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I don’t so much taste the whisky, rather, I just get it in my mouth and shake my head from side to side till the inside of my cheeks get numb. I suppose my cheeks are a metaphor about all the thoughts and feelings that race through me all day and I’m just trying to slow ‘em down so I can get a glimpse of ‘em afore I forget ‘em again. Then I swallow and it burns down till I chase it with a pull of PBR.

Writing about drinking is like writing about your dead Grandma that you miss; it smells bad and the words smell worse.

When I took a writing class here in Minneapolis, we had to read our fiction aloud to the rest of the peers. One dude wrote a pretty good story about a dead Grandma and the strains on his relationship with his lover. The instructor told him one thing. Don’t write about dead Grandmas. Apparently, it’s pretty obvious.

I have a few dead Grandma’s myself. Buried in the ground in some place with a headstone that has some etched numbers of their birth date and when they died. Maybe a soliloquy of sorts. I hope for as much even if nobody ever visits me.

You follow what I’m explaining here? Let me spell it out. You will die and people will forget you.

That’s pretty harsh. Believe it.

On the other hand, you may present a life and a found beyond the redemption that you ever craved. You can live a good life, one of faith in thyself and foundations in failure. Only inside, with practice, may a soul mandate improvement. In this improvement a soul will realize that striving for means you already had it. It is often so with such things.

Inside, we all have a selfish self, a self we hide behind and keep dear. In this self it is necessary to let only little bits leak out lest they become too heavy for our eyes. A self of tears that dry up in forgotten moments lying in a lonely bed are tears shed for eternity and never soake into anything.

Of Faith In Oneself.

Space and time and momentum. Rejoice in the possibilities and drama. Embrace the success and mistakes. Hold close to yourself the experiences you have lived. Let them be mor ethan your own. Don’t regret. Kick regret around like a rock on a dirt lot under a willow tree. Only.

Spin out of your space into a still of Taoist resolve.

I think often of the places I have been and how they have contributed to of self. Each of these places mandates a sense, a feeling. Only a word. One word. Become. When thyself becomes it contributes to a life of becoming that only emulates the meaning of life. Whilst becoming we can only go forward even when we walk backwards observing the past. It is life, and we are it.

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