Letters to Old Friends

I tend to hold onto memories like sentimental letters from long-lost friends. In a way, that’s exactly what they are, but some letters are meant to collect dust for a very long time before they’re read so as not to be misconstrued, and some are meant to be burned. I can remember when I was three years old, I walked into the family room in my house and simply noticed how tall the asbestos-treated, vaulted ceilings were. Around the same age, I watched light stream through the skylight in the hallway between the living room/kitchen and family room, illuminating the little specks of dust that lazily floated through the air. It must have been a Saturday because the dust was particularly lazy that day. I know I was around three of four years old because I moved out of that house just after turning five.

Those are letters I have no business holding onto, but I enjoy them for their simplicity and innocence, and I have a few more like them. I do, however, have letters I think I burned prematurely. My old friends from around 5th-8th grade remind me of some fun and interesting times we had back in the good ‘ol days, but there are some memories I was certainly present for, and yet did not retain. They were very pleasant memories, too, I’m sure of it. It was within those years a few friends had died, and the only thing I can think of is that something in that moment cast a pang of sorrow through me. But now, I wish I had some of those memories back. The problem is you can’t puzzle together pieces of ash.

I wish I could burn the letters from Regret.

Honestly, at the end of the day, the funniest thing to think about is how every letter we’ve written, whether by hand or by mind, will eventually succumb to the ravenous, consuming jaws of time. Some will decay with us, and some will last as long as we do.

In the End, every letter is burned.

In the End, it’s all just ashes.


When Fire Destroys

I realized there may come a day where we stand side-by-side, my arm around your waist and yours in mine as we look over the destruction of some part of our lives, and for just a moment, reel.

The vows I made to you buzz through my head along with the checklist of things I will never see again. We note the fragility of things like our pillows, and each other. We cry. But my Love, they are bittersweet tears. Because for all we’ve lost and all we will need to do to rebuild our corner kingdom, I still have you.

Dear future Wife, I Love you right now. You may not know it, you may not feel it. You may be someone I see regularly, or maybe we are still strangers. But, my Love, I know you are out there, and I am waiting looking for you. I can’t wait to laugh and cry, build and be destroyed, and rebuild alongside you.


This post was inspired by a picture I saw in the newspaper of a couple looking at the ruins where their house once stood in Sonoma Valley, California. All I could think was, “at least they have each other.”

The Right Kind of Sigh

It’s raining inside

But not in the way you’d think…

It’s as if the coffee is sitting on the corner table

pillow and blanket splayed on the couch

as if I haven’t turned the lights on yet

just a gray light filling the room

filtering through the unguarded window

brushing over every surface

even houseplants breathe in lethargy

the tapping begins

one by one, drops of rain beckon attention

I’d pause the movie and sit up

if I haven’t fallen asleep already

I’d listlessly watch the leaves and grass

bob sporadically to the indistinguishable rhythm

or I’d listlessly dream

of laying on a couch

with Love in my arms


Sometimes the sun ruins a perfectly gloomy day

The Leaden Albatross

My dear, your eyes are heavy and your heart seems too much to bear. Yet you inhale burden only to exhale hope, and whatever the matter may be, you do not speak of it. You maintain the toxins with poise to spare the blithe. Whatever may be pressing on your mind, you gracefully cage it inside.

You are admirable, my dear, but please share your millstone. The world was not placed around you to simply behold strength.


Until I Keep Going

Staring down at the ground, heart pounding… three thousand feet down, or am I standing at the bottom? I can’t tell from here. The black veil surrounds me, and its name is Life. It is alive and changing, but not to my discernment. All I know is it’s just the ledge, mirror, and me. Why can’t I tell if I’m about to fall off or if I am about to pigeon it with my face? Like a house of mirrors, but will I see my reflection when I look up or down? Or has that been answered for me already? I could just lay down and let darkness engulf me. That’s so easy.

No, I will face this. I will find my place.

