I catch myself speaking past the point where my sentences should end. My mind is a cannonball. The momentum of my thoughts carries me back to Cabo San Lucas, landing where the ocean takes its last breath. It’s the one place where I’ve uprooted and replanted my spirit. It’s a personal crossroads where my past and present come together.

To pay my respects, I find I must say the name in full to honor its significance. I do this because gaps often appear in my language; I am grateful for my native tongue, but it still falls short. Through the ocean’s rhythmic pulse and graceful movements, I can interact with God. Cabo San Lucas bridges my linguistic gaps. It mends my language one wave at a time. Every time I visit, I understand how my own rigid speech is at odds with nature’s fluid dialect. Every layer, every inch, and every surge of the Pacific Ocean reveals raw, primal beauty. This landscape is like my personal creation account. It feels as if the water wrote my whole history. Rather than offering scientific truths about material origins, it offers only amor fati. The ocean shows me my reality. It urges me to accept my fate and deeper truths about how my history has shaped me.

I’m lulled by the endless ocean at the edge of the world, staring into the unknown magic and vastness. Like the land, I am destroyed and rebuilt, but unlike Rome, I do not need an eternity; I rebuild in a day and a night. The sea remains unseen, untouched, and elusive. I have no secrets before the ocean; it knows exactly who I am the moment my toes reach the sand—a minority in size and color. As a human, I’m a minority on a planet that’s 70% water. I am a creature of the dry land, an outlier in a world dominated by the deep. Sometimes, my black skin makes me feel invisible. It’s like land disappearing as sea levels rise. Death is no different from sinking into the depths of the ocean. I look for vulnerability in the shimmering, glass-like surface of the waves. The tide holds the self-awareness I cannot reveal on my own. I am returning to Cabo San Lucas for the fourth time. I will confront the memories of my fourteen-, sixteen-, and eighteen-year-old selves. At twenty-six, the tide pulls me toward change once more. I aim to reevaluate my masculinity in the face of the ocean’s serene presence.

At fourteen, I began high school. I joined the basketball team and navigated the awkward journey to manhood. I had no theory of self whatsoever. Each experience gave me new hope of discovering my true identity. Later, I would come to understand the ego. I didn’t realize that the rap music I was listening to was crafting my image of what a man should be. I lost my virginity because I thought it was the boy thing to do. I thought the act of sex meant that I was a man now. By the end of my first year, I looked back and felt a profound sense of ignorance. I discovered my love for writing during the Texas STAAR writing assessment at the end of that first year. Seeing what could come out of the wellspring of my heart, I kept a little journal with me for the next year. This newfound voice led me back to the water, as no one is anything without the sea.

I visited Cabo San Lucas the summer before my junior year, when I was sixteen. Early into the school year, the coach cut me from the basketball team. Then, my dear uncle Ace passed away from stage 4 liver cancer. I have no poetic way to say it other than that he was a great man. I remember spending a Fourth of July with him when I was young. In the early 2000s, we played my cousin’s Nintendo 64. We also shared meals of ramen noodles with Louisiana hot sauce and egg sandwiches. In those simple moments, he showed me what a fatherless son should learn. He taught me to be a stand-up guy and to open the door for my lady. I still haven’t processed losing him. My uncle was the only father figure I ever had of my own blood. I carry his memory within me, so he remains eternal.

I will be the one who makes his spirit beautiful. I honor him by adopting the disciplined, spiritual ways of Pueblo War Captains. I write about my uncle through my own rituals. I pray and make offerings, sending silent messages through heavenly messengers.

Cabo San Lucas mentored me in ways I could not put into words until eight years later. Everything changed when my mom called and told me we would be going again at twenty-six. This return trip will finally allow me to reconnect with my eighteen-year-old self. Now I know why the waters were so quiet on my last visit. They’ve been waiting to see how my masculinity would form after I took my needed time away. When I was eighteen, well, I went off to college. I went for two years, changing my major six times. I went from studying film and production to graphic design, back to film and production, and so on. Lost and alone in Phoenix, Arizona, I started to struggle mentally.

