Are you looking to fail, and fail big? Do you want to know the secret to wallowing in obscurity to such an extreme that you’re forgotten forever? Well then, you’re in luck, because I’ve got all the answers, right here. It seems almost everybody itches to fill the gap in the market with helpful tips and tricks on how to become a wildly successful writer. But you don’t want that. You want the opposite. Not mediocrity, complete and utter ineptitude. So if you’re prepared to implement these nine habits, you’re bound to become an irrelevant nobody.

INDULGE ONLY YOURSELF

Chances are your interests are rather pedestrian, and in this instance, that’s a good thing. Maybe your niche is slowly becoming popular. This you want to avoid. Instead, what you need to do is become immersed in something no one cares about. Search your inner recesses for the most random, irrelevant thing you can possibly think of — and run with it. It should only matter to you. If there’s any remote possibility of someone finding meaning or usefulness in your chosen subject you risk becoming successful. Make sure you indulge yourself to a ridiculous degree, so much so that no one else can even comprehend what you’re writing about. Once your piece is so hermetically sealed that no other human being can possibly make head or tail of it, you’re off to the races. Be certain to thoroughly enjoy yourself, but make it as selfish an act as possible. This way you ensure that anyone who happens across your piece rolls their eyes and closes their tab, searching elsewhere.

WRITE CRYPTIC HEADINGS

Choose a title that sends your potential readers on a wild goose chase. It can be completely unrelated to the topic you’ve written about. Just avoid clickbait at all costs, for then you risk someone actually becoming curious as to what you’ve put pen to paper about. And when I say cryptic, I mean cryptic. Think up the most ill-fitting heading you can muster, then scramble it to an even greater degree. Go over the top and north of there. Say you’ve written about one particular subject. Mislabel it completely. Make sure that the algorithm will never grab on to your keywords, for then you risk being featured on the dreaded homepage sidebar or a daily digest. The point is not to curate your work and hone your talent, rather to dash your efforts and divert readership elsewhere — anywhere but your article. You want the reader to feel cheated, to never return, no matter the sheer dumb luck of virality that exists for every writer. Think of this as a lottery, yet all you need to do is choose all the wrong numbers. Easy, right? Not so. You always risk an upward trajectory in numbers, and you’re in this to lose miserably.

BE WILDLY INCONSISTENT

Being erratic is your superpower. Find out the worst times to post and post then. Make your presence scattershot and inconvenient. Publish the maximum amount of articles per day, then disappear for weeks — or better yet months — on end. Don’t for a second instil a level of trust that you’ll deliver. Squander every opportunity you have to write anything. There are errands to run, chores to take care of, and paint to watch dry. Anything else is more important than sinking hours of your time into a piece someone might just read. If you’re not around, you’re guaranteed to fall short. You want to set your readers up for severe disappointment, and by doing so, ensure they never return to your corner of the web. When you do show back up, ensure that your next piece is so complicated and challenging that not a soul would bother getting to the last line (let alone the first few paragraphs). No one should be able to figure you out or know when to expect you poking your head back out. I do however caution you against intriguing those who like a puzzle. Don’t be so elusive that you attract unwanted attention — this will instead gain you followers — and that is something you’re trying to avoid like the plague.

AVOID READING ANYTHING

In order to be a terrible writer you must actively avoid reading anything worthwhile. You don’t even want to go as far as reading trashy tabloids, for you risk improving your ability to comprehend language. If you happen across a bookstore, keep walking. Because if you go in you might just risk picking up something that’ll enlighten you. Even if you’re stuck somewhere and a newspaper is lying around, make sure you don’t pick it up. You’re trying your best not to cultivate good taste or eloquence, and reading unfortunately aids one in that department. If someone gifts you a book, throw it in the bin. Avoid libraries. Don’t even read social media or instant messages. Delete any app that involves reading. You want to resemble a high school dropout, not a straight A student. Reading has many benefits, but in this instance it is a major drawback. Becoming illiterate is easy when you surround yourself with complete idiots, and fortunately the world is full of them. Watch TV. Stream series. But make sure you disable closed captioning, because you wouldn’t want to be tempted to read even that.

IGNORE YOUR AUDIENCE

Luckily enough an audience is difficult to cultivate, as is anything resembling a following. If however you notice the public interest’s curiosity becoming piqued, there are a few steps you can take to discourage such behaviour. Ignore them. Make blanking people entirely your mantra. Act as if they don’t exist. Never be tempted to engage, even if you’re in the mood for a back-and-forth. Remain stoic. Don’t let them divert your attention. Stick to your evasive streak, or better yet, take disrespectful swipes at anyone who seems remotely interested in your stuff. No matter how badly you yearn for attention, keep your eye on the prize: complete and utter failure. Nobody should be worth your time. Also, when you get a notification, resist clicking on it. That might result in you reading something encouraging, despite how awful your work is, and will set you on the wrong path. Your audience must be totally invisible, and disregarded at every turn. If you see a trend gaining traction, go the opposite direction. You wouldn’t want to accidentally become a writer someone bothers reading.

CHASE READERS AWAY

There are many ways to turn readers off, and one of the best methods has got to be by chasing them away. The steps you take are simple — but they involve ignoring your conscience entirely. Argue with them. Get disrespectful. Use profanity if you must. Let them know they’re unwelcome and their attention and engagement is unwanted. Follow them around, aim and fire relentlessly, ensuring they never return. Give them no excuse to visit your page ever again. Be as unpleasant and unpalatable as you possibly can, they’ll get the picture. Fortunately, not a lot of people appear in your comments section anyway, so you might not even need to make a habit of ridding yourself of them. But if you do have some hangers on, research their activity and hone in on their flaws and insecurities. Chances are they’ve foolishly revealed more than they should have online, and now is your chance to be a troll. Think up the quickest way to tick off a potential reader and execute the task clinically, without a twinge of guilt. Even if you wince at your efforts to chase them off, it must be done.

REFUSE TO EDIT

This one’s pretty straightforward. You know how writers are always advising you to edit ruthlessly? Forget that advice. Wipe it from your memory, immediately. The first draft is the end product. Whatever you write, hit publish on. Let the stream of consciousness flow from your fingertips, but make it messy. If your word processor alerts you of a misspelt word, move on. Pretend it never happened. You want your work to resemble a monkey hitting a typewriter at random. Nothing is off limits. Reveal the most embarrassing parts of your life — things that’ll bring shame to your family and your reputation. Inspire in your readers a feeling of this person is giving me too much information. Overshare to your heart’s content. Just make sure there’s absolutely no reason why you’re mentioning anything you are. The less coherent your rambling the better. Bypass any involvement with editors and publications — they’ll only serve to strengthen your piece. Whatever comes to you must remain on the page, no matter how banal. In fact, the less interesting it is the better.

