Tag: love

Sofie

I was so busy chasing dreams that I couldn’t see that I was living in one. I was so concerned with telling everybody else how much I loved you that it never crossed my mind to tell you as well.  I would wake every morning and gaze at your sleeping face and feel my heart swell with joy. I have never felt anything as powerful, nor as humbling, than knowing that you were mine.

All that I ever wanted was to make you proud of me. All that I have ever cared about was finding the admiration in your eyes as you looked into mine. I saw it once. For a fleeting moment. We were by a campfire and you gazed at me so gently that I knew if I asked you to marry me in that very moment you would have said yes. I should have done it then. I should have swallowed my pride and told you that you were as much a part of me as the air that I breathe. But I didn’t. I just thought that you would know how much I yearn for you.

I pursued delusions of grandeur and told myself that I would give you the world. All I had to do was conquer it first. I was so consumed with making you proud of what I could become that I forgot about the little things, or to realize that you could be proud of what I already was. I neglected to hold your hand, or to tell you when you looked beautiful. And I forgot how to tell you that I loved you; when I loved you so much more you could ever know. It would have been so easy to make you happy. I had all the pieces of the puzzle; I just needed to show you that I knew how to put them together.

Now I’m standing here naked and alone, gazing at my reflection in the mirror and wondering why you held on for so long. Why did you stand by a someone who could be so fickle and cold? The first time that we met I asked you your name and you looked at me as though I were the devil. When you gave me your heart I only proved that you were right. There’s a darkness to my eyes when you are gone; there’s a void left in my soul. I am a man with the world in front of me. And I would burn it all to hell if it meant that we could start over again.

The Grounds of Alexandria 7

I’ve made some mistakes. More than there should have ever been. I never took the time to stop and listen, or to hold you close when you were afraid. I wish that I could take it all back and show you that I have never wanted anyone, or anything more than I want you. I would give you my heart and let you engrave your name into its walls so that it could be yours forever. I would vow to never write another word if it meant that I could have you. Why the hell couldn’t I just tell you that I needed you? Why was it so hard to say that I saw us growing old together; seeing out our days in a home with polished concrete floors and a view of the city where we met?

We could see the world; you and I. You could graduate from university and we could journey from place to place, becoming lost in a happiness that I have always longed to show you. I’ll take you to my favourite cities and beaches; you can show me why you fell so in love with Europe. I’ll take your picture. As many as you want. We’ll eat ice cream, and wander aimlessly through foreign streets, giddy with excitement. And when we are finished and there is no world left for us to see, I’ll take your hand, fall to a knee and beg for you to be my wife.

I never really told you that I dreamed of growing old together did I? Or that the beauty that I see in you is so much more than just skin deep? I never told you that I was proud to call you mine; I just thought a piece of writing about having you in my bed would suffice. I thought that it was clever to create a piece that stroked my own ego more than it showed you just how much I adore you. It wasn’t enough; it was foolish to think that it ever would be.  And now I’m wondering how I managed to hurt you so badly.

I just wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted to push myself so that when I achieved my dreams I could give you the world. I wanted to dedicate my book to you, you deserve to have your name in something that I could never have created without you here. I didn’t want to hurt you; I never imagined that you would be gone. I should have held your hand more. I should have paid more attention. You were better than I ever was, and all I ever wanted was to be perfect in your eyes. If only I could have realised that I was living in a dream. If only I could have realised that you needed more from me.

I want to lay my head next to yours and hold your hand as we fall asleep. I want to wake up in the dream that I was living in and feel that my life is complete. I can be the man you need me to. I swear that I can be him. I can make you happier than you have ever been. I can show you what it feels like to be loved. Please, just let me show you.

Athazagoraphobia

Let’s start this off with a fact: In The Descent of Man, Charles Darwin uses the word love ninety-five times. He uses the iconic phrase survival of the fittest just twice.

Take a moment and think about what you just read. And I mean really think about it. Let it settle in your mind. In a book that is widely recognised as being at the crux of the ideological divide between science and religion because of the writer’s notion that the development of the soul is a normal process of evolution, and not the the works of a divine being, he mentions the idea of love ninety-five times and natural selection as we perceive it only twice…

Twice. It’s mind boggling to learn that the concept that society believes to be the defining declaration of a body of work that sent a fucking firestorm through literature, science, and religion alike, is just a miniscule part of a larger knowledge of human evolution. Yet from a young age the idea of survival is bred into us; we work as individuals and in teams to win prizes or recognition. We align ourselves with strength and dispel those that we consider to be weak. And perhaps worst of all, we allow society to cultivate a belief that we are in constant competition with our fellow man and woman in our quest to be remembered and revered.

