For as long as I can remember, change has been a good friend to me. The only thing to keep my gears running and the only thing to help me obtain many wonders floating in the world. Change has never been an obstacle for me, but it is, for some of the people around me. Who maybe don't yet know about my constant feelings of swaying between sinking and swimming.

Since eighteen, I've had to make a life for myself. After dropping out of college, punching clocks into jobs that take away my spirit is all I've known. I know I'm smart enough to take on the whole world, if I bet on myself. By simply learning to hold on to the things that I learn and grow with them. Taking chances on those and reporting back to the vast world of my learning. Without having the Feeling that I'm putting relationships at risk to stop me. I want everyone to feel loved, but I also want everyone to eat the fruits of my labor.

I only change, because the stars lying naked in the night sky tell me to do so. The anxieties of walking into a grocery store and not being able to afford what I want. Inflation, my family, life, and my beliefs, all tie into my change. The only thing people see is my knack for constantly having new fixations and obsessions. No one sees the internal being only metamorphosing to newfound fondness for what life is showing me. The patterns I recognize when I'm paying attention bring me blessings of all kinds. The me, who knows it's important to take on lessons and change because it's not about the things we do. It's how we do them whenever we open our eyes on a new day.

I found myself recently wagering on tennis. The way a game so simple can have so many layers. Truly impressed me, which made me go deeper. It has become more than just wagering on matches, it’s been about learning its lessons and how to use it in life. I’m on one side, and the life I want to lead is on another. It’s simply me and myself trying to get the best out of me. Against a world that does not promise. It’s not about the money, life isn’t about money. It’s about sinking or swimming, at twenty-six, I refused to continue to sway, and only swim.

If you’d like to support my work by becoming a paid subscriber, you can upgrade to paid for only $5/month or $50/year. Upgrading to paid helps support me as a writer so I can continue to write and share my work.

We as writers play with strings of destiny. Witnessing characters sink into the nocturnal linens of hell. Deciphering if they are truly drowning, allowing faith to prevail in the end. Exploring the complexities of life amid humanity’s greatest sins, going beyond mere survival and resilience, and inviting audiences to meditate on harsh or soft realities our fairy tale children face.

The power to shape the insights of millions who find themselves caught between humanity’s depraved judgments and affections. We grant grace and salvation to all who confront the dissonances between fictional and nonfictional history. Ultimately, it will be the ones we lead to the end of our books who carry the light of all things. We have passed down through our words, teachings, and materials. That embodies our true and false sense of goodness and human nature.

As time passes, we, as writers, are reminded of the valiant souls who are forced to remain in triumph as the story ends.

Going into the weekend. Here are some things I want to revisit to help with perfecting my craft. Getting me closer to being the best writer I can be. Enhancing my ability to write what I think and dream. Also enhancing my knowledge in a profession that’s filled with avenues upon avenues. With no right or wrong avenue to take. Here are some resources and study material that I’m sure will help not only me, but anyone who reads this.

Subscribe now

As an outsider. Looking into the MFA of the Creative Writing world without an MFA. Feels like one is at odds with oneself and the literary world. Pursuing a writing career without a degree can create blurred lines. So, I provided a book I recently purchased. Based on extensive research, I thought this book would provide enlightenment. It clears out some of the doubt cluttering the mind. I have also attached 2 Substack articles I read this morning. The article by Devon Halliday and Karin Gillespie, Why Publishers Prefer Debut Novels,” Will help remove the crust blocking our vision of becoming published writers. Naomi Kanakia’s article, “Creative writing can be quite useful,” is here to help all understand what we are—or are not—missing in the eyes of our craft, by knowing what we have access to and using what we already have to expand. It may lead us to find unique ways to pursue what we love.