So there you have it! Consider this advice and you’re on your way to becoming a literary nobody, drowning in a sea of voices more talented than your own. These steps will solidify your status as a pariah in the writing world. We’ve all read hacks on how to amass a following and skyrocket to the top, but now you have the ultimate blueprint to a life of lack and loss. No one will care about your work from here on out. Those pesky comments will never reappear in your notifications. And you’ll sleep easy knowing you’ll never get a book deal.

I owe it to myself and my readers not to chase trends. Current affairs are essentially just today’s news — and they’ll be forgotten tomorrow — while evergreen topics will stand the test of time. What do you want to read? Something you can never go back to and enjoy again? Or a piece that’s hamstrung to what’s hot now? I enjoy the former. But this is the problem with content as opposed to literature. Everyone’s a content creator now, and saying the market is oversaturated is an understatement.

While I’d like to think I don’t add to the glut of content out there, I very well might. It’s not like my journey into the realm of philosophy and literary non-fiction absolve me of all sin. Blogging and publishing e-books certainly seem to result in snorting and derision, as the snobs among us look down on them. However, with my current attitude, I wonder if I’m becoming a snob myself. I guess I don’t care to be categorised as something run of the mill, and I want to see myself as an exception to the rule.

But I’m not. I’m the same as everybody else, figuring stuff out as I go along. Engaging in the very same embarrassing behaviour I eschew. The scorn I exhibit is somewhat ridiculous and I know it. I guess I yearn for a different time, when things were different, and not so complicated. A time before the internet and smart phones. The irony of course is that those are the very places others discover my work. I have a preference for paper books, but I haven’t published one in a while now.

Instead I publish essays on my website and release digital versions of what could be paperbacks or hardcovers. In all honesty, part of me can’t be bothered to self-publish hard copies, because it’s a financial investment that rarely pays off. But if I don’t believe in myself no one else will. There’s also fear involved, and a desire to avoid gatekeepers when it comes to pitching manuscripts to publishing companies. So I go the easy route, a route without the dangers of failure.

If you publish an e-book and no one reads it, sure you might just have wasted your time. But at least you haven’t wasted money on printing up copies that lie in a box. So we turn to content, the thing that’s easiest to make. We outsource the editorial illustrations that accompany our articles to a chat bot or a royalty free library of stock images. And this is the new way, the way everyone is doing it. We want all the notoriety and accolades of a bestseller without putting in the work.

Content as opposed to literature possesses a throwaway quality. Someone happens across one of your posts, gets to the end, closes the tab and then moves on to something else. We ask a lot of our readers. They’re devoting time to your work when they interact with it, after all. A little slice of their lives. And that’s why not many people stick around — unless of course you’ve got the right hook and follow up. This is why delivering something useful is the bandwagon writers are jumping on. They want solutions.

Outside of all of this there exists a different kind of writer, however. The one who refuses to engage in the endless game of chicken. Who thumbs their nose at the algorithm. And unfortunately, those are the very people that slip through the cracks. Some would argue that they’re the few worth reading. But finding them is difficult, and their longevity depends on persistence alone. Because, for months, no one might notice them — despite how well they deliver. They’re overlooked in service to the same recycled topics and fads.

I’d never be arrogant enough to assume I’m one of those undiscovered talents, but I’m shedding light on this notion because I find it awfully saddening. That’s why, when someone connects with your work you should value the experience. Because you never know when it might occur again, if ever. While it might seem like a defeatist attitude, it happens to be the truth. And you can’t argue with reality. I don’t think one should write with an audience in mind. I certainly don’t. I write because I enjoy it, and anything else is a bonus.

Some writers spend a great deal of time on research, and they do it the old fashioned way. Whether it’s honourable or foolish in the age of artificial intelligence is an open question. And while I personally don’t enjoy work that cites other reference points heavily, there are readers who do appreciate it. My writing process has gone through quite an evolution, and although in the beginning I felt like I didn’t know what I was doing, I’m not sure I’m any better now. I guess my approach has changed the most.

What I mean by that is I believe I’ve become more careful with my words, and unfortunately more inhibited. Because when I first started out it was almost like freewriting. It only occurred to me later on how important editing is to a polished piece. Also, the more you do something the better you get at it. But the reverse is also true. The bad days exist. Those days when one can barely get a sentence out, and no starting point seems sufficient. On such days I ache to make progress, but sometimes the best thing to do is simply walk away.

Not to walk away altogether, but rather to step out of the studio and experience life. To get out of the comfortable cages we build for ourselves. And the great thing is, if you have no obligation to write anyway, you’re able to enjoy those times without nagging thoughts. I don’t necessarily think one has to read as widely as possible, but at the same time, sticking with one genre can leave you having read all the good stuff and finding nothing but what’s sub par left.

Labouring over ones work to the degree that it hurts them is something certain writers wear like a badge of honour. But I don’t necessarily think it has to be that way. You can be gentle with yourself and not sacrifice the work itself. You can implement healthy habits and stick by them. Self-destruction is not as cool as nihilists will have you believe. And people who make a habit of pushing themselves beyond their limits eventually crash and burn. But I’m not encouraging laziness either.

There’s a fulcrum to it all. There are times when we’re capable of more than we think. There are also times when we overestimate our abilities and are quickly humbled by reality. But when to push yourself and when to hang back? Only you know that, and you’ll learn more about your abilities over time. Practise is key. Showing up when you don’t really feel it, and giving your best anyway. Sometimes those days turn out to be the most productive. If we don’t maintain a sense of mystery about our talents, life will become predictable.

And while there is a sense of convenience about inertia, that isn’t what we truly want deep down inside. We want a surprise. We want to be able to show up to our word processor and be excited about what’s going to manifest next. Of course the work comes from ourselves, and we have an intuitive process we follow, but the subconscious is always at play beneath the surface. And that’s where the mystery originates. In our conscious minds things become old hat fast and free association is just that.

But your subconscious makes all kinds of connections you never could on your own. I call this a type of antenna. A high point that picks up signals from the ether. None of us truly know where ideas come from, and many assume they’re just an amalgamation of previous concepts put together in new ways. I believe there is a form of consciousness that the universe possesses, and it is up to us to align ourselves with it. That’s where novel thoughts are formed in their infancy.

