I was running away from society. I did not want to give them what they assumed they would have. They wanted my mind, my power to serve. I told them no, you can't have me. I do what I want, it's my life. Then I thought about it. Why not just enter their system but for your own benefits. Do what you want but get payed for it. Choose something that is simple but gives you something to think about. Make a story for your children to hear.

So you want to write. That's your life. Writing. For who? Your neighbor? The person next door who does not give a shit on what is important as long as their hair looks alright? No. You want to write for the audience. The audience who understands, who thinks the same way, or different and wants to think the same way. The audience that wants to be you, see you, feel you. You want to write to yourself. Only... you want others to read it. Maybe you could reach someone with potential. Potential to be a sombody. You know that you are nothing.. why not help someone else reach their potential of becoming a somebody? You know that it would be ironic if you did this. Why? Being a somebody isn't worth anything. Being a nobody isn't worth anything. Being yourself, well that's a whole new painting. So you help this person but he realizes your philosophy before you can tell him about it. He turns around and walks out.. He grows up to become... himself. So you feel good. You awakened a part in the world that needed to be stirred. You then realize that maybe you should run around. Go backward in your thoughts.. You have enough money now. Leave. Go wherever, for as long as it takes. So you pack up your life and you take a greyhound to a city 400 miles away. This city isn't the biggest nor smallest. It has character. You look around, breathe the air. This is the city that is fit for you. Maybe for a day, maybe for a week. You never know what might come. So you get a job instantly. You get a small apartment. You still write. You still work. You still mess with the system. But one day you are kicked in the stomach. Not by a literal foot. No. This kick was by the glance you caught by a stranger.... This stranger smiles at you. He comes over and tells you that the birds in a tree from afar aren't too well today. This one line keeps you in interest. So you fall. First you're kicked and then you fall. This guy has the right words for every moment. He has the right silence for every locked stare. He talks to you about everything. He sings to you. He writes to you. He holds you. And you think this is too perfect. It will end soon, nothing like this lasts for more than a year. Well the years go by like wind through clouds. You wake up when you're 70. He's still there. He rolls over in bed and puts his finger on your nose. He tells you, "I love your nose, it's so unambigious." Of course what he tells you doesn't make sense... But between you and him, it's the only thing that does.

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