Why does it feel so damn good to write? To physically write. To put a pen atop a piece of paper and drag it in loops and links, always communicating something with language or likeness in sketch, no matter how poorly they appear in consummation. I feel close to something and connected to it all when I’m writing. I feel that there may be a place for me to breathe easy and without disturbance as I drag the tiny tool, scraping it across this pulverized and flattened wood. Those wonderful scratching noises that flow forth are like music to me, lullabies. The words I write live in the same place as involuntary desires and life long predilections. There is not one thing on this planet more familiar to me than the noble craft of inscription. The words I compile become my magnum opus and unending pleasure. My eternal world derives from my ability to impart every bit of my capture-able wisdom via the daily scribblings and interminable scrawling I’ve begun to collect inside of the multifarious notebooks and .doc files I possess. I’ve only just begun to realize the value in my own reflections. They are my rare reward and I can only receive it if I allow others to access them as well. I can do this effectively and usually with a cogent and emotive affect. I hate to boast or brag about my skill set but it’s been quite a toilsome task to acquire these attributes and it would be a shame for them to go into ash unnoticed whether their discovery comes post or antemortem. The importance and value of those millions of words to me will forever remain essentially, fundamentally, and predominantly the same. I will forever be intuitively drawn to see my thoughts visually, to manifest my insight and idiosyncratic point of view in a way remarkably genuine and clear, so that not one soul speaking any language could confuse the image of the emotion being expressed. Not by suffocating someone in words and unnecessary imagery, but rather by being concise and thoughtful, directing every word with intent, never insulting a sheet of that perfect paper with anything less than the carefully considered words that were destined to be part of the page. A misfit description is more than welcome, a rebellious little expletive may even be required amongst the rubble of a narrative recently imploded at the revelation of a solitary piece of information that lit the common thread ablaze, sending sparks and embers of soul charging energy and life altering sagacity outward toward the edges, crisply crackling as the full puissance of the scribes vision is transferred into the places of the brain where we store our facts, certainties, base instincts, and reliable constants that cause a ripple of warmth to roll like molasses down the length of you creating a tingling in your extremities, turning inward and up at the navel, making the spiritual center, the human core, the place where consciousness was born and intuition lives to become more tender and pliable, open to the new sense of being that makes reality effervescent each time a change in perspective or learned lesson is successfully applied to circumstance and proves itself to be correct, cementing itself into the subconscious, a place where no thought is solicited. They come bursting out into reality without any intelligent direction. THAT is where I want my collective knowledge to be stored. In the place most habitual, least logical, impulsive and powerful, contributing to the light as the information I contribute to humanity is processed, digested, and internalized, integrated into the universe by way of the human spirit, converting the powers of physicality and emotion into a charge that keeps the sun spinning. I have a deep need to export some of what is inside of me, though not all at once for that overwhelming notion seems deadly and damaging. I don’t seek glory or wealth and certainly don’t expect anything in return. To sell a book would be magnificent but for the time being this notebook is my message of hope, at least the beginning of it. Read on if you can stomach it all, but read ALL of it, though it may make you cringe. Each detail counts, and the sum of all of it is a nearly indestructible sense of self, a genuine and selfless drive to affect the affirmative capacity that fuels this totality as greatly and as positively as possible with every waking breath, and a radiant and indomitable spirit and mentality that have become capable of contemplating and comprehending, actually understanding and feeling and tasting and hearing things that the prevalent masses could scarcely imagine even if drawn a picture and given a soundtrack. The ramblings of a person such as myself can be messy and confused as the internal processes of this person behind this pen are quite complex. But I hope you read on. Benefit from my struggle. I pledge to you to have no hidden agenda, only a sincere wish to be part of the positive forces of energy that need bolstering from ordinary beings like myself, and you.