I started to lose my sense of self. I thought it was best to give Arizona all I got because I wouldn’t be coming back. I connected with DJs, skateboarders, fashion kids, and anyone else I found cool. When COVID-19 hit, I got put on academic probation. I left school and went back to Arlington, Texas, where my mom’s soon-to-be ex-husband deemed me a “dropout.” I found work at a fashion store called Allsaints and supported myself. Always remembering to care for both my shadow and me. Eight years later, I’m in retail, aiming to make writing my everything. I will see the ocean on June 4th, and I ask it to make my dreams come true.

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A new morning arrives, absent sunshine. Last night, clouds gathered, defying my day’s design. A deep ache lingers within me. Today, the idea of leaving home feels unthinkable. Here, I seek refuge, a haven to confront my true self, hidden from the world’s watchful eyes.

The clouds above mirror my own internal emptiness. My heart has no fixed address; it dances side to side, left to right. I’m crafting paragraphs to guide me across blank lines, searching for a temporary home. This home, cluttered with dirty dishes, waits for the right time to move on.

I echo the depths from which I rise. What sparks of movement did Joan Miró find to track his heart’s journey? He was a master at revealing where his heart resided. Yet, my inner child yearns to play today, while adult responsibilities bind me tight.

To ignite passion amid the world’s chaos is my only solace. Yet, I crave security and must bear my burden. Am I foolish to trade moments for mere job security? As Clarice Lispector said, “He who is not poor in money is poor in spirit.” How I wish those words were my own!

Perhaps I should channel her spirit and seek her permission. Until then, I’ll meditate on her wisdom and hope for forgiveness. Death shows no mercy, yet I’m certain we’ll find common ground. Now is the time to seize every moment while death swims far away.

The day seems unaware that I must depart soon. Even the dog is oblivious, racing in joyous circles over soft moss, hoping I’ll chase him until exhaustion claims us both. Soon, my child, we’ll move to another city; there will be no more waiting for security. Instead, we’ll waste away for pure ecstasy.

From that day forward, I’ll finally save the glass precariously teetering on the porcelain edge. We’ll sing in an endless poem, reminiscent of Virgil, celebrating life’s shimmering narrative.

Loving one thing fully means gradually understanding its connection to everything else: life to death, beauty to grief, desire to absence. Nothing exists in isolation. Every attachment bears the weight of the whole.

What concerns me is not just love itself, but its tendency to expand. The face of the beloved shows up everywhere — in strangers, gestures, fragments of memory, passing silhouettes. The world becomes filled with echoes.

I am trying to live within the question without reducing it to convention or performance. Maybe that is the only honest thing left: not resolving love, but enduring its vastness.

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All things are important in the end. I will now account for the present, for this day. The night will cease when the sun arrives. Every breath I borrow from the night will cease then, too. I know I will forget the moon, as I have forgotten every breath I have taken thus far. Remembrance is the greatest gift of all. The only thing for me to do is account for my own remembrance. I use my words as hieroglyphics. I rely on my symbols to make sense of my existence. The most human thing one can do is write about one’s own disappearance. I am tracing tomorrow to remember now, amongst the order of things that also come and go. To remain in harmony with nature, I must gauge my evidence of life.

As a decaying life form, I discover my own skeletons, buried in time. I’m writing for abject reasons, out of my desperate want and need to remember. To be more than I am now. Today is today, not tomorrow. But something inevitable awaits me. I’m aware of an end, yet I leave these things with you here. Every time someone reads my words, it proves I have lived. And I slip out through the back door of heaven and make my way into the world again. I’m supposed to give myself more time before calling it quits. But it’s almost four in the morning. I don’t know how much passion or time is burning in my heart. I assume I’m not calling out to the world, but rather finding a slit of freedom or some shape of salvation. I should return when the sun is up, to accept the fact that this time, I have been reborn.

Not searching for a father alone,

but searching for the missing architecture of himself.