…Let’s rewind a little and start over. When I first started planning out this post it wasn’t supposed to sound like this. It was more of an expletive fuelled stab at societal flaws that capitalize on our insecurities and feed our fears. So, let’s add a little context and flesh this out some more…

That funny looking word at the top of the page has a very poignant meaning. Athazagoraphobia is the fear of forgetting; of being forgotten, replaced, or being ignored. The idea probably doesn’t seem too foreign to most readers. Unfortunately, thanks to civilization’s rather skewed modern day philosophies it is an illness that is threatening to consume the societal collectives and subcultures that define us. Someone recently wrote to me and asked what it felt like to be a social influencer. The question came from a brilliant young writer who has a great career ahead of him, and was delivered with the utmost sincerity. Yet while I should have been thrilled to be bestowed with such a title, it actually left me feeling cheap.

When I envision a social influencer I find myself conjuring up images of vanity and social media posts aimed at generating revenue for businesses through spamming newsfeeds with sponsored posts. Here’s me influencing in my new sweatpants. Here I am taking a photo of coffee, or food, or a whatever else. The product isn’t important. But the imbalance in our logic is. We equate the idea of influence with marketing and misconstrue the lines between being educated and informed, with merely being sold a product. An influencer should be someone who is stimulating creativity, or inspiring social change; not hindering individualism and authenticity by capitalising on society’s ever growing desire to be irreplaceable and unforgettable through slick marketing gimmicks.

There is a very big difference between a brand ambassador and a social influencer; or at least there should be. Because marketing and purpose driven content has its place, but our cultural inability to distinguish between the two can have damaging repercussions to our mental and societal health. The idea that we should be persuaded to not only consume, but to compete in doing so, can lead to feelings of isolation, frustration and depression. We shouldn’t be forced to feel as though we are in competition to out consume and out replicate the influencers that we aspire to. The result of this logic is that we become miserable drones blinded by own desire to maximise self interest that we can no longer see the beauty and value of the people that we see as our rivals.

Alright. Let’s get back to Darwin and the battle between love and survival.

I dream of the day where I can refer to myself as a social influencer. I really do. As a writer there a few thrills more rewarding than knowing that the workings that you have produced have the power to inspire the reader. But I want don’t want to encourage my readers to compete or consume. I want to inspire them to be great; not in the bullshit sense of greatness that is pushed upon us on a daily basis either. I don’t want people to believe that my vision of greatness has anything to do with money, or power or status. All that crap is just superficial nonsense that is keeping you distracted and diverting attention away from what is really important.

My vision of greatness is more akin to happiness. It is a life filled with love and contentedness. It is having a heart free from angst and anxiety, an open mind, and an understanding that we are all connected. We aren’t in competition with one another; we never have been. It’s just a bullshit lie that we have been spoon fed for so long now that we are actually beginning to believe it . We don’t need to subscribe to the philosophy of survival of the fittest. We need to practise love and human compassion instead. By doing so, we will find a happiness that will render any fear of being forgotten and replaced obsolete.

I spent years suffering from a form of athazagoraphobia; I have always been riddled by anxiety and depression. One of my greatest fears is that when I die, I will simply cease to exist and will eventually be forgotten. This phobia is one of the many reasons that I write. I want to be happy. I want to love, and to be loved. Yet for so long I thought that happiness would come through being the best. Just like so many others I misconstrued the idea of greatness with being better than the people that I believed myself to be in competition with. I spent years convinced that if I pushed myself  to become the best writer in existence, then people would have to love and remember me. But I was wrong.

It wasn’t until just recently when I stumbled upon the fact that opened this post that I realised that the only person I need to be great in comparison to is the person that I was yesterday. If I love, I will be loved. And if I focus on inspiring my fellow man rather than competing against them, I will touch them and I will be remembered not as the greatest writer that ever lived; but as the greatest version of me that I could have ever been. If following this logic makes me a social influencer in some respect; then I will take pride in the title bestowed upon me.

Redamancy

I rest my hand against your chest and feel it swell with a sharp intake of breath. Your skin is warm against my palm as I map the contours of your flesh. I marvel at the symmetry of your breasts; tracing my fingers around their curves and feel your heart beat against them. I breathe in your scent and watch you exhale as your lips break into a smile and your toes curl beneath the sheets. Your allure is intoxicating; I am inebriated by your scent. My hands tremble whenever you leave me. My soul feels bare when you are gone.

