The master’s beginning job is to examine why said young person wants to learn in the arena of a master. Their teaching starts with instruction, as in acknowledging a cacophony of all existing at the time a body of work, taught in its fullness. A student’s invention is the meaning of something known in existence unaware to others, as they’re blooming minds are insensible to how the notion, theory, and idea forms. Pupil is a term for which they identify and with such, being the determined pathway most considerable to meeting late in life their youth, their bodies pretend to follow rules they sometimes motion themselves into constructing all their own. I’d say my mind is in a courtroom trying to figure that out. There, I store images and maybe not images perhaps, just memories. Memories as thorough as infallible diamonds given to correct another’s outspoken thoughts. Time in essence is responsible for those memories coming about and they align more with coding dreams whilst their mysticism, begrudges the soul. As it goes, I question how trained well a poor student embarks on the voyage of their craft. Is their training to mastering It a certain responsibility to governing its narrow tracks, seeming to clear only when they stand still to look? What then of that narrow choice is to become, or strike a simple confidence high enough to make the difference worthwhile in traditional courses of learning? Sticking to the grain, is what I suppose.

The master provides in my own general thinking a space valuable enough to: infuse, generate, impart, ingest, or designate, voices of command into followers and protégés to be pupils willing to learn. In a way, a master’s a visual stalwart of an artist demonstrating stable character, he provides a framework to construct from. As a student in school or person committed to the task of learning to achieve, both student and pupil carve out a lane or subsidiary of that which is not done and their master begins decanting his process pouring all he knows into them. The main difference is one having a master and the other benefiting from an abundance of spiritual expertise and wisdom given to the village. I’d believe a centuries old tradition is bringing that forth to life, which is claimed in battle when crossing other tribes, protecting what they pander to keep their tenets from reprimand. They are coterminous to others and here, I’d indulge keying in on essence and the meaning of being. Existence establishes identity and I love my tribe for being taught in our ways. The question of whose the vignor – leader of a tribe of humans, accedes. The fictional character in a fictional universe relates to a “mixed orientation marriage,” a term for our twenty-first century couples, and we cause a strife to each other because forward is our only movement. My tribe is my community and the question of living, is as a mentorship for the soul to nurture. I strive producing that harvest.

In my own impermanence my existence correlates with an accidental element of being and contributes also to a wad of anecdotal stories, events, and occurrences in my life. I’m tasked with considering discernment to be something as real as a head swivel to the side then, regarding all I see that’s real. A look that advances all existing for what’s currently understood and sought after. I equivocate those ways of knowing for myself along with not knowing, so I’m not stuck and out of touch. Some answers don’t invoke solutions I’d need to move about when ready on firm ground and to have a purpose or intention for dividing that unto itself into various courses of action, responsibility is distributed into smaller factions. They are maintained as morsels of liable pursuits having no end. The provenience of the master begins in building the means and structuring foundation, as the job isn’t often asked of them when pursuing the craft. Their presence though seems to shape the direction a pupil can take as optimal or paramount, and the style a pupil accentuates to note their arrival is the convincing of craft being made whole through one’s participation inside. I was convinced of writing as a craft and something with a foundation because of the various platforms used for authors to test their words. In a way, for the fact of storytelling and making the words rich enough to read because anyone would or should pay for what’s good if it makes a living. Teaching is a compelling consideration and relates to a term from past use internecine and it means relating to conflict within a group or organization, destructive to both sides in a conflict. Now, I see the February snow falling and it’s the vision I have as a writer being placated at the top window of an old brick palace, basking below soft white clumps of northern air. I delight the realization of being a Midwestern boy in this region, thankful I can walk amid the seasonal descent of my own city’s ailments. I remember then my beginnings, having now grown to keep in mind observation.