By the time this is in place, my internal season of spring will sprout new leaves. I will already be holding onto something new, filled with a substance not yet known. I will follow the science of recognizing how I am changing. This change happens moment by moment, without me trying to stick my hands in the way of any force or impact. This process is a means of finding a new shape and form. Impact is inevitable, but also a continuous flow. Transformation needs us to engage with seasons, space, temperature, wisdom, and experience. The observer and the observed must interact for this transformation to happen. Existence shifts from a void to a tangible object and finally to my own conscious presence. All events occur in succession. The full extent of my change rests in the point of view. It takes a climb to the top of my own hill to look down at the change I have made.

How does the butterfly ever adjust to no longer being a caterpillar? I would suggest it adjust by forgiving itself in advance for forgetting who and what it was. My change is through innocence, by understanding that “was” is still the now. This continuity is part of the slippery slope of being. My dreams of being a professional athlete were too rooted in physical control. I only realized this once the dream stopped driving me and I had to face what came next. Better yet, I faced the impact of a young boy coming face-to-face with the real world. My change happens within the world as I crash, splash, and collide with everyone else. A wrong turn led me to the right path. This detour was the key reason I lost my virginity at fourteen. That changed all my versions.

My past will always claim a part of me, fading from my life yet still shaping my future. I will show change by sharing my transformation and the sacrifices I made to get here. This history still carries weight; it exists simultaneously for every version of myself. Forgiving myself in advance gives me the grace to evolve. It grounds my change in the principles of emotion, discipline, and morality. I still love many things—basketball, trees, food, and books—but I still struggle with science and math. Yet my interactions within those spaces have deepened my understanding of my purpose. That purpose is to remain open and fluid, releasing the need for a fixed objective so change can happen. This purpose shifts based on my beliefs or the truths I seek in that moment. Joan of Arc was a turning point for me. She was ready to die for the beliefs that others doubted. She ruled her own spirit completely, yet remained bound by the duty and violence of her calling. She embraced both outer and inner self-innovation until the very end.

The present moment hit me hard, cutting off all thoughts about how to create a complete image with words. My head is closer to the pavement than the sky. I’m starting to understand why I carry the fear that the sky will fall. Something has pushed in with great force, leaving no space for anything else. If the atmosphere fell into this narrow gap, the pressure would crush everything. The occurrence would end all life. For my own safety, I don’t want the sky to come any closer. I’m not ready to leave the present to find out what has been beyond me. I must let the ink bleed black on a battlefield to understand what I don’t know. Until I know, I may never be ready to interact with the rest of the heavenly bodies. I want to be here, sitting by the lake down the street from my apartment, gazing at the fragments of the daytime sky. I see nothing but the reflection: a body of water, a capsule of heaven. It is a capsule for a vessel to experience the present, shying away from the instant. I am grappling with my internal being. To stare into the lake is to see where I will return, to know myself, and to know I have been born. I want to know how I naturally am. Somewhere between heaven and water. I am using the advice of Helen Cixous to “graze the paper with the soul’s foot.” I use the advice as a sword, because I am only an outsider to myself, to the water, to heaven, and nature itself.

Today is a new day, with a new meaning. Where does it all lead? I will still think of following the ink to its end into the unknown. At the end of all things lies all the truth we sought in the beginning. The end is like the whole pie. The beginning is the layers, spread throughout any shape of creation. I have taken shape. Or maybe I have taken form. We can only find true shape by not seeking. I constantly seek to give shape to whatever is there, reading the form I provided. I understand myself by walking straight into what the heart desires. Many men believe they have taken a shape because they have the means to prove it through things. They live underwater, sinking below our dimension’s base layer. They miss out on forming a true metaphysical spirit, choosing fool’s gold instead. In the end, we all see things fade behind the walls of the sun and moon. This black ink I follow will spark a new start. It will last beyond my end date. That’s enriching. That’s what the new day has already taught me.

I wrote these sentences at the beginning and at the end, before and after the other sentences. I went back into my notebook after my drives to work. I engage with who I was at the birth of every new sun, and remember who I was at the death of an old moon. Who am I now? I am still using the same pen to find the answer. I spend my mornings before my “real job” on this labor. Before work, my work is to remain in search. In search of what? I never know until that tingle in my spine begins to ring. When I call upon my antiquity, it is like discovering a hidden treasure inside me. I read the works of authors I discovered on my travels through places that gave me more than I could ever give back. A dead poet doesn’t know they are giving back either. But the words, the cafes, the nightwalks in the rain bring joy that one can only internalize. Like these authors and all nature, I hope to see a rose petal bloom between the cracks of concrete one day. It’s ten in the morning on Friday.