Devon Halliday

Why Publishers Prefer Debut Novels

I’ve been on vacation the last few weeks, and like any self-respecting vacationer, I brought more books than I got around to. But I did read Laura B. McGrath’s new book Middlemen: Literary Agents and the Making of American Fiction. If you are at all interested in literary agents—querying them, signing with them, secretly resenting them—I recommend getti…

Read more

a month ago · 241 likes · 45 comments · Devon Halliday and Karin Gillespie

Woman of Letters

A creative-writing degree can be quite useful

For as long as I’ve been online, I’ve heard writers asking, "Should I get a Master of the Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing…

Read more

a year ago · 843 likes · 109 comments · Naomi Kanakia

I love Caroline’s way of using Substack. She has helped shape my mindset as a writer. Caroline offers methods for all her subscribers who are willing to adopt a new perspective. Her writing is impeccable. I consider everyone to pay for the “Fairy Tales” writing club. The club offers a lot of MFA gems, image collaging, and most importantly, Substack etiquette.

Fairy Tales by Caroline

How I Write an Essay

Read more

5 months ago · 638 likes · 41 comments · Caroline Beuley

I guide myself through Creative Writing College courses using valuable online resources. I have also made friends with people in MFA Writing courses or who have graduated from the program. Such as my friends from the “New Factory Workshop.”

Many hours have gone into improving, where I once started. I’m at the point now where I can identify when my sentences lack strength—allowing me to elevate the quality of my writing. I suggest joining my writing club on Substack for $5 to access resources to enhance your craft and creativity!

Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown (1924)

By Virginia Woolf

"The Wallet" by Andrew McCuaig

If you’d like to support my work by becoming a paid subscriber, you can upgrade to paid for only $5/month or $50/year. Upgrading to paid helps support me as a writer so I can continue to write and share my work.

“Is it ready yet?” it asked. Jean removed the phone from his ear to place the call on Bluetooth. He tuned in as if he were listening to a radio station, disregarding the deep, unfamiliar, faint voice lingering in the background. He heard every letter of his wife’s drawn-out broadcast request, with a blank face. As she tried muffling the sound of running bath water, “Cah c a a n n n you p u h PLEassse Pi-p i c k u p lillies from Home Depot, Jeannn?” she asked. “Hold on.” Her prolonging came to a halt as the white pedestal tub reached capacity. Jean, awaiting more orders, amused himself by counting the number of blue cars driving on the freeway, “7, 8, 9, 10.” He thought to himself. “Black may not actually be my favorite color; it could have always been blue. I’m sure it will change again tomorrow.” Unmuting the call with an annoyed breath. “Hello, I’m back.” She uttered. “They close in an hour! Summer is here, and I need something besides you and dried elephant-ear leaves to look at. In case I find myself wanting to tan one of these summer days in the backyard.” Tossing any remaining patience for Jean out of the window. Denying his plans of seeing a rerun of Jean-Luc Godard’s film ‘Band of Outsiders,’ she continued. “I don’t care about your plans to see this dumb movie. You have seen this movie 5 times in the last month.”

Jean threw his hands in the air out of frustration, causing him to swerve slightly onto the median. He knew nothing about plants, cars, or his wife’s year-long project. That has had her running in and out of their house at different times of the day. After recomposing himself, he was able to spare enough time to say, “Okay-.” Before, the voice sharply intruded again with a low growl, “Lauren, how about now?” The unfamiliarity was closer than before. She signaled with a nod and the call suddenly disconnected. Never to be picked up again, for the rest of the night. Jean, being married to his college lover for five years, knew after the phone hung up, there was only one thing to do. Skipping the movie theatre exit. He continued driving 30 minutes east during rush hour to Home Depot. Going directly to the floral section, he liked the name “Lily Magic Stars.” He grabbed six 3-inch lilies as they were beginning to blossom into a bruised violet, making him reconsider his favorite color once more.