With what jargon am I filling this notebook at five am in the morning? My car’s alternator is being replaced a few hours from now with a new one and the main mission of a starving artist I’d believe, is to make enough money to refine his process and supplement his craft. The night before I’d pay my first visit stopping in Shake Shack downtown as reward for my thoughtfulness on today’s plan. I purchased a regular shack burger with a cheese fry basket and original chocolate shake. A classic meal worth something I suppose was on my mind. The surprising edict was my probe into their famous potato bun, which pockets their burgers to hold the savoring flavor from the grill inside. When I took a bite I noticed something culminate within me, as the restaurant’s design presented a newness I fell for on what seems my writer’s exploration. I made sure to launch back in and give myself a bit of mercy eating those fries. Observation is key in all things and to write sometimes what’s challenging to express, is my willingness to write what I see or not because I don’t know how, any other way. Who wants the hard work outside a passion to build what’s never been done? Especially if I can admit I’d never done a thing. I was held up a good hour or so eating food, entertaining the point my hometown isn’t quite the same as Vonnegut’s. I myself have saw new city buildings crop up downtown, new club associations flourish and transportation routes being laid. People wanna learn because many are too busy to sit still and it can be scary to think over or uplifting if one can do it, which is devoting themselves to studying a specific niche showcasing how we move and interact. To recognize where we go and where we place our dreams. Dividends alone are paid by others and if that’s not enough to inspire craftsmanship I start then on being born in ’93, noticing overtime my study become intensive.

Are writers true starving artists or do some of us just choose an ideology to recontextualize our fate, for a mass audience or a small audience alike to hear? Maybe for closing the gap between agreeance to disagree or sharpening disagreement when discussing more specific and coherent points. Why does anyone need to hear a word from T? The odds of exchange happen as much as I seek to ask what’s the point. The point of school, the point of education, and the point of closure to visit with an open mind an establishment based out of Madison Square Park, NY. In my opinion from what I understand, ideology begins with a desire to know. Not from the oddity of existence as mentioned before, just a simple wanting to know what it is I don’t if indeed another way does exist. The scientific method is used to find a solution after a series of tests and in order to know I must undergo a test as proof that if I pass then surely I must know. From that light I stopped using the term ‘obvious’ as part of my vocab. Man drives himself crazy to know at every juncture. For it is his own seed to produce and therefore sometimes if he can, produce without knowing. I believe one thing, that man’s one job is to know he exists. If a man knows he exists, he can change the world around him. A man’s generation may become weaker in carpentry because him building on his own is thought as being the most vulnerable. If he does not rely on anyone else, he must then build. Jesus was a carpenter and the question of him building with his physical bare hands made valid reasoning for his wisdom in teaching a lesson. Overtime, a man’s hands do get weak and the building of edifices, large towers, homes, and structures must pass down to a younger man with vision. The different, new, and upcoming lot of generations must use previous knowledge for a different build. So no worries, just write.

When I majored in English and studied Creative Writing during college, I spent my time analyzing the written word at the table marking pages left and right. I heard the word internecine from an interview Toni Morrison had with Charlie Rose and a third meaning of the term is its origin…mid-17^th century (in the sense ‘deadly, characterized by great slaughter’): from Latin internecinus, based on inter – ‘among’ + necare ‘to kill.’ Example sentence relatable to the second form definition – “the party shrank from the trauma of more internecine strife.” When I pair both terms – compel and consider for a title ‘compelling consideration’ I aim to (evoke interest, attention or admiration in a powerfully irresistible way), (careful thought, typically over a period of time). In (a payment or reward) – “perquisite/remuneration” as both words of the same definition in archaic terms importance & consequence, the [same before again] watching snowfall and seasons change from a window. In these past few days, time calls for transition – the term and idea or concept ornamenting what consideration is as it pertains to life in broad meaning. The thought compels because a gripping onto an idea locking the mind into numerous ways of defining what is at the time, is why I feel encountering “Deja-Vu” is more than title.

I still have many words to cover in completing my required sample for admissions into a creative writing MFA program and if not for writing my own in real time until then, I’m listening to interviews with authors for some inspiration. I recount a particular interview featuring writer Jodi Picoult where she stated, “I had to scrap eighty pages” of [said character], and from her latest novel at the time Small Great Things, it’d seem impossible asking myself if I were that valiant. Then again, I only hear that she scrapped eighty pages. The public watches in embrace for another statement after her claim. As nothing has to be long as does it need to happen, my learning from such a perspective causes me to be slower to speech and more in tune with my actions. I have to be, after that revelation. For just a portion right now one makes themselves capable. I’m asking myself if I can do eighty pages. Let alone each page having enough room to accept how bad my own routine is in the beginning to know what needs to change. If I’m not batting my rage against my time then being young and able to remember and espouse poetry at the tongue, is indeed surely special, if one fears not their word(s). Living to die for speech is the harvest my word operates in and if one cannot believe in himself to get underway and start, no direction or path of course exists for him to bloom and grow. If his mind be wayward in its place and unstable with not a path in sight then one cannot contemplate against a path for himself. If that be the case, then what is there even a want he should be proud to die for if he does not therefore exist? For nothing to love or nothing to die, then surely, he must not be real.

