My instinct is better developed, now

but I still ask myself, “What was that about?”

At a party

I felt fine.

We were laughing.

I felt as I do now,

writing these lines.

I don’t edit myself.

I was enjoying them.

Much of what I do

is to make sense of what I do.

I find myself

testing myself, against them.

How wrong they are,

and not because I need to prove them wrong.

I do this on coffee dates.

I do this in front of 200 people.

I do this when I am completely alone.

I have to know what motivates me.

There are several things…

but failure hacks most of them away

until there is nothing left


something remains.

I am always looking for that.

It happens when I’m writing.

I get lost in the stories I create.

It happens when I play music.

My momentum caries me past poorly played notes on waves of power.

It happens with my philosophy—where true strength holds up against the elements.

This is a distillation

and refinement of who I am.

I want what I can’t see

to laugh

when nothing is funny.

I want to be

totally free.


2 thoughts on ““What was that about?”

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