I move towards you and hold my lips an inch from yours. I want to stare into your eyes and peer into your soul. I want to understand the divinity that lies beneath the exquisiteness of your skin. Your eyes flicker across my features; your chest rises and falls with every breath. We are two lovers in the throes of passion who have become lost in each other’s eyes.

But there is more to my love than a mere carnal hunger. My yearning is far too intense to culminate in a fleeting moment of physical release. You are ingrained into my soul; as much a part of me as the hands that caress you. You are my reason to breathe. The reason to rise after I fall. To have and to hold you; to kiss you, is more than this lost soul ever deserved.

I stare into your eyes and pray for redamancy. A love returned in full. I long to know that I have captured your heart just as surely as you have captured mine.

I press my lips against yours and feel our souls collide. I pine for you. My heart skips a beat when I hear you breathe my name. I am man lost for words. How can I ever show you that you complete me? How can I ever repay you for capturing my heart and setting my soul free?

You are the exquisite landscape that I long to explore; the only woman I have ever wanted laying beneath my sheets. Our fingers interlock and you close your eyes and sigh. I kiss your neck, hold your hands above your head and feel your weight press against my hips. Let me be the man of your dreams; let me fulfil your wildest desires. I could die knowing that I had lost myself within you, never to be found again. I could spend a lifetime worshiping your flesh or studying the intricacies of your heart and mind; and when the angels come to claim my soul they would see that had never truly been mine.

I watch you sleep beside me and feel your warmth as my lips press against your spine and kiss the dimples of the slender muscles in your shoulders. You murmur and mumble, stirring lethargically as you dream. The tranquilness of slumber has never looked so divine. The peacefulness of fantasies has never been so alluring.

The act of of loving one who loves you in return. Of lying awake at night to protect you while you dream. It’s a romance that reaches beyond our physical chemistry and plucks at the mystic chords of my heart. I am a man intoxicated by your beauty and at a loss for words. I will never be able to articulate my love for you. There are no words sweet enough to capture the elegance and sophistication of your splendour. But in my romance induced drunkenness I can promise you my heart. I can give my life to you and pray for redamancy. I can hold my breath as I watch you sleep and dream of the day that I become ingrained into your soul, just as you have become ingrained into mine.

You

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. That’s what they told you from the very start. If an author pines for you, you’ll be immortalized in their words. Your eloquence will be captured in their prose as they strum at the chords of your heart and kiss the innermost chambers of your naked soul. So let me take off your clothes and take you in my arms.

Let me enfold you. Let me take your heart in my hands and feel it beat my name. Let me be the air that fills your aching lungs and swells within your chest. I’ll breathe life into your soul and be the man who basks in a beauty far greater than his own. Throw your bones against mine and feel the solidarity of my embrace. Let my kiss your skin, stroke your hair and settle your racing mind.

You are poetry in motion; a landscape of flesh so exquisite that to lay my trembling hands upon you causes my heart to skip a beat. I am nothing more than a foolhardy wanderer determined to claim you as his own. You are the fluidity and grace that course through my life as surely as blood passes through my veins. So let me enfold you. Let me take away your pain.

Feel my hands on your hips, my fingers tracing the contours of your curves. I’ll kiss your dimples and run my fingers through your hair. Feel my lips on your neck as I whisper my hopes, dreams and desires against your skin. No words could ever describe the beauty of your cheeks as they burst to life with a rush of blood to the head. I want you to lose yourself in my eyes. I want to be your reason to breathe.

Let me feel you writhe beneath my sheets as I take your breast in the palm of my hand or interlock your fingers with mine. Let me devour and defile you as I pin your hands above your head and leave teeth marks against your skin.

You are divinity incarnate: a woman of heavenly beauty. Angelic in poise and grace. So let me encompass you in my arms and show you what I have yearned for. Let me worship the ground beneath your feet.

Embrace my warmth as I set your world on fire. Watch the flames of my passion rise and fall with every kiss and every touch. Feel the euphoria wash across your skin and cause your hairs to stand on end as my hands grace your delicate surface. I’ll tease your goose bumps and watch them prickle beneath my fingertips.

Let me peel back the layers of your soul and quell your innermost fears. I long to make love to your flesh. But it’s your mind that I crave the most.

So open your heart and take me inside. Tell me your innermost insecurities and fears. Let me take away your pain and carve my name into the chambers of your soul. Let my love enfold you as I capture your magnificence in my prose. You are poetry in motion; the apple of a writer’s eye. So throw your bones against mine until we become one. Let me take your heart in my hands, let me feel it beat my name.