Once the deed was done, acknowledging that the movie had been showing for an hour and a half. Jean decided to go back home. For the remainder of the night, he sat still. Watching botany videos with his brown-spotted pit bull, Bhalu, and eating cold spaghetti, protecting his white button-down from two-day-old pasta sauce. Lauren went on, glancing at the figure who owned the bass-toned voice, casting herself in a movie of her own, where she takes on the role of a giddy young schoolgirl. Bathing in a 60-inch brushed-nickel bathtub and allowing her mysterious captain to stack bubbles on top of her head, blowing the remaining fizzing bubbles intact on her hands and arms, onto the white marble floor.

If you’d like to support my work by becoming a paid subscriber, you can upgrade to paid for only $5/month or $50/year. Upgrading to paid helps support me as a writer so I can continue to write and share my work.

“Another way of putting it is like this: a sunset is sublime because a human cannot make one, its existence transcends human ability; meanwhile, a picture of a sunset is merely beautiful because it reflects, through human invention, a thing that no amount of human ingenuity can actually replicate in real life.”

There are many aspects of being a reader and writer that I hold dear. The great joy of words moving as I sit still. They continue to create action, drama, and tragedy. These proponents may be forever engraved on leaves. Oftentimes, better off left silent. It is in silence that my world and the world between my hands allow me to expand my understanding of life. In doing so, I gain an extra life while remaining bound to the one I am. When blood no longer remains 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 for me. So, I could continue to see the past, present, and future within myself through an intimate meditation journey.

When the new morning arrived, it was absent from sunshine. A deep ache lingered within me. Today, I seek refuge. My heart has no fixed address; it dances side to side, left to right. I craft paragraphs to swim across the ocean of blank lines, searching for a temporary home. The compelling nature of reading and writing guides me through a set of grand French doors, into a room full of mirrors. A room I will never leave, and never intend to. In this room, I’m introduced to the many reflections of history, sociology, and psychology. That will take me a lifetime to explore—the minds of writers who have entrusted paper and pressed with words. Preserving the essence of their voice, which remains my one true reason behind my enriched love of books. The home supporting the French doors is cluttered with dirty dishes. Waiting for the right time to move on.

I echo the depths from which I rise. What flash of movement did Kafka and Hemingway take to track their heart’s journey? To be a master at revealing where their heart’s 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 I do so, 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.

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 by commentary on life’s processes, making it the closest way to experience or grasp 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.

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 lifes shimmering narrative.

Subscribe now

If you’d like to support my work by becoming a paid subscriber, you can upgrade to paid for only $5/month or $50/year. Upgrading to paid helps support me as a writer so I can continue to write and share my work.

“If we need to negotiate with bombs, we’ll negotiate with bombs.” Three days after the report, I saw Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth’s words in the New York Times. They seemed to bleed on the page, even through the dark tint of my black aviators. The contrast between those words and our national values felt stark and undeniable. I couldn’t help but think about the algorithms and all the videos appearing on the explore page. I thought a lot about journalists who risk their lives to report on the genocide in Palestine. They report on the beauty of life even when death forces itself upon the people who fear nothing but God. Bombs are not the answer; death is not the answer.

I was spiraling in thought. A customer service rep made his way towards me. Snarling with his nose in the air, he asked, “You know you have to pay for that, right?” I was a hair away from making a snarky remark about his bowl cut and the infectious dirt caked under his fingernails. Both stood out as pretty gross details. I was thinking something like “Did you wipe Greg Abbott’s ass before clocking in today?” I remembered what my granny used to say: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it.” The rent rising all through Texas, and the talk of bombs, are what sparked my frustration. Instead, I stayed silent, thinking it was best to keep it in my head. Without a word, I placed the newspaper back on the newsstand with care. Shaking off the encounter felt better than causing trouble. I turned away to find my fiancée elsewhere in the grocery store. I found her in aisle 9, squinting as she fought her bangs and felt torn between potato chips and pretzels. The whole point of our coming to the grocery store was to get sandwich supplies for a week’s worth of lunches. We decided to cut back for our move from Austin to New Orleans in November. Still shaken by the headlines and the clerk’s attitude, I walked over to Lauren. She was deep in thought, trying to make a decision. “Iran’s Foreign Ministry claimed that the failed cease-fire and the attacks were meaningless. Did you see that?” I asked. “They are much more likely to respond by escalating than by giving in.” Frustrated by Lauren’s inability to choose between Lay’s and Rold Gold Pretzels. I muttered to myself before doubling down. “What about all the lives affected by nonsense, by greed, by unneeded loyalty?”