Many people simply lift ideas from the past, remixing them into modern terminology. They’re essentially stealing. But there is this lofty idea that such behaviour should get a pass — that it’s more of an homage than anything else. Tapping into the zeitgeist is a little different. Instead of cribbing your notes from other authors you have access to mass consciousness. And there you’ll discover things you’ve never encountered before. In some ways we’re all thieves. We just have inventive ways of packaging what we stole.

If you’re anything like me, and you’re fighting against the content mill, consider surrendering to it. Because the only way we’ll bring more intellectual diversity to the table is to exist in the same ecosystem we abhor. You might not be able to beat them. You might not want to join them. But what you can do is be a sleeper cell. Appear as if you’re one of them. Adorn yourself in the same clothing they don. Then, once they’re lulled into a false sense of security, you strike. The establishment will have no choice but to watch you in amazement.

I don’t know how to change a tyre. I have no idea how to build a cabinet or install a washing machine. By traditional standards, I’m a poor excuse for a man. And I’m not even sure I know how to write well any more. All the things I do know how to do are practically useless. Because let’s face it, does the world really need another artist or thinker? I’d like to say yes, as the arts and philosophy are important to me. But we’re living in a time when those kinds of ideas have been replaced by stuff like content and artificial intelligence.

It begins to feel like we’re fighting a losing battle, or worse, are in cultural sinking sand. I mean, a handful of people are trying to preserve the joy of the craft (I guess), but it just seems that majority of people don’t give a damn. Maybe my defeatism is so severe because I live in a third world country, where there is a lack of basic resources, and all we’re trying to do is survive. I can say the situation has fuelled my creative drive, because I use it to make sense of the world I’m living in. However I must stop myself short of wallowing in self-pity.

Sometimes I wonder how I made it this far in life without any practical or marketable skills. Then other times I just give in to the fact that I’m unremarkable, and an outsider, even in my chosen field of expertise. I have to remind myself what my goals are, though. And they never involved being understood well or gaining a massive following. Because I’ve heard that those who get to the top almost immediately want to eschew any involvement in having become popular. The unwashed masses are blind, and their media diet is abysmal.

I go on to remind myself it’s not all doom and gloom, though. Imagine if someone cottoned on to what I was doing — it’d defeat the entire purpose of why I do any of it at all. You see, I’ve got so comfortable with my setbacks, pain and trauma that anything to the contrary would feel alien. One of the biggest problems is I can’t accept who I am or express it fully to anyone. Because despite all my protestations to the contrary, I constantly seek validation and permission from others. Bear in mind I never thought I did, till recently.

It only dawned on me when I was doing some self-reflection how badly I try to people please. And all for what? Because no one is ever happy anyway. I think I’ve confused being respectful and polite with being palatable for so long that it’s become second nature. I don’t want anyone to be disappointed in me. Especially those I care about, who are close to me, and make up my inner circle. All you’d see from the outside if you met me is what a nice guy I am, when inside, my insecurities could eat me alive.

That’s why the darkness present in my work is all encompassing. On the page I can finally be who I really am. That which comes naturally to me. I do however find it sad that there are certain parts of myself no one will ever know — because I have so much to share. Life as we know it is apathetic to my struggle. The ruthlessness and cruelty of the human animal knows no bounds. But I’m not here to save the world. All I can manage to do is to focus on my own solipsistic yet rich inner world, and make of it what I can.

Imagine if we lived in a world where authenticity was valued. Where saying no wasn’t a personal affront. Where boundaries were respected. I fear I’ll never live in such a place, and that saddens me tremendously. I also need to acknowledge however the reason why my pseudonym exists in the first place. Some would say I lead a double life. Others will characterise it as a shtick. What it really is though involves a bit more nuance than that. I’m an awfully sensitive person who has internalised every slight that ever occurred to him, and finally lashed out.

It doesn’t matter if it’s misinterpreted by anybody else, for their opinions hold no water. I became my own canvas, and the events of my life were the paint. And cataloguing those autobiographical accounts have transformed into a lifelong project — one that’ll never be finished, not even when I close my eyes one day for the final time. So there is no endpoint in sight, and therefore no milestones along the way to celebrate. I was never one for engaging in self-congratulatory behaviour anyway.

Of course there are those who’ll never understand, who disagree with my approach. And the best way to handle these types is to shut them out with silence or avoid them altogether. That way I can’t get suckered into a vortex of nonsensical back-and-forth that serves no purpose but to waste both party’s time. But it isn’t easy. You feel you aren’t doing enough when you skip over an interaction, and you eventually give in to the saccharine mutual appreciation club.

This in turn leaves you at a loose end, and eventually you’re not sure when to relinquish control of the direction it’s all taking. But what’s the alternative? Engaging in endless soliloquy? Or you could couch it as a monologue, and be a liar if you like. For all I aspire to be, I wind up being nothing. I exorcise none of the demons I house. In fact, for every one that enters my realm, five more do too, and soon I’m filled to the brim with void upon void. I then become a black hole instead of a person, and wonder why I repel others with my mere presence.

No one seems to appreciate the gravity of this situation. They assume there’s some kind of devil worship going on, when magic is used as a means to an end. The don’t quite grasp that there would be no light without darkness — and that everyone lives in a sort of grey area. None of us are all good or all bad, despite what politicians want us to believe. They’ve forgotten than they serve the public. That they owe us their word. And every single one of them is compromised in some way. No matter the pleasant masks they don.

But there’s way more to life than left, right or centre. When we start becoming consumed by those ideas we forget our spiritual side. The part of us that needs to be nurtured and fed with meaning and purpose. And those are far more crucial concepts than earthly affairs. But it’s so easy to forget, and by extension, so hard to remember. Most people would never allow a complete stranger into their home, so why do they allow them into their hearts? Because we all yearn for connection, and try get it any way we can.

Come hell or highwater, you’ll never get another soul. Even if reincarnation is a thing, you’re stuck with the one you’ve got. That means your memories will be carried from lifetime to lifetime, as well as the marks others leave on you, your scars and trauma. And there’s no getting away from it, under any circumstances. That’s why we should be so careful about how open we actually are to bad actors. I lived for many years as a receptive being, absorbing anything that came my way. And I only realised the damage it did much later.

