We, and every other living thing on our planet (except maybe some redwoods and olive trees) run out of time, but Time never runs out of time.

Since death is simply what happens when we run out of time, it’s a manifestation of an event, a demarcation between one state (alive) and another (dead). But death is not the enemy, in the same way aging is not the enemy but a manifestation of time passing.

Time is the enemy. Time has a never-ending supply of time (it must be a renewable resource) and yet Time keeps all the time to himself, doling out only what he thinks we need. How much time we have is a mystery, a secret known only to Time. The end of our own time, individually and collectively, is always a surprise, a thing that binds us all, our common denominator, and yet we largely ignore it.

We talk about staying healthy, about extending our lives through diet and exercise. We talk romantically about the importance of friends and family, and sometimes about the quote we’d like on our tombstone, but we don’t spend our time in a way that says, “Holy shit – I’m running out of time!”

We whittle away our unknown allotment of time at jobs we hate, and we tolerate the powerful and incompetent, we hurt our friends and family and lovers and children and parents, and we chase mechanical rabbits around a circular track, and we fight each other as if we don’t have a common enemy. So what we say is clearly not what we do, and Time sits back and laughs, watching, and waiting.

We are trapped in Time’s game, and death makes brothers of us all.

(special thanks to @AJPantaleo and @dawip_official for the inspiration)

Writing might be all I want to do, but not all I need to do. I’m lucky that sometimes I can shift balance to the one foot living in the real world and have it bear the weight of adult responsibilities, while leaving the other to toe creativity’s dark water (I often lean heavily on the shoulder of my wife for that – TY, K). That water is often cold, though, with a wicked undertow, but still, getting those toes into the water is critical. “Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.” (W Shakespeare)

Sometimes, though, the water is warm and welcoming, like today, when I found a few kind words for each of my stories on Amazon. Garnering feedback is never easy, so I’m happy to read any reviews of my work, positive or negative, because I understand how much effort it takes for anyone to actually post a review. Finding that some people actually liked what they read makes it so much sweeter.

I’m glad both stories resonated with some. Writing is like putting an ear to the ground and feeling distant thunder, and then describing what you are feeling as the sounds you think you might hear, if you were at the source – but you’re never sure if what you feel strumming through the ground is what’s actually happening on the far end, so there’s a lot of trust involved. Often it’s a horrible mess that ends up like flotsam on whitecaps, because you’ve completely misinterpreted the vibrations, but sometimes.. Sometimes what you feel is strong enough to grab you and carry you (or drag you under) all the way across that dark water, those vibrations creating waves and swells that either propel you across or pull you down, but you keep treading, until you feel the rocky upward sloping bed under the toes you first dipped, and you climb onto the far shore, sometimes wading out, more often scrambling on hands and knees, coughing and sputtering, but across and on shore.

And kind words left by strangers are blankets and towels found on that cold shore, and you wrap yourself up and begin to warm, catching your breath and feeling grateful.

And as you stand there, eyes closed and exhausted and wondering if you are wasting your time, wrapped in the kindness of strangers, you can already feel the vibrations through the soles of your feet, as that dark water laps your heels.

Happy new year. Welcome to 2018.

#Knowledge and #experience are far better things to inherit then money.

The best thing #parents can teach their children is how to figure shit out. That way, if parents can’t figure out life before they die, they can pass what they know down to their children, who can then pick up where their parents leave off, rather than reinvent the wheel.

What if I already am all that I could be?

What if desired ambition is an illusionary drug manufactured by selfish genes designed solely to keep us alive, so that our selfish genes can survive?

Change, by definition, requires deconstruction of whatever came before. Creation, then, is change in a vacuum. Creation is change without all the messy destruction.

Sometimes I wake into disorientation, having just lived a moment ago so thoroughly elsewhere. Am I remembering a dream, or reality? I wonder if I’m waking when I wake, or when I fall asleep.

..but there may be some treasure to be had in storytelling.

I don't have enough life left to live all the lives I want to live..

The good news is the number of lives I've lived is far greater than the number I can remember.

The bright glare of youth blinds you to the rushing road beneath your feet. You think only of all your life ahead of you, far more road before you then behind, and you eagerly race toward it.

Then life actually happens, insidiously, but you are barely aware of the increased speed of travel. You get accustomed to moving at nearly the speed of light. Everyone else is, so you don't even know you are.

Then, at some point, you slow down, hopefully by choice but sometimes not. And you realize there is far more road behind you then before you.

Every once in a while, if you’re lucky, and if you read often, a book comes along that transports, impresses, and validates. Kayla Rae Whittaker’s “The Animators” does all that. She writes with an efficiency and accuracy that will hold you until only the story decides to let you go, and no sooner, and she knows how to lead you down paths fraught with speed bumps and pot holes and an occasional and precisely timed emotional nuke.

This is one of those books that makes you say, “This is why I keep reading. This is why I can never stop writing.”