Sometimes I don’t see how to live life when people can play God whenever they please. I don’t understand why we care so much about another country’s oil. Focusing on foreign energy won’t solve homelessness or stabilize Medicare and Medicaid. Small trends at home capture the public’s focus. We stress about being stylish on Ozempic. Fixate on stars like Jacob Elordi. Whose fame feels pointless in the eyes of death. A friend of mine died in Palestine. She was a movie buff, posting her thoughts on Letterboxd. Her reviews were a window into her world. She died before finishing her degree, missing out on the life she should have seen. I was here, choosing between lettuce, chips, sourdough, and turkey. I keep looking for people like her. People who care about more than surviving, even when everything’s falling apart. I want to be more present. I need to pay more attention to the cost of being alive, and that cost isn’t money. It’s a step towards realizing that nothing is promised in today’s world except pain and suffering. Catering to life and making life itself a currency, will allow passage for all the souls lost in war to finally be in peace.

Subscribe now

Lauren looked up at her reflection in my sunglasses. “What about them?” she asked. “What kind of lettuce do you like on your sandwich?” I looked around Aisle 9 in a daze. Puzzled, I watched as she turned back to the bags marked “original flavor” and “sticks.” I brushed off her question about lettuce and pressed on. “Fox News said America could profit by sacrificing troops to take over Iran. But a soldier said he didn’t know if America had the stomach for it. He thought we would all like to see troops come home.” Relieved to make a decision, Lauren said, “I think chips, actually. Can I have both?” She tossed them both into the shopping cart. Frustrated by her distraction, I continued. “Lauren, they warned that rushing into this invasion could be a disaster for us.” Brushing through the different heads of lettuce, she said, “I think I like iceberg lettuce.” I let out a sharp hiss before yelling, “Fuck the oil and fuck iceberg lettuce.” Everyone turned toward us, straining to hear our conversation. Fed up, I finally turned my attention to the lettuce. “I only like romaine lettuce; iceberg is shit. My sandwiches need romaine, mayo, hummus, and provolone.” Lauren stared at me, her face turning pale. She gripped the handle of the shopping cart tightly and silently went down the frozen food aisle.

At checkout, the total was $121 for chips, bread, turkey, and condiments. As we walked out of the grocery store, I stopped thinking about the cost. Instead, I began worrying about war. I realized that whenever missiles launch, I always seem to be at the grocery store. This pattern surfaced when Trump posted on social media two days before June 12th. News reports carried his warning: “The United States would hit Iran very hard tonight.” I was in a grocery store then, too. I was busy with a Kalshi bet and the score of the Knicks-Spurs game.

Where will I be and what will I be doing when the world ends?

opencontradiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

If you’d like to support my work by becoming a paid subscriber, you can upgrade to paid for only $5/month or $50/year. Upgrading to paid helps support me as a writer so I can continue to write and share my work.

“I’m calling to tell you, I have 84 miles before I run out of gas, and I want to buy a book. I need you to send money for gas.” I always need someone to pay for life’s bullshit, because I refuse to play along with it. “So that I can be free to buy a Deborah Levy book,” I said to my younger brother. He doesn’t know who that is, so I didn’t bother to tell him the title. “Send it via Apple Cash, not Zelle; my Chase account is negative.” With nothing more to add, I hung up. He’s a finance graduate. He has a steady job as an accountant. My mom is an accountant too. I should have been one. I missed my calling to write. “To write what?” “What are you writing?” My mom and brother tend to ask. Desperation, I want to say. I still haven’t figured that out. Why does that question always come up like I’m supposed to know? It depends on the day. “71 miles,” my speedometer said. “You’ll get paid tomorrow from the suit store gig. Survive the day, and you’ll have money by midnight,” I reminded myself. “You need gas, but you should have enough to handle errands.” Still no Apple Cash notifications. I’m handsome and broke like a Hollywood actor. Down to 65 miles, I start praying for a miracle and think I should go back to church. I am reading the gas station signs one by one: “$3.94,” then “$4.09,” and finally “$3.96.” God answered.