Undoing these problems is an ongoing process, and I don’t believe I’ll ever escape them altogether. So preventative measures are better than trying to glue a shattered vase back together, if you get my drift. And if you don’t, it’s fine. One day it’ll all dawn on you in your own way, and you’ll then be freed of the cage you’ve been in — realising it was always open. We create our own hell. More often than not, subconsciously, we engage in deliberate self-destruction. And that’s what I built my entire plot around this premise.

I don’t care who thinks what I put out in the world is inherently negative. I was raised to stuff things and pretend they aren’t what they are, and eventually I had my fill of that way of living. Then when I finally got to live the way I wanted I realised I was still behaving that way. I don’t blame my parents — they did the best they could — but I do take responsibility for continuing to live in a way that’s unbecoming. In a way one has to be deaf to the critiques of their detractors, for the minute you respond, they’ve got you.

Out of all the idols I’ve built on this earthly grotto, my own image is the one I kneel before most. Obsessed with documenting my every flaw, and mentioning them before anyone else can, they’re left with little to criticise me for. But they always find a way. I’ve learned the trick is to project my insecurities onto any opponent that comes my way, and in this sense the guilt of destroying what I didn’t create vanishes. Existing through ones name assumes a formlessness few can grasp. And once you resemble water you can take any shape.

The possible sentience of machines has long since been in question. And now, with the rise of machine assisted work flows, even more so. Jean Baudrillard put forth the notion that God could be simulated, and I’m not so sure he’s wrong. Think of the Tower of Babel — a structure that human beings built in an attempt to reach the heavens, only to be struck down and separated by different languages. The premise of the parable aside, I think it’s a good illustration of punishment being handed down from on high. Whenever us humans get too big for our boots, we seem to suffer inexplicable setbacks created by our supposed creator.

While I don’t particularly identify as a religious, I acknowledge all the many deities that exist. Little gods are said to be false representations, idols, and something very different from the one true God. But for all the certainty in the hearts of the faithful, it all comes down to belief. A flimsy framework in which to build ones inner life. How are we to parse whose god is who’s, when they all share a similar backstory? As a heretic, I’ve got no trouble doubting a silent, invisible all seeing eye. But that’s just it. I remain an outlier in the context of — and in comparison to — those who are steeped in ridiculous religious rituals.

Magic is altogether different. You don’t need to take some crazy leap of faith to acknowledge its existence. And for all the many criticisms of the gods, the pacts we make with them work more effectively than prayer ever has. Of course, the brainwashed masses will disagree vehemently, but as someone who has been on both sides of the aisle, I realise the whopping inconsistencies in near-monolithic thought. One need not be a magician to practise a strengthening of ones willpower, and that’s all this really hinges on. It need not be rock solid, merely better than the average misguided fool. It really isn’t that hard.

The trouble is most people are consumed by the idea of sin and repentance, and therefore trapped in a never-ending cycle of self-inflicted pain. Lately I’ve been struggling immensely with channelling the energies in my creative reserves, and for this I blame the trauma that was created around the belief system I was born into. I decided after much deliberation that I need not carry that cross any longer, and I wish just because I’d put it down it wouldn’t affect me any more. But that wasn’t the case. Instead, I live with the secondary agony inflicted by carrying it unnecessarily for so long.

However I’m not here to convince anyone of anything specific. I don’t inherently think that anyone whose beliefs don’t match mine are fools. I just think we have different approaches and the same finish line. If you’re trying to please an all powerful God you’ll forever live in the red, overextending yourself to prove that you’re a good person. And I’ve read enough Niccolò Machiavelli to know that virtue signalling gets one nowhere. I’m simply not focused on making myself palatable any longer, to either to my inner circle or strangers. There’s a funny thing that happens when you start living your truth. People criticise you for it.

Authenticity and keeping the peace are strange bedfellows, or better put, are completely opposing ideas. No one likes the person who says no, except the person who says it. And that’s the cost of inner peace, on display for all in sundry. Wanting to retreat to a quiet and peaceful place to reflect is perfectly normal. But if you allow others to get their way, your life will be absent of such rare luxuries. I don’t believe I’m above reproach. I’m aware of when I push buttons and when I don’t. To live out such strategies is to prepare for a better tomorrow — one in which your presence of mind is not intruded upon by utter nonsense.

Many of us want piece of mind but we aren’t ready for the harsh truth that accompanies it. We’re often times too caught up in satiating our immediate pleasures, and therefore we forget the long term implications of any decision we make. And while I’m not a pillar of sanity, I pick up on the patterns that are woven into the fabric of reality with a keen eye, due to my proclivity to supposed paranoia. I don’t see myself as a visionary in any sense of the term, but my visions do guide me on a clear path. What that path is, I don’t always know. But one must learn to trust the process, no matter how seemingly convoluted it gets.

We’ve come to accept the dialogue artificial life forms engage in with us, and many say we’ve accepted their presence too eagerly. Then you get those on the opposite end of the spectrum, who swear off having anything to do with them — often out of fear that they’re the devil’s work. I fall squarely in the middle of both these. The devil has worked closely with us to manufacture such works, yes, but we’ve accepted many other versions of these creations in centuries prior. In short, it’s not a new idea. Not by a long shot. But to dismiss any variation of what we know to be sentient as evil is ludicrous.

No one willingly invites a villain into their story. They have a way of weaselling their way in on their own. Unless one is completely naïve, or deliberately self-destructive, you won’t find them sabotaging themselves by their own hand. And really, there’s no sympathy to be had for a person who incessantly railroads their own progress. I do my best to avoid these types, despite appearing as one and the same. That’s my thing. Few agree with my life’s philosophy, and that’s okay. I tend toward nihilism, and it helps me make sense of an otherwise irrational existence.

The pied piper of this new aeon has come in the form of our devices. They endlessly ping and pull our attention away from tasks we deem important. And so, we spend more time goofing off in small increments, believing they don’t take away all that much from of life’s goals. Soon enough, we’re inundated with a backlog of unfinished work and we wonder why. These oblong devices have successfully robbed us of our attention spans, all while we blame irrelevant culprits. Before we had these distractions there were of course other ones too, but the severity of the time the shiny new ones steal is on steroids.

The internet has provided a space for fools as well as the truly wise, but most times the trolls drown out any wisdom there is to be had. This creates a kind of schism between those whose express purpose for being online is to spread discord, while those at the opposite end of the spectrum seek to share valuable knowledge. Few people will pick up a paper book nowadays. And if they do, often times their devices take precedence. How many times have you witnessed someone with every intention to read a compelling book instead reach for their phone or tablet? For me, the answer is too many times to count.