I believe existence is always the biggest question of human consciousness and if I’m updating myself with my fellow beings’ creations on Earth up to this point, asking my own creation to do it is almost the same reason for why identifying in its most simple form, is of the other. Just knowing that a creator can give words for understanding, my life can either prosper or forever diminish because of them. My existence is made simple by asking questions. Bacon and eggs for some is a requiting breakfast, and a reciprocating return to the soul. The greatest writing is done in the middle of living and relieves jargon. From the first opening I’ve written, I suppose only to breathe life into the reader. I believe a reader choosing to believe in higher to distinguish from the opinions of man, is myself as a writer and original thinker. I can reach the end of pages with little effort now and the main reason I can is because of a why. A why to ask if there’s anything else. If there is and voice be my reason, without drab and lifeless dull shall I speak. To do so in power and authority without fear over the false evidence of something appearing real is my seed to sow. When one no longer even knows why they exist for the question of existence itself, one must move about. Not because this “it” thing just moves around, but my voice and sensations create trials of error figuring out this other pivotal question. This pivotal question of love, which completes a dissemination of the term itself once coupled with a preposition for meaning to be genuine. Something created with virtue in mind can only look up. Your discipline is a task of putting your memories to practice, to extricate how much you know of yourself. I must be able to test what I remember. Storytelling or being able to write as a task is myself trying to get those who read to remember what I’ve done, if now the length for which I held that reader captive, reciprocates the respect and time I’m asking fellowship for when updates arrive. Am I in union with such fervent a reader; in union I am with my craft. To wonder what the best is lying ahead and for those preceding moments, asking and completing are different directions themselves. And this is at least saying each direction is based off need, for a need to be had and to be kept as one. How can you know something told you to do something without something doing it? Am I a captive or am I a conqueror; a lifetime is required for some existence to ratify itself and know that even a God can exist outside its own creation. Something beyond you is what you must make-believe for an awareness to begin occurring. An acute perception. There sometimes is a disdain on the past, much like there is looking into the future. Faith is believing, made possible.

And so, wearing my gray wool coat in Central Park with Lady in my arm. She smiles, I grin and we both lock eyes happy to be in love. I remember sitting on the bench in formative years with my notebook. I hoped only I’d continue the practice later in age. I found sharpening my thought to be quick-witted rather than touting smarts is having to remind myself to get at the cliff edge of what I know. That way I can come back later with a report. As if gaining just a variable or grain of knowledge is my understanding of why children repeat their ABCs. I’d suppose as a reinforced commitment lingering unaccomplished each try. Shortening words and sharpening thoughts reveal better actions for better characters and sometimes perception is just not true. I’m sick of not doing it the right way, it just isn’t true they’d surmise and having a chance to release many thoughts after a consistent read, is for the burst of activity following the gameplan created. Success being deviated from is pain and flashing lights. What you can inherently connect your dots on is making decisions when flow incurs and perception is how big your audience is if you’re worried. In the net of my bursting activity, I write in the margins to weave in-between different rooms for the voice. How much space will your voice take up for enough to be said on a finishing thought? It’s asking how to write a novel without sitting down to fill pages in a notebook, sitting in a comforting spot for the end of the page, sitting between the words dripping from line to line as if I’m sifting from side to side on a typewriter perfect. Even asking myself what I know is a sweeping passage through language. Without using such a word as ‘lament,’ the word makes letter writing a special activity and critical tool.