I am currently recording the old version of myself—the spiritually malnourished one. Earlier, before leaving the apartment, I had already changed my outfit six times. Aside from the clothes I’m wearing, only a few things still weigh on me. These include publishing deadlines and a meeting with Lauren’s parents. We have now been together for almost two years. For the first time, I will shake their hands, and for the first time, they will see me for who I am. But who am I? The best thing I can do is demonstrate my identity by providing the stability I want for the person I love. It’s shallow to link love with a safety net. Still, I feel pressured to show my worth through financial security. But I have to avoid telling her parents that writing is the only thing I want to do with my life. Writing offers no such nets. I cannot tell them I plan to take their daughter around the world while I scatter ashes in every corner of the globe. I’ll tell them I sell suits. Why explain a dream in words when language is too flat to hold my spirit? I let my mind explore through action. Words from the mouth are often equal to error. I have no time or place for error to occur, with words filling up the ground we are sharing. This way, I gain my own respect and start to uncover the truth I seek. This quiet discovery is the only validation I need.

Continuing where I left off, to begin again. Everything I have traced out could be due to the rain last night. The sickness that comes over me after it rains in Texas has no cure. The scent of fresh asphalt sticks to everyone’s tires. It makes Austin smell like week-old cream of wheat. I want to move away to find something more unfamiliar. Once I complete my novel, I will scrape off my arms and dispose of the rest of my body and move to New Orleans. I will leave no trace of my name behind, except for those who have grown dear to me. Only when I am ripe can I leave the world around me. It works the same way for my writing schedule. If I leave the ritual too early, I grow frustrated with all outside life. Kafka said, “All human errors are impatience.” I will know things are right only when I am ripe. For now, I will leave you with this form, as I continue to source and seek.

I spent the morning outside, caring for our parched elephant ear plants. I saw crows playing in the fountain. They splashed around, their caws filling the air as they enjoyed their bath. It felt like they were mocking my battle with the sun. To my left, I spotted Lauren through the glass door to the back porch. She twirled in the green silk lace dress I bought her for our first anniversary five years ago. Her playful dancing celebrated the cool air in the house. It made the moment feel alive, as if the whole world were witnessing what I was watching. From the yard, her expression looked triumphant. I admired how sacred the dress had become to her. It hung in our closet like a gilded bronze chandelier, and it came out only on sunny days. Lauren felt it came from John Galliano himself. I would prefer to endure the heat rather than look away from how well the dress still fits her. It hugged her body the way stars cling to the night sky. Even from a distance, the elegant shape of her body was enough to forget the summer heat. Stepping into the shade of the porch, I felt grateful. Her beauty felt as vast as the universe, making the heat reflecting off the yard seem distant. She was the one holding up the pink bricks of our house. Her presence made those walls feel like a sanctuary. I worked hard to keep this piece of heaven on earth.

Lauren opened the glass door and stepped onto the porch. Bhalu, our handsome brown-spotted pitbull, followed her out. “Jean, it’d be a waste if we didn’t enjoy the sun and visit the spring!” I wiped the sweat from my brow, wishing I could skip the drive and rest against her. I gave her my best puppy-dog eyes. “You want to go swimming? I love seeing you in this dress. I was hoping we could relax since I had finished the yard work, as promised.” Lauren replied with a bright, playful tone, “Well, how about I wear it there and give you something to admire?” I hurried toward the bathroom, passing the picnic basket by the door. The red-and-white plaid ribbon reminded me of our plans. I knew my quiet afternoon would have to wait, but I hoped to clean the dirt from behind my ears first. A quick shower sounded perfect to wash away the sweat and grime from a long working morning. I paused at the bathroom mirror before stepping into the water. I wiped away a few smudges to see my reflection better. I couldn’t help but think the sweat was making my coffee skin resemble a melting Hershey bar. From the kitchen, Lauren’s voice rang out, “There is no time for a shower! Throw your clothes on, and let’s go.” I heard her clearly over the rattle of drawers, but I turned on the faucet anyway. Ignoring her protest, I jumped in for a quick rinse. Lauren peered through the crack of the bathroom door with a focused, flushed face. I rushed to get ready to impress the only woman who could ever enchant me.

