. It can also be a way to work through difficult emotions like anger or sadness. Writing can help you get to the root of what’s bothering you, which can be the first step in finding a solution.

Hand journaling can also be a way to cultivate mindfulness. When you write by hand, you’re fully engaged in the present moment. You can focus on the feeling of the pen in your hand, the sound of the paper rustling, and how the ink flows onto the page. This mindfulness can help reduce anxiety and stress and increase your overall well-being.

Think about it, sometimes when reading, you are like. That scene seemed so natural. I can’t be sure, but I feel confident that somewhere, that scene has been worked out in a journal.

In conclusion, hand journaling is a simple but effective practice that can help you gain insight into your thoughts and emotions. Regularizing it can reduce stress and anxiety, cultivate mindfulness, and build self-awareness. So why not give it a try today? All you need is a pen and paper and a few minutes of your time.

Here are a few articles on journaling for mental health

My Unspoken Charge

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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