Category Archives: Reflection


There is an instant where you wanna cry. You want to scream. You want to yell from the bottom of your stomach and soul. And this is when you know you love or have loved somebody. When you look at someone. You see into their eyes. And you know. They are you. They are exactly who you are or were. And you love them you want nothing but to hold them. You want to shout in a carnal and cathartic agony until you feel that sense fulfilled. That sense that you have seen yourself. And can finally let go of yourself.


Another African Musing.

This will probably be a short post but it is a snippet from my notebook in Africa. This one goes out to Sylv, thanks for taking an interest and thanks for the request. šŸ™‚

Cockatieled feathers and glistening emerald. It is amazing how abruptly differences in area cross my path. Walking down a sidewalk a bird plumed in a brilliant green lands in my way. I stop. Here is a spectacular meeting embodying the essence of cultural travel; my wonderment, his indifference. As I stand aghast at the fantastic color of this bird, it personifies nonchalance. ThatĀ amazement at something that may appear so mundane is the beauty of travel and exploration. One man’s mundanity can be another’s fascination.


In an instant there is so much I can witness. As a preface to this realization, I used to be absolutely terrified of spiders as a kid. Recently, in the past few years, I’ve been frequently using the phrase ‘I’m over it’ when in reality it’s more of a sense of forced indifference than anything else. However, in a moment, that outlook changed. Now, I was walking through the kitchen I flick on the lights and begin rummaging for some midnight snack. As I look for a knife to hack off a rather generous chunk of manchego cheese, I see a spider sitting very complacently along a wall. I stop a bit short, but have no real reaction; I avoid it as much as I can and go about my business. It was at this point an interaction was held, not between a man and an arachnid, no, between two beings on their right and equal level of existence. This spider flinched at the sound of my rifling or the light or whatever it may have been. And my body flinched as well. But ahhh… here is the point of fascination. It was not out of fear but out of compassion for this slighted creature, the simple unifying commiseration of understanding the resentment that comes from being risen out of a slumber. It is in this moment, through this earthly interaction, I witness something beautiful, and that is when, for any number of reasons, fear is overpowered by compassion.

In Transit.

Sitting on a subway I see a sunset skyline. The stalwart buildings peacefully standing as a solid contrast to the hues of the oncoming night. It’s so awe-inspiringly awesome that I can’t help but smile. Yet something feels off. I sit here and get the sense that I will not Ā remember this image. For one reason or another, perhaps because I am tired or maybe because I am excited, I probably will not remember this beautiful scene. I try my hardest to imprint it in my mind, to hold on to it as best I can, but I feel like I’m failing. And at this sense I come close to crying. It’s not out of sorrow for the picture lost in my mind, but instead out of the joy that there could be so much more beauty that holds itsĀ preeminent place. The simple fact is that despite not being able to remember this means little because of all that there is to look forward to.

An Open Expanse.

Skin. I see it more and more each day as the blankest canvas. And nothing peeves me more than anĀ underutilizedĀ space for expression. I have no tattoos, myself, but I crave them. I look at my arms, my chest, my entire body, and I see all that could be. Continually as words and images float across my eyes and before my mind, there is no adulteration. My imagination spreads them, recreates and reproduces them, across my self. In my head I see phrases and aphorisms drifting with their black text, changing their font, always looking for the best possible spot so as they might seat myself properly as an external representation of the philosophies I hold dear. Every illustration from the highest masterpiece to the simplest graffiti, I question whether it might have Ā a place on this canvas of mine.

Perhaps this is why I love my scars. They are simple representations to those around me of my history, the good and the bad. They are visual reminders of the places I’ve been and some of the people I’ve met. No, this idea is separate. It goes beyond the idea of art and visual stimulation. I love them for their primality. The simple fact that they remind me of the fragility of life. That they keep my consciousness in check with the realization of its delicacy. And out of this recognition, arises a greater appreciation. The appreciation of all the times I’ve fallen and will fall, of all the times I’ve risen and will rise again. Then again, perhaps it is the visual recreation of this internal drive I like as well…

Looking Back

Peacefully, willow leaves continue to fall on a childhood memory. The pizza from that night before is as cold as it has always been. Sitting here, rooms- schools- states later, I begin to wonder. Is that willow tree still there, or has it been cut down? Sitting in my mind all this time, how stale has that pizza become? Despite what it should or would become, it has stayed the same no matter how far I am from it. And that is the same it will always be.

The Darkest Nostalgia

To throw this out there, for those who may actually being following my train of thought within these posts, this realization was sparked by the same event I wrote about on Friday.

Driving through urban streets, there can be a myriad of scents seeping through the window. One in particular crawls through and I notice it immediately, remembering it fondly. My mind goes to the days of my childhood, running around with the toy guns making their little cracks. Laughing and running through the twists and curves of white suburbia. My smile sours when the realization strikes me, as it always does on this occasion, that we played in the wisps of gunpowder. Down these streets there are no children playing. There are no laughs of joy. There are still shrieks of surprise. Down these streets only tears fall at this aroma.