Of course you could say at least there is reading happening, but most times it’s skimming through a doom scroll session that occurs. And if anything has fried our dopamine receptors it’s these dreaded electronics. One at times feels that the only solution to this problem is to throw their phone in the ocean. To finally be freed from interruptions and start living life. I’ve actually tried this approach, however, and it does work. There are many who’ll regret it within the first few hours, but I had a somewhat fortunate experience. And this is due to the lifestyle I lead — one in which I don’t require being tethered to a mobile phone.

It’d be irresponsible for me to encourage anyone else to do the same, however. Because most people believe they need those dastardly gadgets to function. They’re hooked on them worse than a heroin addict is on smack or a smoker is on nicotine. And the one of the many reasons they believe this is due to addiction. Nothing more, nothing less. They’ve allowed themselves to indulge their immediate desires unchecked — and that’s the danger we all face. There’s a reason why those who work in tech industries often don’t use the very technology they’ve built. They know too much, and they don’t like what they see.

Getting back to a time when we sit with our concerns and journal them is reminiscent of previous centuries. It’s a way to connect us to the past, which was a simpler era. Who would’ve ever thought a pen and paper could stimulate such enormous reservoirs of intellect? It’s one of the many reasons we write today. And you don’t need to be a writer to do it. More of my psychological issues have been solved in my diary entries than by cognitive behavioural therapy. I guess that’s why some people refer to their art as such.

Real and imaginary images dance before my psyche, and I’m endlessly amused by the show. The way in which I document these occurrences goes beyond mere words. For I’m inherently performative in my approach to showing up. Everything has a hidden meaning, and the patterns and designs I’m adorned with reveal subconscious missives. My salvos are often delivered in a cryptic fashion, and they’re not expressly directed at the oblivious target. For that’d be too easy, and I’m all about a challenge. Nowhere in my past have I ever possessed such cunning, or subtlety. It’s only arrived with age. It’s amazing how many things begin to make sense when you verify your sources.

Little ghosts surround us all the live long day, invisible to the naked eye. Existing in the periphery between translucent and opaque, we’re blind to their constant presence. Influencing our thoughts and actions without our knowledge, these disembodied ghouls hold the key. Sometimes an unconscious thought pulls us into a predicament and we blame ourselves, yet little do we know, the decision was made for us. I was never a traditional alchemist anyway. The magic I knew lived all around me, and rarely did I beckon any hellish imps to do my dirty work. Witchcraft was only ever employed as a means to an end. I studied the grimoires I could get my hands on tirelessly, but became educated on the theory rather than the practice.

As for the fear I inspired in the hearts of jinn, I became something of an oddity, for they were the ones created to frighten us. I’d never define myself as a diabolist, simply because I never required demonic entities to realise my message. Who among us can set loose a spirit and go up against its might? There are many hidden traps scattered around the world, and it is often only a fool who falls prey to them. And while I wouldn’t consider myself a genius, I certainly don’t identify with sheer idiocy. My field notes were presented as art and diary entries — I rarely saw them as a book of shadows. Then my interest was piqued one day, and a strange person with a predilection for the dark attempted to befriend me.

Shortly thereafter I knew precisely what I didn’t want. No affiliation, even remotely, with Satanic thought. Because I experienced an attack while I lay in bed the following night. I’m not ashamed to say it scared me off poorly constructed spells and half-baked rituals, all cribbed off the internet. I had to know what I was doing, and so, I became involved in the dark arts years later with tremendous respect for the craft. That isn’t to say I’d refuse to acknowledge the many deities across religion, as I believe them to be valuable stepping stones. In my view there is no single messiah, no saviour coming to forgive our sins. No, this plane is a type of physical purgatory and nothing more.

Why anyone would choose to sabotage my miniscule efforts I can’t say. As I’m no all powerful master mage. An armchair magician, they say. One who is too caught up in ideas to practise ritual magic. The whole idea is relatively corny, however. Collecting ingredients and following recipes written by spooky, self-professed witches. I don’t even pray unless I get desperate — so why would I bother to worship the devil? Clearly on the losing team, many of these demonologists wind up psychotic and in mental health facilities. The conclusion I draw is to not toy with the witching hour, unless you’re aware of exactly what it is you’re doing. Don’t venture out into grottos wearing robes and leaking candle wax on your sandaled feet.

Others have associated me with things I have no involvement in, due to my interest in the occult. They seem to think that if one is occupied with such things they must clearly be some degree of evil. And I’ll admit it cost me my reputation at certain times. Never one too take his identity all that seriously, I decided to play along, and at some point it became ridiculous. People who buy in to the stock standard approach to religiosity are not my tribe, yet I allow them to believe I think as they do. That way they leave me alone. It’s a peculiar state of affairs. The less you argue with them, the happier they are in their blissful ignorance. I’ll admit I’ve struggled before to hold my tongue, but with time it’s gotten way easier.

This leaves me in a place where I’m perceived a certain way while being another, and that is the definition of a liar. Insincere, I feel I must placate those who march in lockstep with established patterns of thought. I’ve never held those whose opinions or beliefs differ than mine as foes, for that’d be an oversimplification, one which divides. And while I’m not saying I want a society that’s monolithic in its approach, I do want those who’d only go on to misinterpret my ideas to avoid me. I can’t help that I’m attuned to psychic fields. In fact, it’s more of a curse than it is a gift, however I take it like a champ on the chin. Where others see an empty room, I feel everything that’s attached to it.

Every locale has an energy to it. We aren’t the only living beings there are existing on this planet. The spiritual realm overlaps with the physical, and these souls occupy the very same territories we do — interfering in our lives. If you’ve ever encountered an infested building you’ll know what I mean. The purpose of their existence as well as ours is an open question. But the devil sets loose a number of entities for every one person that’s born on the earth. If we aren’t careful, these dark energies creep into our hearts and minds, and soon we’re acting like their puppets. Why our supposed creator has given evil such free reign remains a mystery.

I can’t for the life of me overpower a creature that’s ten times my size, and with the underdeveloped spiritual life I have I’m a sitting duck. There have been a few demons who’ve attached themselves to me throughout my life, and the symptoms I lived with aped those of a psychiatric nature. Then comes the slippery slope of a question: How many of these medications were prescribed in vain? Sure, they altered my chemical make up, and this led to further problems — like the slowing down of a once brilliant mind. Every time I pop another handful of pills I’m reminded how confusing it all is to determine which is doing what. But a doctor is not a spiritual healer in Western medicine. After all, we have the separation of church and state.