I grabbed my white linen shirt, navy blue pants, and tan flip-flops. Choosing something simple ensured the dress remained the centerpiece. To me, the flushed face showed Lauren’s excitement. It matched the light mood we’d had since last night. My mind kept replaying her figure captured by our bedsheets in a Matisse-like style. While Lauren urged us to get a move on it, “It’s always a challenge to find a nice sunny spot before the springs get too busy. It’s Saturday, and as usual, we should expect a crowd.” Neither her eagerness nor my distractions would make me forget to grab my pipe tobacco and red Italian wine from the dining table.

I often dreaded leaving home. There, I felt happiest with my pup, my books, and my pipe in hand. Riding in a coral-red Ford Ranger through lush grassy fields and tall trees made the trip a joy. The truck’s bright color popped against the green trees, making the trip even more scenic. The open road and fresh air added to the experience, making it memorable. It softened my dislike for the long drive. “You know my rules, L. Windows have to be down.” The engine growled, and we charged towards the ranges. Lauren leaned her head on my shoulder to protect her bangs from the wind. The black dye in her hair always looked natural. I almost forgot she was a true brunette. I let my woolly hair swing wherever the wind wanted to take it. Hand-in-hand, Lauren began to tell me where her mind was wandering. “I love living in Texas because dying in LA would piss me off.” I let out a burst of spit and laughter and then joined in. “Even being in my linens feels magical in the South.” Lauren lifted her head, looking towards the open ranges. I could already see the sun reddening her fair skin. She went deeper into her mind with something that I thought was straight out of a Ralph Waldo Emerson book. “Jean, do you ever think about the stars, birds, the flowers, and the fish? All this is life, and I’m so curious about how it works.” The many complexities overwhelmed me. I found a simple response to counter the weight of her heavy thoughts. “Life is an extraordinarily wide and profound concept; it represents a great mystery, a vast realm in which we function as human beings.” She nodded as if she understood our love was eternal and would never cease to exist in any dimension.

After thirty minutes had flown by, we finally arrived. The water level had risen significantly. Overnight rain turned our clear springs a muddy brown. It hid the vibrant colors we expected to see. We chose a dappled spot under a tree near a family of dawdling ducks. I splashed water on my linens to cool off while we waded carefully to the spring’s edge. Lauren pleaded with me to lay the towels down and set out the snacks. As she coated herself in sunscreen, I watched in amazement as her skin began to glow. Even in the heat, I would still turn down Rembrandt’s invitation to meet Bathsheba and hear her side. I’d rather stay in my stale beach pose, studying Lauren. The sun warms me like a lazy afternoon as I drift back to last night’s memories. I took Lauren downtown to a sushi restaurant called “Axiom.” We cackled together over glasses of sake, reveling in the warmth of the evening. We thought about escaping to Tuscany for the New Year.

“Jean, how would your mother feel if we paid her a visit for New Year’s?”

“I -”

The waitress entered our moment. “Here are the shaggy dog rolls and edamame you guys ordered. Anything else you need from me?”

“No, not right now, thank you!” Lauren responded.

The waitress paused to compliment Lauren before turning to walk away.

“I love your pixie cut. It is actually gorg!”

“Aw, that is sweet. Thank you so much!”

She looked back at me and said, “Your hair is going to get into your beer, Jean. Put it behind your ears.”

“Where was I again? Oh, yeah, to be honest, my mom will be glad to see us, but I am the nervous one. I haven’t even moved the typewriter back into our room ever since you had lain next to that stranger in our bed. Everyone has a private tragedy, and I don’t know if I’m ready to display mine in front of my mother.”