The most natural thing in the world that feels right because of the time it’s taken to process, is a story. And maybe it’s just the fancy descriptive words that I’d wish flow better. From a sense of reading and time, my writing does branch off one another piece by piece. Making that notion distinct is what I wish to exude every time I clutch the pen. Creating your own original voice and style requires discipline without complaint. Of what am I certain? God, these emotions he’s given me, and life. Because as I’m told from at least now, til about seventy-four, whatever happens is going to happen and assuming I make it farther if not beyond that, today begins tomorrow’s bout for my life to be lived much greater than the previous day before. Read as much as I can, write even more, and explore everywhere there’s possible to live. I remember Danny, I reminisce upon James. There’s no getting past the ultimate epiphany that in essence tomorrow belongs to God. You have a story to tell, so live as if you are one. Turn off the chirping noise of the television and read your books every day. Pick up your pen and write every thought that earns commission. Wake up, clean your face and wear your best clothes. Be delicate in the most unseen of places. Restructure your words to engineer your belief. A dog will be a dog today and tomorrow. A human can be less than they are if stagnant watching others move about. The Earth’s elements are controlled by forces beyond the eye. Patience and humbleness and faith unlock doors, however, listen to no one while at least listening to one to get through. The little voice inside is loud enough to hear. Every real and true writer knows that style is pursuit, originality is broken down in drafts by refining voice and the time it’ll take to finish depends on passion and willingness to labor. The body is a vessel, the mind a spark plug, the hands and feet guidance, and the speech is for discerning where to go and how to get there. A true, original artist will get there anyhow and lives off what his craft produces. From where do they come and to where do they deviate, from the common good of man? I don’t know. I do know a set of words are the template and if starting from there is to lead others astray to expose yourself to truth, an authentic life is what I only ask to live til death, old, gray, wise and foolish all the same.

The love to be what is on the fondest morning of a Sunday blue sky, God tells you he takes care of the animals. I sit looking out and up to shifting, wavy drifting clouds passing by and see a nostril’s of God’s in the distance breathing life into images of every animal across this planet. He tells me a lion is just as important as a wild boar and they both, with us all have a communicational conscience. I see a plane cutting through and He alerts the whales. And so, what is my why? God says to be fruitful and multiply. Produce good fruit to the Earth. Genesis 1:27-28 says: “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the Earth, and subdue (translated – overcome, quieten, or bring under control a feeling or person) it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, the fowl, and every living thing that moveth upon the Earth.” I sharpen my focus, get right at the central point of my thought, make real my coincidence into blessings, keep my senses grounded, and remain specific to who I am. It started with a bird a blue jay, perched at the side fence. I then saw across vast clouds the image of a duck. A duck followed by a turtle. A turtle carrying an offspring atop its shell. Fins to the side forming a super duck one with a cape, I’d imagine red and wearing a diaper, because a duck’s pride from offspring is a behavioral adaptation to protect their young. I then saw a pig and a dog. I saw a bison in a darker cloud off to the corner. The bison turned into a buffalo and a buffalo into a lion and the lion into tusks, forming the boar. The plane, ah! as the whale waves hello. And there remains utter silence in my darkened blue robe and feet crossed on the porch. I take a sip of coffee, close my eyes, and pray for peace amid human catastrophe in war. I thank the most high for looking ahead. I look up, and I look out. But God looks ahead. We just have to choose to write these moments. It’s not the tradition of my faith to only peer at belief and say I’m writing the greatest story that ever lived. Though when I think of the Earth planting a seed and the seed growing to produce the Earth, the Earth must be produced to provide its own. So togetherness comes in twos and two geese fly head above. The number completes as in two or either three command the presence of another outside themselves if they touch and agree. As four whom trails along is for creation. If a near week takes any time we trotting ants don’t agree fulfills, well then our forever trodden Democracy can always opportune or propose a path to change.

Seeing light is important for discovering something new. And so I reconcile what comes after is five. In which the number of grace actually plans ahead. Because as we don’t agree now in most everything we do, five is enough to kick or consider deliberation. These are only the five as in your five fingers and toes. And if the number eight means anything for completion therefore, two hands are perfect. Once the creation is complete, there must always be time to save the world. That is how much I love your existence. Because two hands can make again, anew. And fingers, toes, and noses that can smell and feel, the existence will always be a breakthrough to forthcoming. The waves happen, sloshing back and forth and the clouds are signs to communicate my well-doing. What I’m up to and who needs guidance and care. When two hands hold babies the presence of two upon one crescendos into the answer for existence. For me, two into one and so on so forth. To multiply keeps commandments into an order of making decisions for others. And in the creation of us becoming into one as a pathway to understanding further a tornado from a cloud or a hurricane from poverty, all the time is needed for humanity to know creation. And so, we go on creating ourselves, not bad, terrible, or even unwise. The question of us being here is a fond question. Because the word fond means having an affection or liking for. And if growth is a factor to the hands wanting to know they exist, listening to everything that is now and present in the moment without a certain knowledge, existence reacts to everything it observes. Because the ultimate sacrifice to exist for everything once a seed is planted to ‘command it move,’ is the quiet and silent connection of love. The love to be what is.