Crime Without Punishment

You broke into my chest and stole my heart. You looked me in the eye, asked me to take your hands and then robbed me blind. Like a thief in the night you moved so silently; climbed through the boarded up windows of my soul and pillaged from within. You should have been punished! You should have been reprimanded and rebuked! But yours was a crime without punishment. You stole my heart, and all I could do was watch as held it in your trembling hands and told me to trust that you would keep it safe.

I told you that your body was a landscape. I was supposed to be the vicious world eater with an insatiable lust to destroy the map. But now I feel you inside me; feel my heart beating your name and know that I have been bested by the contours I fought valiantly to conquer. I scaled your breasts, left my teeth marks on your neck and impressions of my hands on your hips. But these marks were only skin deep; you broke beneath the surface and saw the nakedness of I. You forced your way into a place no other has ever reached and carved your name into the fleshy chamber of my humanity. You took a soul plagued by anger and stole from it. You took away the anger; plundered from the well of bitter thoughts. You should have been punished. You should have been admonished.

But how could I ever hurt someone so darling? How could I ever dream of stringing you up like a thief and tearing apart your innocence? Your crime was one committed through best intentions. A soul descended from the heavens, dragged through the mud and tarnished by a wolf. I could have been your fall from grace. But instead you lead me to the waters of my rebirth. You stripped me bare and asked me to bathe until I was washed clean. So I sank beneath the surface until I was engulfed by a world so calming, so wondrously silent and tranquil.

Alone with my thoughts I could think of nothing but you. I could feel you with me; imagine your fingers interlaced between mine. I was the devil. I was the world eater and wolf. But you tore apart all the misguided preconceptions I had of you and I. You showed me in the silence beneath the waters just how beautiful we could be.

I emerged born again; infatuated and no longer alone. I had never imagined I could be so contented; so smitten and besotted. I tried to fight it. I wrapped my fingers around your throat, left bite marks and bruises on your legs. But I couldn’t fight the remorse or shake the feelings of regret. The thief who stole my heart deserved more than I could ever give. You broke open the vault of my heart and found it barely beating within.

You took it in your hands, stared deep into the eyes of a wounded beast and nurtured it back to health. You committed a crime without punishment. You stole my heart to set it free. You should have been chided, strung up and ousted for your devious ways. But all I could do is stare into your eyes as you asked me to trust you and place my hands in yours. You stole my heart, now it’s yours to nurture and keep.

I am at your mercy. A wolf swallowing his own pride. I am vulnerable and exposed. You are the thief who committed the ultimate crime.

(Almost) Second & Sebring

I’ve always had this strange idea that the day I become a published author I’ll make a few phone calls to notify my loved ones of my success before sitting down with a glass of scotch, a cigar and a stereo pumping out one of my favourite songs of all time: Second and Sebring. It’s a weird little fantasy, and one that doesn’t really have any great significance other than to provide a moment of reflection and mark the moment when I transition into a new period within my life. The song itself is an obvious choice to me. With an opening line stating ‘I believe it’s time for me to be famous’, it just seems like the logical choice for an author with an ego as grand as mine. But when you start to dissect the lyrics a deeper meaning emerges as Austin Carlile and Shayley Bourget pay homage to those who raised them and allowed them to succeed.

So this time I’ll make you proud.

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been sitting on some pretty big news and was so close to having my own Second & Sebring moment. But sadly it just wasn’t meant to be. That homage to my family and friends for their refusal to give up on my stubborn arse was put on hiatus.

You may remember that a few months ago I ventured across the globe to chase down my dreams and the result was pretty damn positive. I walked away from the experience with a list of agents and film companies reviewing my work and a renewed passion for what I do. Since then I’ve been sitting on my hands awaiting feedback from those companies, twiddling my thumbs and averaging about five hours sleep a night. Then two weeks ago I got notification that my work was being presented to a board of directors for potential representation and publication. Suddenly that five hours of sleep I was averaging was cut in half and my mind went into overdrive as I started to imagine what it would be like when that phone call came through saying you’ve made it. Success was so damn close that I could taste it.

For two achingly long weeks I sat in the most fucked up version of limbo I have ever experienced. Neither a success nor a failure I moved through everyday life on autopilot, blissfully unware of anything other than my IPhone as it beeped with each call, message, or email. My phone would spring to life and my heart would skip a beat; could this be the call? And when it wasn’t a small piece of me would wither and die. Then after fifteen days of sheer hell I finally got the call every writer dreads:

We like it. It’s strong. It’s engaging. It’s just not us. Best of luck with another company.