Slowing her chewing, Lauren asked, “How can I get this out of your mind?”

Gripping my hands underneath the wooden table out of spite, I told her to “Let my mind dwell, let the sorrow pour, and enjoy your dinner.”

Regardless of how close I came to spoiling dinner, I still planned for us to go to the pool hall down the street. The quarters jingled in my pocket throughout dinner as I tottered back and forth in my chair.

“You think you could jingle any louder, Santa?”

I returned her smile, and we headed for the exit, drawn together like magnets. With the rain showing no signs of stopping, it was time to settle in for the night. We had no choice but to head home before the flooding got worse. I leaned in for a kiss before I opened her door. She refused to let my scarf go, bunching the fabric into a wrinkled ball. Lauren’s scarlet-shaded lips made the scene even more dramatic. We climbed into the truck, soaking, and floating on the words of Bob Dylan:

“Well, if I die on top of the hill.”

“And if I don’t make it,”

“You know my baby will.”

“Don’t the moon look good, Mama?”

“Shinin’ through the trees?”

We stumbled through the double doors, gripping each other. In our haste to extract each other’s nectar, I bumped into the coffee table and knocked over a bottle of brandy. Finally making it to the bed, I removed Lauren’s jeans. Consumed by desire, I left her shirt and bra on. I glanced into the sculpted lines nestled between her thighs. I explored her sweetness, leaving me with a sense of divine grace when I finally woke the next morning.

Today, I broke my rule about getting out of bed before eight A.M., and since then, I have felt a wave of seasickness wash over me. The rain brewing in the dark clouds above does not help my confidence that the dizziness will pass. My eyes want to deceive me, claiming that the blurred lines around me will hold and that all is fine. At this moment, I am searching for Schumann’s rope to pull all the planets closer for a waltz. I still feel bad about killing an ant on my way to the bathroom. My guilt even pushed me to leave it a Band-Aid. Then, I went back to searching for words to fill the blank lines in my mind. I needed to write this to contradict life, because if you’re reading this, I am still alive; the ant is not. Schumann never needed to do what I did today to prove he is alive. He brought grace closer to everyone’s hearts in good faith, while I dwell in my guilt. Schumann plays, and I stay in place, dancing to the tides rushing from afar.

I’m living off a magical wand that fills my head with a buzz. It makes me airheaded, like a hive of bees. The rush of white air hits my mind, offering the best tastes from Duke Street. A second for honesty? This Dunhill of mine may be my only true friend. We have no lies shared between us, no temperaments, no secrets, no questions, and no feelings. When I wave my cork-ended wand, all Westminster hears me. They never feel the need to respond. That’s what I call a good friend—two pals holding a silent stale pose, sharing a panoramic view of everything. This habit of mine is unique. It feels selfish in a world full of hypocrisy. I don’t belong to any group except the one I make myself.

I turned down Rembrandt’s invite to meet Bathsheba and hear her story. Instead, I returned to my old pose, letting my lips curve to show my gleaming teeth. I have a friend who wraps his stench around me like a warm blanket on a cold night. Sometimes, I don’t know where this wand of mine is taking me. Sometimes, I guess I will keep on. I tried to find the moon, but I couldn’t see it through the clouds. I reached for something smaller than myself, but I found nothing. I discovered love where I expected hate. I was running out of the very time I tried to capture. Though I meant to be mean, I ended up kind. I looked backward only to move forward, sitting down to stand again in search of nothing. I even tried not to write this, but I already did.

I sent the amber train of whiskey chugging; I sent my farewells to a place that knew me better than I knew myself. The bottom of the barrel teaches a universal lesson. A genie swimming in the deep seas of passion teaches a tipsy dog a tasty fate. Yearning for himself, he felt the shadow resting on his back, teasing at the muddy water’s edge. He hugs the warmth of the drapes, feeling reborn. Then, he rises from the abyss, pulled back to the light by the great genie he discovered. The “unexplained” is where I go through my archive of secrets. I am currently saving myself until I dissolve into the crevices of nature. God will appear again when I am distracted by the pain of life. All art lies within man, yet it often remains hidden.