Noise, I hate it, especially when seemingly made on purpose. I can maybe write a few pages on it; I just don’t see any original writers in these days of calm reading what others write. I feel I’m either writing around people at work, at home around kids and loved ones, or in the niche of downtown city buildings, on a park bench listening to chirping birds yell mid-air at each other. For an originalist I thought silence was required and in this world I inhabit I want my stories to flow and come out, so reading others’ work comes with a small amount of hesitation. A hesitation to consider the contemporary or not altogether. For now, I interweave a few writers between my work at a time and I first remain loyal to the classics. Classic means to me a person or character able to express their every pious thought without remorse and exemplify their own readiness to move on by what they’ve transcribed. Sometimes before saying a word and sometimes to interpret what’s been said, however, they still are a literary creative writer with a silk voice, smooth as butter atop grain toast for breakfast aside the bacon and eggs. As clean as the smell of pine-sol and recognizable as my person standing there in conversation. These are the words on the page, though stories are much much more. Words do ebb and flow and their inconsistencies are shown after output requires critique. The point gets at writing enough to see flaws in untenable words and reading from both sides. The point gets at writing enough to understand where I must give my time and spend my attention, on both sides. This feeling for the master and the pupil, between them both, is tenable. This feeling of reproof, where I know I must do more speaks to an impediment with language I’m trying to get rid of, and perhaps I may not because from where will my challenge derive? Finding my voice without thinking I already have is my transitioning to more of an active voice, and away from a passive-aggressive deliberation. Which in short is, getting to the point and sharpening my thought of what that means. Reading a lot more short stories is my charge and continuing deeper examinations of my written words themselves. I gotta put a microscope to them and as I do, remain a vigilante advocator on the outside. The game’s name is character, and my position grows ever more lucrative for eyes inspired by ‘awe’ and less of hard work. Caught more by the shade of structure and formatted words giving rise to voice every time. Every time the noise has to drop and lessen for the uncritically acclaimed works to be read. Saying something to somebody must again freeze time for the moment therein. Noise will either keep you out and make you run or besmirch the writer you say you are.

Today marks the week’s end, a Friday. Writing the sentence this way is either an example of progressing style and voice or backward thinking. I’m sitting at the kitchen table though this morning, with my notebook and a cup of coffee. I helped shovel snow with Mother, clearing the steps and sidewalk some before the rest melts away this afternoon. I think of nothing else beside shoveling the snow as I’m shoveling it. And my thought transitions to my Father and memories of the past. Mother woke me before a yawn, receiving the wake up I call moving ahead, sustainable, and Charlie got caught peeing on the living room chair. At this point I feel after having submitted my personal statement and two more requests for a recommendation, I wonder how can I get something out this ordeal? As if there were a panoply of choices. The latest addition to “3 Sheets In The Wind” is Goose for the Gander. Maybe some time it’s just been remembering this phrase, that after two days of unofficial writing (no pen across the page writing), then as much to say from up here before down there… my latest bout in what sounds good for the Goose, is pricing out the fix for an alternator. It went out on me and shut my spaceship down for a couple weeks, and instead of just an alternator, it turns out a one-hundred fifty-four dollar plus ‘core charge’ brand new alternator. I felt I spent more time conversing the cheapest repair. I’m thinking of the word, subterfuge. It means deceit used in order to achieve one’s goal. Others related include intrigue, trickery, cunning, evasion, deception, and pretext. A powerful term as well, in which a thing becomes in a way, suggested as best option. I agreed to a Tuesday morning, set an appointment later that Monday morning for it and purchased the new alternator after committing to the repair. I took the battery out and a possible fix scheduled against perspective on cost was my listening to family.