Funnily enough I have always found positive feedback harder to take than the negative. When someone delivers the negative I feel inspired to work harder. It’s like waving a red rag to a bull. You tell me what I’ve produced is shit and I will run myself into the ground to create something better than you could ever dream of. But to be told that you are so close to everything you ever wanted is worse than being told to give up altogether. I’ve been in this situation before; a previous manuscript almost found publication, and when it fell through I crumbled. Yet this time I seem to be handling my stumble at the finish line rather well. I’m feeling inspired, confident, and grateful for the experience. It is an incredible feeling to have positive affirmations bestowed upon your work by an industry you crave to break in to.

So my gratefulness got me thinking; why do I have to wait until I’m successful or famous to pay homage to the people who have supported me throughout my journey? Why can’t I say near enough is close enough and throw out a little love to the people I would give my life to protect? Surely I can just say thankyou to my mother and father, my brothers, sister, and sister in law who have listened to my misguided tales of woe or pigheadedness over the years. And give recognition to my friends that have never given up on me when I have fallen in a heap or regressed into to a hermit like state. Surely I can have a Second & Sebring moment right now and say I’m still yet to make you proud of me, but through the positive feedback I received with my knockback I’m now more determined than ever to succeed.

Right now my work is still under review by a number of other companies and I hope and pray every single day that it will find a home with one of them. But even if it doesn’t I’m young, determined and not afraid to be knocked down anymore. If all of this fails I’ll remind myself that what doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger and rise once more to take this industry by force. Until then the scotch and cigars remain untouched, but that song of homage and my love for those who inspire me will be screamed at decibels usually reserved for the wails of the damned.

To paraphrase Carlile and Bourget, when I break through I’ll make you proud to see me overcome all day life.

Proud of who you raised.

Only one of us walks away

“Everyone is dead and we dance like a knife fight.”
-Matt Breen.

So there’s this guy. He’s young, cocky, intelligent, and brash. He’s spent a lifetime learning how to play with people. He knows how to read them and control them. He hates the person that he is sometimes. He hates that he can figure out everyone but himself. It infuriates him that he can break open the mind of a stranger when he can barely scratch at the surface of his own subconscious. He’s self-destructive; he can’t seem to help himself sometimes. He’s a man with an overactive imagination and a tongue laced with acid who just wants to watch his own world burn. He’s an unstoppable force.

Then there’s this girl. She’s beautiful. She’s intelligent, funny, artistic, compassionate, driven, and did I mention that she’s beautiful? She comes into the life of the man mentioned above and shatters his preconceptions that he can survive as an island. She breaks through the intricate web of lies he creates to shield himself from the world and sees his soul laid bare. There’s just something about her; this magnetism that draws him in. No matter how hard he tries to fight it he can’t help but feel himself being drawn towards her. She’s perfect in his eyes. Her idiosyncrasies leave him speechless, and her smile sends him weak at the knees. But there are just two little problems. The first? The first is that she’s an immovable object. All the bullshit he spins to others just doesn’t work with her. She’s looked into his eyes and seen his soul and she knows him better than he knows himself.

The second problem? She’s just as self-destructive as he is.

Welcome to the world of romance according to Chris Nicholas. Instead of boy meets girl and falls in love and lives happier ever after, I’ve found myself writing about what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. What happens when a man who keeps everyone at a distance meets a girl who does the same damn thing and he suddenly finds himself trying to overcome the same mental barriers he uses to thwart the advances of others is a concept that intrigues the hell out of me. And it’s one that leaves me scratching my head as I pen my way through page after page of my script.

So let’s delve a litter deeper… I’m thinking out loud right now, and there’s no real point to this post other than some general mind mapping. If you’re after something a little more clear and concise, this will be your last chance to opt out.

No? You’re still with me? Alright, let’s continue.

This guy, his name is Miles, meets this girl: Ava. She’s everything he could ever want, and he knows that if she gave him a chance he could be the same to her. But she’s distant and aloof. There’s chemistry between them, anyone can see that. And when they are together there is electricity in the air that is almost tangible. They just click. But she keeps him at bay, just like he has done to so many people before. It drives him wild, he pushes and he pushes, and soon the unstoppable force collides with the immovable object at full speed. But while he hopes and prays that the collision will bring about a climatic shift where two worlds become one, it shatters him instead. The unstoppable force loses out and the immovable object barely registers the impact; she’s too busy destroying herself to even realise what might have been.