The phantoms have always been after me, and it’s not because I’m a particularly special specimen. It’s because, despite all my flaws, I’m a child of God, made in His image. This might come as a surprise from my pen, but it’s really simple, because we all are. There are arguably those who belong to Satan himself, sure. But they have devoted themselves to his works and can turn back any time, really. I’ve long believed the Nazarene performed magic, and not miracles, but that is merely my perception, having read the holy texts. He could’ve also been a false messiah, and had all of us duped. And while I know this might seem blasphemous, it has been said that the Antichrist will be indistinguishable from Christ.

This leaves us all at a bit of a loose end, of course. We are said to not be able to comprehend certain works, and human knowledge does indeed have its limit. Anybody who believes they’re able to outsmart the devil is at a clear disadvantage. For spirits can run rings around human beings — it’s just the nature of what they are. Part of me is uncomfortable with his own beliefs, which I blame my upbringing for, but at the same time these notions were browbeaten into me since infancy. I’ve never pretended to do anything else but share my opinions on these matters, because assuring others you deal in facts is a sure-fire way to lose their trust. No one but a liar will try to convince you they’re being dead honest.

My proximity to dangerous ideas makes me something of an anomaly. No one is ever quite sure what to do with information they can’t categorise neatly. And if I wanted to fit in a box I’d lean in to the pedestrian, conservative side of my nature. Apparitions aside, we can only learn to live with or banish the spectres that haunt us in our darkest moments. Mediums can see things we can’t. They possess gifts most of us would cower in fear at having. Only those who have an understanding of the unseen forces around us are blessed with these visions. So be grateful if you’re one of those people who’re spiritually blind.

As night falls, I’m reunited with my word processor, yet again. Outside the mist lingers in the valley, concealing the rolling hills from view. Gentle rain pitter patters on the ground, as I sit inside, comforted by the loving presence of my wife. I live for moments such as these, when I’m unavailable to the outside world. But when tomorrow arrives, I know I won’t be as fortunate.

Time passes, and I’m filled with dread at the looming weight of what might happen. And it’s in the what ifs that we falter. I can’t control my environment all the time, and that frustrates me. A hurtful comment is all it takes to throw me off my equilibrium. A jab here or an off colour remark there keeps me on a knife’s edge. There’s a reason I don’t enjoy holidays. Because that’s when I feel like a sitting duck.

Sooner or later the inevitable unfolds. I’m face to face with those who secretly conspire against me, and have the audacity to say to my face what most won’t behind my back. Being that I’m highly sensitive, these interactions have a way of chewing me up and spitting me out. Maybe part of it is my fault. I’ve been holding a grudge ever since I last got hurt.

What most don’t realise is that those of us who remain respectful in the face of slights have elephant memories. We don’t forget what we’re put through. In fact, we torture ourselves with the infinite replay in our heads. I’ll always be polite. I’m not an inherently blunt individual. But something grates me deep down inside when I encounter those who are.

I’m not saying people should lie about how they feel, but a bit of decorum would be nice once in a while. I’m aware just who it is that’s been spreading falsehoods behind my back. I know there is an irrational hatred aimed at me due to my detractor’s own baggage. But that isn’t my responsibility to take care of. I sometimes wonder how some people call themselves adults with a straight face.

Because of their immaturity and emotional instability I end up bearing the brunt of their short fuse. And it isn’t right, nor is it fair. But I have a strategy. I will, from here on out ignore those who attempt to bait me. I’ll shut them out completely. I’ll disengage, and escape to a place in my head where nothing can hurt me. At least this is what I tell myself I’ll do.

Chances are I’ll wind up internalising the abuse I receive, keep taking it, and brood when I return to my sanctuary, my home, and my studio. It fuels something in me. If I channel the anger and frustration in the right direction I can make something beautiful out of the pain. I’ve gone over this process many times in my head. And that’s the problem right there, I guess. I live in my head.

Not in the present, but mainly in the past. The future scares me almost too much to consider. I’m certain there must be others who feel the way I do, but I dare not trauma dump on anybody, and wind up ruining their peace. I don’t go around saying exactly what I think, and those who do don’t seem to realise the effect it has on others. For some things are better left unsaid.

I guess I save the way I feel for the page. Here I can explore all the reasons why I avoid the things I do. And ironically enough, this is the same place I face those fears. Other people seem content with not belabouring their suffering, analysing it to the point of paralysis. But for me, I must get it out somewhere, and I’m less eloquent outside of my writing practice anyway.

Perhaps I should return the barbs I receive with cruelty, just to see what happens. But I’m not so sure I’ll handle the blowback very well. For it pains me to inflict pain on anyone else deliberately. Yes, I’m that soft hearted. I was never built for this world, it seems. There appears to be something gravely wrong with me, and I can’t quite place my finger on what.

Writing is one of the only spaces I feel safe in. And it helps that few provide critique on my many oversights, because honestly, that’d probably crush me too. No one has ever bothered to get to know the real me on this earth, aside from my wife. Everybody else seems too wound up in their own drama to bother to so much as have a conversation. When people need something, sure, all of a sudden I exist.

My wife is also one of the only people that hasn’t ever betrayed my trust. And I can’t say the same for any of the other people I reluctantly consider part of my life. People tend to assume I’ll go along with whatever they say I should, but I’m slowly learning the importance of saying no. In case you haven’t realised, I just can’t stomach anything remotely superficial.

If only someone would give me a chance to show them who I am, perhaps they’d begin to understand. When I’m all in on something there’s nothing I won’t do. I’ll move mountains. But the apathy I live with — prescription drug induced or otherwise — saddens me to the point of metaphorical tears. I want to cry, but my eyes are dry. I want to move, but I’m frozen.

Even those who pretend to understand me are mostly wrong about every little detail. This causes me to feel isolated, and therefore solitude has become a welcome friend. Even the people I once considered myself close to just pale in comparison to the love I feel for my wife. Nobody would ever understand me anyway, not the way she does. Because they’re selfish and self-absorbed.

One of the traits I find particularly ugly in people is how invested they are in themselves and their own interests. I wonder why they can’t see beyond their nose, or so much as consider anything outside of their bubble. I fear I might become the same way, and that’s when I have to remind myself not everything is about me. Sometimes people have bad days, and so, they take their frustrations out on others.