Throughout my life, I’ve pondered what was before I was born. At times, it felt like I was already dead. Now, during my time alive, I see myself more as an idea. Living in the city is killing me, but it has also brought me closer to an ugly reality I have come to embrace. My stomach is growling with hunger, and I enjoy the loud rumbles while I sink into the words of infinite wonder. How many more seconds of my life will the city steal from me? Stuck in traffic, I inhale the toxins and fumes of capitalism. They hurt my health and well-being. How could I leave the city? I’m hooked on poisonous drugs and sugars, clinging to the habits I’ve formed here. The city builds and tears down savory facades every day; this is the place where fallen angels wine and dine. I often run into them. They take my time, but they do it with a smile and a handshake. Then, they move on. Black suits, ties, and vegan-leather suitcases fill my life. There’s no meaning in this city. But it is still beloved; I must turn away to seek a path toward the ancient dirt and silence. There is hope of meeting God, or even the Devil. I care only that I encounter a presence, whoever it may be.

I saw your open sky in the desert. Smiling like a crowned princess, playing cards with angels. We have run through mountains, like the world knew our name. The clergy has agreed to anoint our love outside time. A moon has passed. Fruits are ripe now. Water bodies have turned into cooking pavements. Fall is now white, powdery lint. Over the weeks, I’ve seen the walls in our small apartment fade, jealous of our mirrors. They hold an elegant poise, capturing a luminescent beauty. Doves have carried your words and sold them to the finest lyrical salesmen. Not only will I sing your soliloquy, but the world will too.

Few people ever achieve true authenticity or act in accordance with their own nature. We live within systems and laws, driven by our passions. The tension between social structure and personal desire influences our worldview. This friction shapes how we understand existence and what we choose to value. The conflict between societal rules and private longing often deepens due to human frailty. We’ll go to any length to dodge our mortality, even if it means engaging in endless cycles of creation and destruction. Our spirits are prone to intense impulses. As Bataille writes in the foreword of Erotism: Death and Sensuality, “Man lives in constant fear of himself.” This inner conflict makes us handle language, eroticism, and death in a repetitive cycle to make them feel more manageable.

Later, we will look back on our tendency to handle language and death in repetitive cycles with regret. We cling to these cycles out of fear of confronting our true selves. By confronting the obscene, we challenge the societal norms that restrict us. Rimbaud suggested that the obscene has an inseparable connection to eroticism. He thought that these experiences, much like poetry, can transport us to a place where our different impulses find unity. This unity dissolves the boundaries of the individual self. It leads us toward death, which we can then view as a transition into a deeper sense of universal continuity. Rimbaud captured this transcendence when he wrote, “Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea.” This reconnection with raw, human truths offers a way to break our reliance on technology and unthinking habit. Embracing this curiosity allows us to resist the modern void. Such resistance is arduous. We instinctively withdraw from the “licentious image” that De Sade described. Yet, even as we try to pull away, this struggle forces us to confront our own mortality.

As Albert Camus said, “One must live with time and die with it, or else elude it for a greater life.” Our everyday technology gives us a sense of hope that makes us complacent. This hope stops us from rebelling against the future and helps us avoid facing the reality of death. Many people disconnect from life through distractions. They often fear being alone or feeling depressed. Modern tools can’t replace our natural ability to experience pleasure or sorrow. Connecting our lives to a higher purpose is an act of acceptance. We must recognize our desire to live in harmony with our natural urges. We must not let fear control us. We must not allow the void to blind us, nor should we interact with technologies that alienate us from our humanity. We should stay at the heart of creation, unafraid to return to the nothingness we came from. Sex, art, expression, and death help us reconnect with the richness of experience. These elements form a cycle of renewal that mirrors the flow of reality, allowing us to engage with existence without a defined beginning or end. By creating from human experience, we accept the absurd and restore our bond with the natural world.

We often ignore our subjective lives. This neglect comes from a desire for comfort that leads us to give up our rights. We endorse our own silence, betraying our language. Hiding behind machines takes away our duty to explore and answer our own questions about creation. Instead of seeking truth, we shape beliefs and views to serve our own convenience. We still need to find ways to escape and overcome the internal pain and spiritual struggles that alienate us from ourselves.