My phone buzzed, “Your new Apple Cash balance is $20.” My fiancée, Lauren, sent me an Apple Pay payment, followed by a string of texts asking me to help make some extra cash. “Sell my camera. I don’t have any expectations, whatever they’ll give me for it.” Lauren, high on a cortisol spike from this morning, “I never use it anymore, so it’s collecting dust. You can sell whatever lenses are in that bag, too. They won’t fit on any other camera we have, but you can check if you’d like. I want to take photos with film anyway.” Unexpected bills came through this morning. They cleaned out our account. Lauren woke up to our account being negative and wasn’t expecting it. “I’m sorry I put so much on you so soon this morning, but it sounds like things are going to work out.”

I felt it was a typical experience for couples in the early stages of engagement. I thought we were going through what unstable young adults go through. I got $160 for everything in the Canon bag. They wrote a check and told me to cash it at the Forest Bank down the street. I took the money and went to Lauren’s job to get her card so I could drive to Capital One to make the deposit. With a new hope, I didn’t fret over the morning. I texted Lauren back: “Okay, sweetie. It’s okay, I was only caught off guard by the range of emotions. I didn’t want you to feel helpless. For the first time, I didn’t know what to do. Then I felt lazy because I didn’t want to get up. I felt that writing was holding me back. And I didn’t know what to do because I felt tired.” After reading my response, Lauren felt like she had ruined my day. Traveling home from Mexico had exhausted me. She could tell I needed the day because I couldn’t write anything down all weekend. “It’s alright, baby. Right now, my emotions are erupting everywhere. Since we got back yesterday, we have been navigating something new. Everything feels somewhat heavier—not in a bad way. In a way that suggests greater importance. You’re not lazy for not getting up. If anything, I felt guilty for interrupting your free day with my problems. I know you probably needed that extra rest. I’ll make dinner and everything when I get home, and you can relax. I’ll make it up to you.” Between selling the camera, cashing the check, and making the deposit, it was already 12 pm, and I was ready for lunch. Now, a new problem arose, but a cigarette would solve that. Summer is here. Who needs to eat? “Skinny and petite, the bones should show through the meat,” this is what I would say. To keep up with social media’s version of chic.

I never cared about the trend because being hungry was always in. Lauren would always tell me, “You’re tired; you don’t have to write it all down now. You can’t work on a full stomach. Come sit next to me.” Since I was hungry, I tried to remember Saturday, June 7th, 2026. No matter how hard I searched my mind and stomach, I couldn’t remember anything. There is nothing for me to pull out myself to draw in the moment as I had experienced it. Drinking any alcohol while on ADHD meds makes my mind go completely blank. When it goes blank like this, nothing anchors my memory. I drink quite a bit. I had a double shot of Jameson and a Coke for breakfast. Whiskey sneaks up on me. Vodka triggers my worst behavior. And wine makes me feel horny, while beer and tequila bring out my happy, fun side. Champagne always guarantees a good time. I drank all the alcohol I mentioned before the proposal dinner. My mother had set up a dinner reservation for Lauren and me. I told her that we have a reservation for 6 pm at a table overlooking the villa and the ocean. I remember my nerves. I had to remain poised until dinner. My mother, sister, brother, and his partner all helped keep the secret. We all went to the mall to help my soon-to-be fiancée pick out a cute dress. There’s one thing I admired most about proposing at the villa. In our photos, resting behind was the last known thing before you were in a complete ocean. That was Lands End. Nothing but the ocean could change how Lauren and I love each other. I wanted to keep a piece of a once-in-a-lifetime moment for myself. But I ended up sharing it with the world itself. Everyone in Cabo San Lucas is rich with something. Not in pesos. Rich in their soil, their sand, their water, and their mountains. I want my love to carry the same immense weight as their wealth.