After some years I’ve spent outside the brick-and-mortar, writing’s become an irregular pastime and one of the most reasonable pleasures I’d keep doing. It wasn’t until I found why many folks don’t write, say they can’t, or aren’t interested in refining their literary skills that I’d been perceiving my act of writing in a wrong sense. An irregular pastime was an excuse to drink alcohol while straining over the page and scratching my head, to look down the neck tube of an empty bottle after seeing nothing valuable. That pastime or half-hour at least, swings into an elongated conversation, debauchery and mischief, unawareness and the lack thereof paying attention to what’s around, resulting in late nights and late mornings. The getting up to get over. The learning of my time being a search for the treasure cove gone missing, where the getting up to face ahead what’s coming is the much bigger ‘if’ the more I gain. From there everyone tries finding the master as if the master’s retired from their highest achievement and their work is exclusive to fixing others’ problems. The student is regarded to be lost, seeming frail and quite diminished from looking around too much at or for himself. The student sticks out like a sore thumb, in fact he is the sore thumb! A sore thumb underneath a pillar nobody wants to be. Nobody wants to be the student appalled by many in his own era and it’s a technicality of a simple “not being invited to the party.” Frankly, what does be a student mean if I measure a student’s perseverance by aiming to study how much and how long they’d endure? At what cost does perseverance meet action or the condition of persevering? To persevere is to persist in a state, enterprise, or undertaking despite counterinfluences or opposition. Youth is best when unashamed, but also when it is encouraged and uplifted. One shouldn’t have to go back to the good ole days if the present moment is realized and the ambition to go far dwarfs any proposed resistance. For the self, resistance is a diversion from what one should be doing and for many with little to a lot of lived experience, it is opposition. A subtle war of words between what’s good for someone’s life and whether a real choice exists there. The latter conversation may arise a conspiratorial circle of strangers discussing their problems and grievances. The problem with a group mindset in agreeing on what should be done, is that the confluence on automatic room given to those who must resist is detrimental to discussing what’s good at all. Whether for a group or an individual’s cause.

God sees a working creation, or a creation of something that seems to work if once will surpasses faith beyond a discernible doubt, one aligns their faith toward its most epical and truthful form. It is necessary for a true reflection to be had if the truth of one’s ideal identity, which engrains both pivotal metrics of change and endurance, is also the understanding that alignment as correction is key to its own belief system. I often tell or even remind folks that ‘I’m the coolest person they know’ and for why? It often comes from the responses I give to listen to them in, before blaming the world to embrace doubts which they hold. To endure only habitual good to a soul-existing survivalist moving through timelines of perceptible consciousness and several other markers required I believe to accept existence as a question of possible construction. A construction that challenges an ever-growing question of intuitive thought. Why not then and what for, and how can? To look at this basic question as a thing wanting to understand because the innocent are schemed by innocence. And innocence can only be a questionable glance from thereafter. I also say that having skill dubs a reconciliation between some outcomes being a possible set of circumstances and others being verdicts that are just made. When the empirical waxes poetic, it is based on, concerned with, or verifiable by observation and experience rather than theory and pure logic. In another year perhaps or a few months I imagine waiting to incur a house. As I rely on an essay for school after a position’s rejection, I’d thought. I’ve spent hours, days, months prepping both my ears to listen. And not just that, I enhance my listening to hear. I enhance my hearing to find out how to complete my distinction amongst what Shakespeare calls, “a sea of troubles.” I am the coolest folks know because I regard them not as people when the word is right. I’m at home now and I can reflect being at the café round this time. What does it mean being up and taking a walk just sitting as I questioned before on prior occasions, to write. I’d hope to say my timing’s much better since I’ve stopped walking, though it comes after the insinuation made of being a timewaster. I go to the café because I put in time for a book. I knew my story before my individual. My village is my people and loneliness cripples a man when he’s done. I was alone and to myself a large period. In some of this writing I also hope to express that because I’ve gotten a grip on the English language enough to begin explaining situations, problems, disagreements, misunderstanding and vitriol I didn’t recognize or had words for. Getting to the end of a page was a challenge and when I wonder why I remember The Happy Face Crater, discovered by the Viking Orbiter 1 in 1976. The perfection I tried placing on routine that I was ineffective trying to replicate, is that I don’t need to replicate anything from anyone else anymore. And my education and writing appraise that.