Why do I appear to be the only one who stops himself from doing so, most times? And why do I consider the feelings of those who couldn’t seem to care whether I live or die? My sense of compassion runs so deep I can’t possibly hurt anyone else deliberately. By mistake, sure. But it all comes down to self-awareness, in my view. If you’re not paying attention, you’re probably at the danger of believing you’re the centre of the universe.

And we all think that way at some time or another. We believe the nasty behaviour we encounter is directed at us specifically. However, maybe it’s not. Sometimes we might just happen to be in the firing line, because we’re the closest target these hateful types can find. Perhaps it’s nothing more than our proximity to the offender. I struggle to stand up for myself. I always take less than I need. This is a recurring problem.

I’ll tell almost everyone I’m fine when I’m not, because I’ve always been strong. But there are times one tires of having the world on their shoulders. A point when even the most resilient of us break. And that’s when others are in danger of being utterly eviscerated. I see those who hide behind fake compassion. I spot the liars a mile away, from the subtle cues they give off.

Highly attuned to the feelings of others, I experience their pain. It doesn’t matter if I wanted this gift or curse, because nothing can change the fact that I have it. I can hone my abilities and adapt them so they work for me, but that’d be serving my self-interest, and I believe that’s wrong. Somewhere along the line I realised I seriously lack boundaries. But it felt too late to do anything about it.

The hardened among us will shirk the feelings others express and remain stone faced. But I feel that’s highly inappropriate, and I must respect what my heart tells me. I tell myself I’ll one day muster up the courage to stand up for myself, but that day never seems to come. Okay, it looks like I’ve got some serious work to do. And these problems aren’t going to magically disappear on their own.

One thing I’m trying to work on right now is implementing the idea that I can’t please everyone. And that’s particularly hard for me to come to terms with because I’m afraid of disappointing others. Even if they mean very little to me. Even if I shouldn’t care. I do care. I care too much. The road ahead of me is a daunting one, but perhaps it’s the only route to take. I’ve got two choices: make my life a living hell, or put my foot down.

While I know it won’t be easy, I’m ready for the journey. Instead of dreading what tomorrow brings, avoiding the dreaded interactions, and living in fear, I’ll be the bigger person. I’ll do better than slinking away at the first sign of resistance. While it’s true that I can watch my mouth the way I always have, there are also situations in which speaking up for myself is appropriate.

Other people’s hang ups are their cross to bear. It has absolutely nothing to do with me what they choose to do or say. I realise now I can only control how I respond, if at all. Pleasantly disengaging has been my way of coping in the past. Maybe it’s high time I show my wit. But I’ve never been one for snappy comebacks. Maybe the pain others are carrying are causing them great jealousy. And they probably want something I have.

I’ll live in gratitude for all the things they envy about my life. One thing they’re not going to do is dump their garbage at my feet and expect me to act like its a privilege to handle it. I can get really nasty if I want, but of course there’ll be consequences. And am I ready for the blowback? Certainly not. Fear has driven me for far too long. Either I throw it out of the driving seat and take charge, or I remain ruled by paranoia.

I’ve come to realise there’s no neat little bow to tie up this situation. Whether I like it or not, it’s an ongoing event. If I invalidate my own feelings by considering everybody else’s I’m practising a type of suicidal compassion. I’m wired a certain way, sure. My past experiences have led me to where I am today. But it’s ultimately up to me what I do next. And I’m no longer afraid.

I have no idea what I’m doing, and nor do you. None of us know. And to pretend we do is a betrayal to all honesty, the highest virtue. There are times when I’m dishonest and I could kick myself for it. Of course I’m capable of being more forthcoming. There are parts of myself I’d rather not put out on front street. So why do I seem to be the only one who has such a guilty conscience? Perhaps others do too, but they’re better at hiding it. I always promised myself I’d be better, but I fall short every time I try. Maybe my moral compass is too rigid. And while I could attempt to loosen the stranglehold it has over me, I’m not certain that’d be a wise direction to go in. After all, I’m only human.

We all have hang-ups we’re not proud of. What matters is how we manage them, and the coping strategies we employ. There are of course healthy ways of doing so, as well as the unhealthy route. Which one will you take? Because that’ll determine whether you move toward your goals or shrink from them. When I began my writing journey I did so with a little help from my alter. I can be the person I am through my work simply because I acknowledged the existence of my shadow. But the pseudonym aside, there are times when the real me seeps in. I believe this is unavoidable, and has a little something to do with the mental illness I live with. But why should anyone care, really?

Because my story is just as valid as anyone else’s. It may mean more to me as I’m the one living it out, but it can make a difference to others — if at all they’re receptive to it. How open we are to learning about other people’s experiences can indeed determine what lessons we’re able to extract from them. But I’m no sage or guru, just a relatively carefree entertainer. The performative aspect of publishing is something that doesn’t appeal to particular writers. These types maintain that they write for themselves. And they appear unconcerned about putting their efforts out there in the public square. I believe this is because the majority of them are too self-conscious to be exposed to critique.

And everyone is a critic. Some people seem to always have advice and suggestions about what others should do, and they use this to deflect from their own shortcomings. See, it’s easy to dish out unsolicited counsel and expect brownie points for it. What’s most frightening to these individuals, however, is facing themselves. As long as they can keep the focus off their failures they’ll forever criticise the next person. And that is an ugly trait, to say the very least. No one really has the right to offer constructive criticism unless they’re asked. And often times the criticism is less than constructive. It’s just a term we use in common parlance. I see through these types for who they are.

It doesn’t bother me so much as it’s something I’m acutely aware of. For I can observe events from a detached demeanour, and still get a chuckle out of their rush to correct or improve on something they had no hand in creating. My creative projects are mine alone. I don’t go looking for collaboration, and that’s because I do much better outside of a group setting. When I think about writer’s circles, workshops, or the courses people offer in the field I couldn’t be less interested. I might come off as anti-social or stunted in my growth, but I really don’t care. Writing is personal. But it can also be something one cherishes as well as shares with the world. I seek an audience.

I want others to read my words and have them resonate. Not purely for the dopamine hit of a waterfall of likes. No, instead, I want to connect in some way I’m incapable of doing in real life. Because let’s face it, us writers can be a reclusive bunch. We spend a great deal of time alone with our word processors, and that can lead to social ineptitude. Not in all cases, mind you. But in enough that it’s noticeable to the general public. What other way would a person who expresses themselves through the written word be? Steeped in angst and inner turmoil. We need only look to some of the literary greats to realise this is the case. They call them tortured artists for good reason.