And so the knife fighting begins. It’s not vicious though, and that’s the worst part. The duo dances their way through a courting process that is beautifully destructive; their moments of intimacy and honesty leaving behind small cuts on their souls. He wants her soul, her mind, and her heart. She wants to shut him out for fear of getting hurt. The idea of letting someone understand her leaves Ava with a sense of dread so severe she wants to run away from everything. Just as Miles wants to burn his world when things go wrong, she wants to abandon hers.

So they dance and they dance. He knows her better than she knows herself. He can see when she’s denying herself the opportunity to be happy. But she also understands his lust for self-destruction better than he could ever hope to comprehend. She’s destroyed herself more than anyone could ever know and can see what he is thinking before he’s even aware of it himself. They are two identical souls fighting against one another for that common ground. He wants to pull her close. She sees the threat and wants to push him away.

Sounds confusing right? And just a little macabre too I guess. But I love the concept. I love the struggle, and I love the idea of two people who are so similar yet so different at the same time. My characters are based off of Aristotle’s idea of friendship. The philosopher said that a friend is a single soul dwelling within two bodies, and that’s exactly what I want to create with my love story. I want to create something beautiful, but something destructive. One wants to love, one is afraid to be loved. And in the end, when all the knife fighting is over, only one of them will walk away.

The wolf you feed

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

It turns out that I’ve been feeding the wrong wolf for a long, long time. In my haste to transcend beyond my own limitations as an author and man, I starved the wrong damn wolf and allowed the other to grow fat with the spoils of a one sided war. I’ve always seen myself as different from my fellow man, and I always will. But for a time I thought that because of this altered perspective I needed to fuel my creativity with an abundance of anger, greed, arrogance and resentment. I pushed myself to become a real arsehole because I thought that if I wanted to be more than I currently am I had to really drive home that disconnect between myself and society as a whole. I didn’t just want to be an eccentric and offensive writer. I wanted to redefine what it meant to be different. I wanted people to begrudgingly admire the bastard that I had become.

Jesus, didn’t I mess that up…

I mean what kind of moron not only feeds the wrong wolf but actively goes out of his way to hinder the better angel of his nature? I may as well have pinned the compassionate wolf to the damn floor and exposed his jugular. I’m talking in riddles I know. So let me just say this: I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of pushing others away. And I’m damn tired of actively going out of my way to become that disgruntled, reclusive writer stereotype who is a real arrogant piece of work. You may have noticed that my blogging has been more regular as of late, more focused too – and it’s purely because I’ve learned that feeding the wolf of pure evil has bought me nothing but frustration and heartbreak. So I’ve changed tact, and now I’m focusing more on the beauty in this world and as a result my mind is clearer than it has ever been.

What bought about this change? Well, it’s a long and complicated story made up of many complexities and variables, so much so that I’m not even sure that I understand it myself. So let’s simplify it and say that I starved the compassionate wolf for so long that it did what any other frightened animal would do: it came out fighting. With nothing left to lose and a whole world of inspiration to gain, that sickly side of my heart and mind that I had left neglected limped onto the battlefield and faced off against a stronger wolf comprising of twisted intentions and idiotic arrogance, and kicked its fucking arse. The hatred in me had grown complacent and weak, leaving both itself and me totally vulnerable to a hostile takeover.

But this isn’t the end of my two wolves and their fighting. It’s a never ending battle, just as the old Cherokee told his grandson. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. Life is sempiternal. So while right now the compassionate wolf reigns supreme in my mind, the wolf of pure evil has slunk away to lick its wounds and plan its next attack. But unlike my past where I actively fueled the bastard in me, I’m learning to let it fend for itself. That’s not to say that I will starve him though. Because if my current brevity has taught me anything it’s that an animal with nothing left to lose is too powerful to ignore. I’ll always be jealous of the writer who strikes it rich while I still toil away at my manuscripts. That’s human nature, and nothing to be ashamed of. But I will no longer actively feed those negative thought processes. That jealousy will be a result of respect, not abhorrence and hate.

Life really is a beautiful thing, and to be blessed with the gift to breathe a second life to it through literature is something that I will cherish until the end of time. So while I was once fueled by the bitter wolf of greed and hate, wanting only to transcend beyond the man that I am now; I now want to create something that transcends beyond myself and becomes an entity unto itself. I don’t want to be an overzealous and aggressive genius anymore. I simply want to be the man who fell in love with the world and used that inspiration to make beautiful literature.

%d bloggers like this: