La Brea Tar Pits

One year ago, I had it. Flipping the hourglass, it was like deja vu all over again. Eat, ski, work, repeat. I was surrounded by fractions of men, tar oozing from all orifices, trudging down the long road ahead. I was not to become a La Brea mammoth, frozen in time for all to laugh at. I decided to think for myself, by myself. Who do I wish I was, and what would he be doing? A writer, and he would be writing. I am a hopeless romantic and the most uncommon, what a pity. I put my right foot forward, then fell right into my own trap. And what a rabbit hole it has been.

It is the conviction of truth and my own delusions of grandeur that drives my words into stone. We cannot know where anything will go. As I write, I excavate the truth I mean to tell. I could never know from above. As I dig, I dig with conviction. I know that I do not know, and that knowledge is power. There is no next sentence, there is no next choice. Charge on my fearless little prince, you will soon hold the throne. I grab life by the cajónes, and I do exactly what I want. All I have is opportunity. To do something, to say something, to write something. A dictionary of endless worlds, endless possibilities. But do you understand the possibilities? Start reading more, it will all make sense.