I look up and see me looking down at the ledge and me. I can touch the looking glass. Cold but smooth, it comforts me. I look down and see nothing but my toes curling over the edge. Deep below, the rippled and distorted disfigurement of me. Mayhaps simply a different me.

So this is what the top looks like? The only certainty is that I was there and now I am here?

Only one thing to do…

So I turn into the veil and walk away from the ledge. No sense in falling back to where I know I was. Littered with debris and snares, I stumble my way into the black on this walkway of ice and cinders. I can see the way back to the ledge… It is all I know to be true. Looking forward, blindness meets me eye to eye. Moving on, I could fall into another, deeper pit. I could find stairs. That’s why it’s called the black.

I guess I won’t know until I keep going.


Blurry Cartoons

I often find myself asking, “Who am I supposed to be?” and no matter who I ask or how often I ask it, occasionally screaming it into the wind, I’ve never come any closer to an answer than simply, “Myself.” It’s not comforting, and it most certainly is not easy. That’s because it’s not an easy question, and there is no formula for how to do life “correctly.” I was very inspired by Sascha Hjort’s video titled The Most Important Question, and I highly recommend you check it out (click the blue hyperlink).

Because, as Sascha states, the question is not, “Who am I supposed to be,” but rather, “Who do I want to be?”

Life isn’t about hard, fast rules. If there was a correct way to do everything, we would just do that thing, and everything else would be incorrect deviation. I, so far, have gone through the standard stages of the American education system, achieved a bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering, got a job as a civil engineer, a job as a barista at a coffee shop, a professional photography drone pilot (yes, 3 jobs at once), and now I’m looking at buying the coffee shop I work at, quitting the civil engineering job, and seeing what other fleeting fancy catches my dreaming eyes. In addition, I’m working on not just one, but 6 music projects simultaneously, writing stories and books, and keeping up this blog (which, if you haven’t noticed, is riddled with errors because I don’t take the time to actually edit any of the content. This is my safe place to mind-dump.

But why am I telling you this? Because this is who I want to be. And Sascha is so correct. That is the most important question (I promise that’s not a spoiler for the video, you should still watch it. She says some really great things). I am generally happy with life, though I need to add some sort of physical activity to my list of daily to-do’s, because I also want to be physically fit.


so don’t you ever dare let anyone define you

because they’ll just make a copy of themself

if, to your character, you want to stay true

blur the lines, don’t collect dust on the shelf

you’re not in a cameo roll waiting for a cue

you’re the star, you light up the sky yourself

and if you don’t like who you are in cartoon

jump off the film strip, stop trying so hard to rhyme or keep to meter or maintain a syllable count, and don’t let the question, “who do I want to be” get answered by anyone else.

I Choose My Bane

Mine is a heart on the wing

yet a mind seemingly left a step behind

from thence erupts my temerity

and my placid joy.

Sluggishness does not accompany my thoughts

rather, in frenetic candor does it overlook

its own myopic tendency

such is it that my Love is an aginner.

This fecklessness

leaves no opportunity for disdain

and a capricious eye journeys closely

to the sparks and conflagrations, reserving naught.

Now, mayhaps, you understand why I stand sanguine

for whence my heart wanders

my mind is ever-present

choosing for its own when to implement wit.

The Mechanism


Here, inside the Mechanism, we all have our place. We are billions of data points, billions of simple machines, and together, we turn the gears inside the Pocket Watch. While one promotes Industry and causes great influx of revenue, another seeks to extricate himself of Currency. One works to feed the Mechanism, and the other to eat from It. One is the Gear, the other the Bearing, and still another, the Minute Hand.

We glide past one another in an oblivious, seemingly arbitrary motion. We are attuned only to those directly adjacent, and even then sometimes ignorant of existence beyond our own. Just beyond our own. Death and life cycles evermore around us. The world in its ephemeral Glory, shimmering.

Yet of all our ignorance… Of all our obliviousness… The most egregious Flaw… Simply by our existence within the same shared frame of reference… We are coincident to one another. And this, not by mere chance.