This piece is for the breaking that comes about, for what he must do to incur what aging provides. Benevolence & instant gratification are the desire to love what is as an ultimate conception to knowing. To know is to trust. And a change is made when man can trust what he knows by admitting he does not. He will know discovery from distortion. He will know desire and know that loving desire begins with a fondness of imperfection, as in accepting he must continue to grow. Asseverate is to assert or maintain. He maintains the conclusion I know nothing because I am flawed. He writes to God, I am flawed. I don’t know how many words an ending takes. I can only live to find out. I wake up to the news in house. It’s easier listening to others than myself because the pressure is taken off my craft. The enjoyment kicks in from there. I want a square and a beer and to enjoy them both without guilt. I’m having a meeting with myself before meeting at the liquor store. I’m telling myself I’d already quit and I’m blank because I understand stories are created outside. Obtaining money starts with work and work is changing as things cost more. So, how much could a writer afford a broken lifestyle in the current year and turnaround telling the world of his whereabouts if other figures are fleeing war and radical abuse from different countries. Myself as a black African American must only be unto myself if I am to recognize the patterns and movements of where my country intends to go. Who cares if your identity matters if you lose it. Some’d say I’m wasting breath because my labor must show for my disdain. And indeed, work is part humble and part silent, I think the choice of what one speaks on is difficult, tiring and cumbersome. How does a whole generation of people get weaker if progression is an advancement? It must mean that somewhere progression is a bit flawed. Flawed as in saying “It just doesn’t happen this way… anymore.” Our daily lives as American citizens are treated so much by voices. Some of us feel we’re behind and unable to move forward and others feel the delight in storming ahead with new ideas and ways to live. Before speaking on the general in society, locale matters and original ideas are my plague as an original writer. Reading books, coffee, a little commentary sharing an opinion over meals, and expressing my ideas through the way I reach to Point A from Point B. Do we look at each other and then say who we are and this is where we’re going or keep authentic ourselves inside to steer course? Do we or should we reach out first our hand or keep far apart at distance, to assess the situation and event before including ourselves? Balance is the term imperative, so I understand my footprint.

Discovery compared to distortion is being able to study a craft well enough to make connections between a personal understanding and self-actualization. Distortion is an art of personal satisfaction. Personal satisfaction is a varietal sentence that requires a framework for size. Manipulating the length is an arbitrative method. A ninety-eight percent change with two left, signals the change inside me and my brain. Where the momentum to succeed as a business entrepreneur and a writer are at an all-time high. The feeling of the book in which the business replenishes and my time and money for the business in which my writing owes, I thought sending an email of reconsideration mattered to the Graduate Admissions Review Committee upon rejection. It’s not so much the work standing alone in its own given right driving my success, the makeshift belief in my activity is the engine. Just the same as getting in and getting out so I can linger no further as I go on. Raymond Carver is a savant. Reading is a non-negotiable tool for writers, in a sense what gets done depends on how much they care. So, as it goes, the world breeds passionate fire and the comforting peace slows down the spread, brushing the flames to understand from where it’s deriving from. I can walk and use my feet in most places I travel and in this business my senses are my best utilizing tools for achievement. A pen in my pocket and small notebook ring in my sight when a break is needed. In business we’re learning how to fly further below the radar and I must move. After a team training session last night I noticed my phone missing along with my holy grail of notes. I didn’t walk in sobbing before because I lamented to Mother I still believe in a reconsideration. So, after writing a few gems of wisdom and sitting outside the front door a few minutes, I come to find out this morning my upline was able to capture it and hold onto it for me. He messaged my sponsor to inform and now after the chain of messaging reaches me, I go pick it up. My upline is important in this case because I must admit I’ve been stagnant in my business. The business hasn’t changed a bit since my arrival, yet I notice I have. I keep wanting to go back to my so-called ‘glory days,’ and without saying today is my glory day, and the more I write and negotiate no longer my time and money to do so I’ll finish the novel. And the more I stick close to my upline and team I’ll create the time and money from this day forth, the rest of my days. I’m asking you God to help me lean in as I’ve never done before. Trust, read and absorb texts the way a crazy man would. And so, at the highest level of existence, America’s fight with itself has turned from regulating the production of commerce to the ire of sustaining intelligence. In that fight we move backwards to archive truth, revealing little by little each day through experimentation, that the battle for consciousness is an infinite faith in the fact creation remains good. And control is nothing, but for the countenance of evil doers who struggle in the now believing beyond themselves. Bible means basic instructions before leaving Earth, and Life means living in faith every day.

