Work, it seems like all that I have time to do. I’m inun­dated with thoughts, yet I cannot act on them. A job is nothing more than a reason to settle for contempt. There is an implicit amount of fear that goes along with retaining employ­ment, and I am not a fan of it. When someone is comfort­able, entrenched in their cycles of medi­oc­rity, it can be shaking to contem­plate leaving the consis­tency of normal life behind.

I really do believe that success, no matter how small it may measure, kills personal inno­va­tion and devel­op­ment on an equal scale. Example, I’m 30 and I feel dead. I’m still coming to terms with this world having nothing more than a loose collec­tion of shit days and mone­tary trans­ac­tions to reward the mindful. A 9 to 5 feels like a death sentence when you realize that it’s robbing you of the best years of your life. To further elab­o­rate, any year you life is the best year of your life, and every year that you chase a dollar is one wasted.

Big secret, I fucking hate money. I hear too many people who defend money. “You like stuff don’t you? You need money for stuff!” Kiss my ass and fuck your stuff. To say that mate­rial posses­sions are the justi­fi­able reasons for working is infinity sad. One should work to contribute to some­thing greater, not for fucking stuff.

…

I’ve been working with some friends on a project that I hope to help remedy my piss-poor outlook, perhaps to free me of the tyranny of my own compla­cence. Let’s be honest, the chances of this happening are slim to none, but let’s give it a go. (fucking defeatist)

I would love to spend my time thinking, to philos­o­phize, to reflect, to dream. There’s no dreaming in America, not now, only night­mares of some face­less terror consuming the hearts and minds of an igno­rant popu­lous with their own visions of the failure. It makes no sense to me to worry about the terror, when we have real issues like a mis-proportioned distri­b­u­tion of world wealth and health. This planet’s people are likely to eat them­selves out of sheer spite for their own existence.

…

Fuck, I have to teach the dead now. Off to work.

Even­tu­ally, I am going to have this all sorted.

Bear with me.