Walking in my Grandfathers shoes

A Sunday morning can be spent in many different ways. I prefer mine with a coffee in hand, listening to Johnny Cash, with my phone on silent. There is no one I need to communicate with when the gospel of Cash brings me back to yesteryear.

I like my writing like I like my music – rough around the edges, honest and raw, with just the right amount of profanity peppered throughout.

I’ve been told that my grandfather was clever when putting pen to paper. That he could recite poetry off the top of his head, and that he too had an understanding and affection for the written word. Sounds like my kind of man.

I’m sure that I inherited this from him, and that he also had a drawer tucked away, full of loose-leaf papers with scribbled notes about love, life and the lessons he had endured.

I should clarify. I’m not attempting to wax poetic about my family lineage or writing and what it means to me. It’s just nice to finally come to grips with who I am, and what I’m supposed to do. Hell, it only took 33 years! (Insert sarcastic emoji here…)

Give me a microphone, a camera and a stage, and I promise to entertain you.

Give me a good coffee buzz and some Adderall, and I promise to write words you’ll always remember.

I’m strongly opposed to when people refer to me as lucky, because luck has nothing to do with it. Luck is for fools buying lottery tickets, with their fingers crossed, hoping their prayers will be answered.

Days wasted in contempt, months drowned in doubt, years blown away like autumn leaves in winter’s first storm. Why the fuck are we doing this to ourselves? It makes no sense. People are consumed with the so-called “white picket fence” dream that they forget to ask themselves, ‘Is this really what I want?’

I want to be watched like Fallon, and read like Bukowski. What do you want?

Honestly, what do you want?

Don’t give bullshit answers like health and happiness, because until you define what that actually means, those words carry about as much importance as a funny phrase scrawled on a bathroom stall: nice to kill some time thinking about, but easily forgotten.

I have learned many truths about life while reading books on Mysticism and The Kabbalah, the most essential being this: call it God, the Universe, or Energy – the name does not matter. What does is that you are still a part of it, just as this glass of water is still a part of the river from which it came, temporarily separated, and destined to return.

If this is true, and I believe that it is, then there is a greatness hidden for you. I can’t give you the answer to where you will find it, but I can certainly give you a clue, so here it is: spend more time looking within.

Once you do that, then I promise you this: one day you will look back and wonder why you dealt with ‘good’ for so long, when ‘great’ had always been yours to hold.