A true artist has no typical look.
The cemetery workers finish shoveling dirt over my grave. My headstone looms.
I’ve experienced a few hard lessons on how my real life can be affected by the crazy shit I write.
The person who talks the most usually has the least to say.
“The world is not a dark and scary place. Sure, there are assholes abroad, just like there are assholes in your hometown. Chances are, they’re just having a bad day and do not represent the ideology of their entire country.”
The boy blames others for his shortcomings; the man figures out how to eliminate or mitigate them. The boy does the bare minimum in order to get by; the man does more than his share of the task, one hundred percent and then some. The boy believes that the world owes him something; the man knows he must earn everything. The boy avoids the consequences of his actions; the man accepts them, no matter how painful.
“When I got Ego Is the Enemy tattooed on my forearm it is exactly this part of human nature that I wanted to warn myself against on a daily basis. It is this part of us that says that we know better, that makes us unwilling to listen to others, to remember to be objective and clear-headed and honest.”
When you spent enough time working alongside someone, you tend to develop a good understanding of them. Sometimes you like them, sometimes you hate them. Usually, it’s a healthy mix of both.
Every journey feels like an adventure, like that rare lover you can share your life with.
She finally was able to muster enough cash and resources to be able to send off for her niño quierdo