In these days I use the words higher and community. I’ll say the higher or most high, and community is to keep cultural heritage intact because of its invitation toward openness for others needing a home. Life is big and screens don’t supplement the difference, And so, I’m finishing Purity by Mr. Franzen. Two phrases from old time wisdom are loose lips sink ships and people are creatures of habit. I’m watching a soft white underbelly interview of a former mob boss hitman Frank Cullota done by Mark Laita. This one in particular is a reminder to myself to keep trotting ahead and continue writing everything I can. Life’s a short game to play and we humans die. We live, we die, and we pass away. I’m on a writer’s exploration and as much as I’ve asked and pleaded for already, the most high or the higher has my back in every regard. And so, for that I thank him. I thank him, her, or they for everything I have. And that, is a story worth sharing in itself. I don’t need too many beers, only enough. I don’t need too many squares, just a few to satisfy the moment. I don’t need many women, only one special for the time being. Whether she’s escaped I’ll never know, the right one’ll be present. I’ve got my pen, a beer, a special little lady, and my story. I’ve also got my hands to make do with and my feet for walking. I can stand upright, and I can see. My limbs all work and my organs function. I’ve got a business and a path. I’ve got purpose and my family. I cannot pause time and so, I’ve gotten my voice and it's here to stay. It’s all permanent. Every decision and word in my given time. Help me continue to reap my harvest and increase, because what makes a writer is a person who jots down everything that bothers, annoys, and hurts them. And getting over the hurt with a little help and guidance, makes me the writer I seek to be, I am.

Four pillars are: responsibility, growth, priority, and generosity. What is the frontline of a democracy and its republic if what passes down to a nation of existing culture, is misled power and corruption? From political values to principles and morals, as opposed to the humane similarities binding together our flesh; I need not make a distinction between what’s already good. What is good is priority. Why pass down anything at all if the power of messaging and guidance suffer unchanged? Your own independent agency in your youth matters. Only you’d know at this hour what you’re going to do most. The ying-yang syndrome explains life either being hard now and smooth later or easy now and rough later. No one’s checking out of here alive. My love of pool is for shooting and making shots. The table, the cue ball placement, the angles of the shots available, and how to create my own from the several ways I’ve chosen to see myself winning. I win the game when I own the shot and the shot is a metaphor for being birthed once and choosing a direction thereafter into life already set. Is there value in the trip given today’s trials and what’s considered improvement? Whether the battery life of a new device draws blank, like a lifeline sustained too long past its point or a vault of incapability transforms the world’s paradigm each new period. Only more disagreed confusion from little boxes that cover as protecting to hold our first amendment, scar memories of another countless existence assessed by considering what’s new. The student always responds in a spiritual manner because the hand awards access to tools of no physical form. So that which is the next level is usually unseen and unable to be prepared for. The master has gained access to a history full of action and slaughter. As it goes, the difference marked in teaching is exemplified between how those coming after, treat those who are smaller than themselves. Those who are fragile.

And this relationship attempts the need or want for an answer, and the answer is to make pleasant a divide of illusory and fact. Illusory being the acceptance of what needs to be learned before title is understood to lead action, and fact being denial, of such nature that changes the boundary of thinking frowned upon by those before us given time’s never escaped their walls. It has comfortably set within as wholeness rather than futility and even if their action doesn’t reach the outside maybe that is the wisdom passing, maybe our ventures take a mute route alongside our indolence. One of the facets to this bearing dynamic is that in one world the dot endures a struggle to conquer because of powerlessness and in the other that very dot is content. Life is that dot wanting to be remembered, mastering each possible way the hand gives and because if thou be one just does. So just do it, and just Be. Who am I, but a man reeling from heartache? I remember my former boss telling me, “Terry, if you really wanna get something done, listen to some classical music.” Love here, is the highest mantle there is and the same thing that opens the window, closes its door.