We returned to Austin with a love more devoted than a soldier’s loyalty to his country. We even bickered over the wedding details, enriched by our newly invested love. I’ve placed the memory in words for everyone to read. Still, it seemed richer to hold on to it for me. But with everything that involves writing, it’s for me to remember. Not the events, as I saw it, as I breathed it in. Lauren has taken my hand a million times; somehow, the times she has now. It feels rejuvenated. almost as if she were awaiting the moment to shed the reminiscence of all the bad days she has ever had. Her rabbit’s foot broke the day I proposed. Lauren went on to claim that she no longer needed luck. That everything she needed was with her now. I look at it as if she’s breaking up with the unknowns. I suppose we both understand what real luck looks like.

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.

Share

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.

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.

If you’d like to support my work by becoming a paid subscriber, you can upgrade to paid for only $5/month or $50/year. Upgrading to paid helps support me as a writer so I can continue to write and share my work.

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.

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.

Subscribe

Share

14 APR 2026

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

17 APR 2026

Dear Lauren,

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 eating my back, and I enjoy the loud rumbles while I seep into the words of infinite wonder.

I wonder how many more seconds of my life the city will steal from me, waiting in traffic, breathing in the toxins and fumes of capitalism that help my body flourish.

How could I leave the city?

I’m hooked on poisonous drugs and sugars, maintaining all the antibodies being tamed here.

Savory facades are built and torn down every day in the city; this is the place where the fallen angels wine and dine.

I run into them often, letting them take minutes from me; those devils replenish efforts with a smile and a handshake, on their way they go.

Black suits, black ties, and black vegan-leather suitcases stain my existence; there is no meaning here in the city.

But it is still beloved, I must turn the other way to search for the old town road.

There is hope of meeting God, or perhaps even the Devil.

As long as I meet someone, that’s all I care about.

20 APR 2026

Dear Lauren,

I tried to find the moon, but the clouds kept it hidden.

I tried to find it, but I couldn’t.

I tried to find something smaller than myself, but I couldn’t reach it.

I tried to hate, but I ended up loving.

I tried to find time, but I ran out of it. I tried to be mean, but I ended up being kind.

I tried to look backward, but I only moved forward.

I tried to sit down only to stand up again, searching for nothing.

I tried not to write this, but I already did.

30 APR 2026

Dear Lauren,

I saw in the desert, your open sky. Smiling like a crowned princess, playing cards with angels.

We have ran through mountains, like the world knew our name.

The clergy has agreed to anoint our love outside time.

And now a moon has passed, fruits have reached maturity, water bodies have immersed into cooking pavements, and fall has become white powdery balls of lint.

In the passages of weeks, I have watched the walls in our nest-sized apartment turn pale from jealousy of our mirrors.

Gracefully poised to capture, luminescent beauty.

Your words have been carried by doves and sold to the finest lyrical salesmen.

Not only I, but the world will sing your soliloquy.

1 MAY 2026

Dear Lauren,

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 drunk dog reveals a finger-licking faith, which is instilled into him by the genie swimming in the great seas of passion.

Lusting for self, lusting for the shadow lying on his back, strip-teasing itself at the shore of muddy waters.

Caressing himself in the drapes of his own warmth until he is reborn and dragged back to light from the abyss of that great genie he found.

The “unexplained” is where I go through my archive of secrets.

I am currently saving until I am dissolved into the crevice of nature.

God will appear again when I am distracted by the pain of life.

All art lies in man, but is by far apparent; during my time alive, I thought more about before being born, I was already dead, and during my time alive, I am more of an idea.