Our leaders fail to alleviate the suffering that surrounds us. We have let a new kind of poison dominate the minds of every Western man and woman. We fear the primal, human urges that we should hold sacred. We ignore how this turns the grotesque and obscene into a new kind of beauty. By facing censored ideas, we push back against societal taboos. This helps us wake up to the truths that the Western mind has suppressed. It helps people see their own humanity again. Only by being true to ourselves can we free ourselves from these horrors. We cannot look to machines for salvation, for if we surrender our freedom to them, we risk becoming like the very things that prey on us: inert objects.

As Emerson said, “Life consists in what a man is thinking all day.” However, modern life often traps our thoughts in a cycle of superficiality and degradation. We possess the capacity to think, yet we rarely dedicate the time to do so. We crave distraction, yet we remain burdened by spiritual longings that the material world cannot satisfy. We often seek an escape from our internal struggles while ignoring the reality of our own mortality. We claim to embrace the erotic, obscene, and grotesque as new forms of beauty. However, we often repackage them into safe distractions. These distractions fail to address our deeper loneliness and fears. We have lost contact with the purest things we know.

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Dear Lauren,

last night, in the midst of tickling you with my whiskers before bed, I realized my cleverness of words would not solve the problem having to, one day, take you down by the river and show you my bones.

That kiss we shared made me ecstatic to know in the very far future, when I am nearly 100 years old and you still look 26 I would be arriving at my point of my return, and you will be forced to see me for what I have truly been all along, a ghost looking to lead itself to the doorstep of heaven, using nothing but the strength of your love to live so long.

To know that a man could dream without having to endure despair but love, I would not have been so aware of my supernatural abilities if it was not for how you caressed me with your heart.

No matter if the lights were on or off, you Somehow show me the eternity of where your love for me is formed and reborn every day I should always feel the ways of indebtedness, because there is no way to pay back the infinities of love you store in Your heart.

forever and ever

love

-X

The compelling nature of literature has guided me through a set of grand French doors into a room full of mirrors, which I have never left and never intend to. Because in this room, I was introduced to the many reflections of histories, sociologies, and psychologies that will take me a lifetime to explore—minds that have been carried and entrusted to the pages of leaves, pressed with words, preserving the essence of each voice that has been the true reasoning behind our enriched culture.

The many purities within literature, which I hold dear, have been judged by vocal proponents who understood the great joy of words creating action, drama, and tragedy. Though these proponents may forever be engraved, better silent, it is in silence that my world and the world between my hands allow me to expand my understanding of life through as many perspectives as I wish. In doing so, I gain extra life while remaining in the one I am bound to, when no more blood is on the leaves, and the end of a book has come. I still hold onto the rich context instilled in me by an author who extended their life so I could continue to see the past, present, and future within myself through an intimate journey of meditation.

Most people will go through life missing out on the valuable knowledge of our natural human ability to tell stories—from truths and lies to acting as victims to stumbling upon human faults to being stuck in a history where parliaments, presidents, and promises replaced kings. I will remain trapped in eternity. Literature is a product shaped from commentary on life's process, making itself the closest way to experience or grasp some sense of life by living through it. It chips away at the marble of our ancient past and newly discovered self dimensions, carving them into new visions, just as Michelangelo did with David.

Big world, are we still friends?

You act from a distance, although I have already forgiven you for the scarred tissue you caused.

Leaving me to mend what you broke,

Friends would not wish bad on one another,

But you insist on leaving me in the rearview mirror next to the grim reaper,

foreshadowing all my mortal flaws,

which will be unraveled the day I become dust in the hourglass with the rest of the souls lost between heaven and hell.

I did not need your help to showcase this image.

The day I was born,

I understood the meaning of my wrinkles forming behind crescents of night and the mirages of day.

I know what I am.

Big world, why use your power to stop my truths from being discovered?

Antiquities of my bloodline remain in the wind,

still in the hands of my great-great-grandfather’s enslaver.

Big world,

may you show me a little grace?