But not everything has to be a tragicomedy. We need not subject ourselves to pain and strife to be remarkable as creatives. We can exist in any number of contexts. Whatever inherent nature we’re born with, that makes us unique, can be explored more deeply through self-analysis. We can exaggerate those parts of ourselves we’d rather project, and we’re quite free to minimise any blemishes our character might have. And this is the wonderful thing about art: it doesn’t need to make sense. I’ve always said it is more a question mark than a hard-and-fast series of answers. To engage with the world through a creative lens is remarkably illogical. But that’s because what drives us isn’t pragmatism.

You have to be a little kooky to pursue something so risky. It’s a lot like entrepreneurship, there are absolutely no guarantees. People often state some variation of build it and they will come. Or explore your passions and the money will follow. But this is rarely the case. Unfortunately, most times, we wind up in debt and defeated by the systems in place. In order to disregard all that, one must be doggedly persistent and resilient, knowing in the back of their mind that failure along the way is just another part of the game. And you might not see it as a game, for it involves real life consequences. Things that can beat you down at your lowest point. But that’s the risk we all take.

I believe there is a definite courage to pursuing any creative field. Art just doesn’t work like a business, and when pieces fail to generate revenue it appears to all come down to the luck of the draw. But there’s a pattern unfolding in the background that we can attune ourselves to if we hone our talents enough. And the pattern interrupt comes along when those who have no business being in the creative arts try to shoehorn art into the category of commerce. We need to accept that just about all occurrences in this sense are random, and business plan or not, you sink or swim by your own efforts. While it may not be obvious, I’ve had first-hand experience with all this. And it never gets easier.

What does seem to help is lowering ones expectations. I’m not saying a defeatist attitude is in order, no, the point I’m trying to drive home is that you can’t expect work to stand out when it’s drowning in the sea of an oversaturated market. And being different just for the sake of it is a hollow premise. One of the things I’ve learned as an artist myself is that everything is on shaky ground. Nothing is promised, and to keep oneself humble in the face of short-lived success is most wise. When things go awry — which they more often than not do — accept them and move on. Because no one ever got anywhere by throwing in the towel after some minor setback occurred. Problem solving is an intrinsic part of being an artist.

And if you can solve creative problems you can probably channel that ability into other areas of your life too. It all depends on how badly you want it. I’m not referring to desperation, either. Rather, persistence in the face of obstacles. Look, I’m not one to give pep talks, and everyone has their own methods to get where they need to go. If I had any of the secrets to success I’d never have started this piece off the way I did. We need to remember what we do not know. And in being aware of that we can then become receptive to possible mentors. Learning from those who’ve achieved more and have racked up experience is of paramount importance. Don’t see it as lowering yourself to the position of a student, because being one is a privilege.

It means having someone to guide you. Take advantage of any of the expertise that others have gained through their years of experience. Never believe your own hype. It’s fine to believe in yourself, of course. What isn’t productive however is overconfidence. That’ll lead to you overestimating your capabilities, and in turn over-promising and under-delivering. And that’s a slippery slope if there ever was one. I’ve been there, done that, and got the T-shirt. It’s not a fun place to be. What you want to do is preserve the standard of your output, or better yet expand your horizons. And one of the best ways you can do that is by becoming an apprentice.

If you’ve sought out a mentor and have had the unfortunate outcome of not finding anybody willing to take you under their wing there are books that can serve as guides. Your master doesn’t need to be a literal, flesh-and-bone human being. But you’ve heard it all before: Study the greats. Develop your own sense of taste. Integrate your influences, and eventually you’ll find your own unique voice. If someone had told me all this in the beginning of my creative journey in the arts I probably wouldn’t have paid it any mind. So why should you listen to me? You shouldn’t, because you don’t know me. And even the people you think you know have their own agenda. See, it’s easy to say stuff that sounds good on the surface. I’d instead urge you to disregard everything you hear or read and follow your own intuition.

It wasn’t until I started playing the game that I realised I had nothing to lose. For the longest time I thought I’d tap out altogether and not participate, but part of me wanted more. I guess I wanted to feel the thrill of the chase again. An extended period of brooding and self-reflection led to my re-emergence. The game I speak of is not one you might be familiar with, but that’s okay. I’m hoping I can evade explicitly stating what the game entails, because I’m not certain I can trust all that many people with its express definition. Suffice it to say, you know it when you see it, experience it, or hear well-told anecdotes about its existence.

The ill perceived secrecy around my participation in the lived human experience forces me to act like I’m above particular behaviours, but nobody is. And for all the highfalutin, purely performative decency we’re force-fed, few of us could possibly live up to such ideals. It’s not that I’m encouraging debauchery and hedonism — far from it. I just know, and have come to terms with the reality of who we are and what we’re about. No one really cares about stuffy, straitlaced law abiding citizens. They’re more interested in how one can colour outside the lines and get away with it scot-free.

If someone told you there were no rules, and everything you ever learnt up till now was a farce, would you continue to strive for virtuousness? It all began when we were children. Adults lied to us and framed it all as a fairy tale, a cute little lie that entertained us endlessly. How are any of us supposed to trust anybody after being raised on such whoppers? Surely it left a mark. The game I’m playing might be altogether different from the one you are, but that’s the catch. None of our interactions can be trusted when the nature of reality is in question itself. And nobody is real when we aren’t looking.

This is the oubliette solipsism places us in, without apology or excuse. We’re pursued by invisible enemies at every turn, and we’re told it’s all in our head. The game is never over, not even when you attempt to check out. It follows you, adapts to your movements, weighed down by your shadow, and acts as a magnet to the many jinn that linger in our orbit. Psychic elements are at play too, all the time. The puppet masters have successfully convinced us that freedom comes at a great price. But what if you can’t afford admission? Then you’re left out in the rain, rattling the gate to get in.

I guess I should mention how exactly I see us being suppressed. If you have anything credible to state in your many screeds you may just be in violation of the agree upon meanings we all take as fact. No one would realistically perform like a circus monkey for the peanuts they throw at us — yet here we are, doing precisely that. How low does ones self-esteem have to be to sign up for the abuse those in power dish out and like it? And where exactly do we draw the line, after so many obvious infractions? The revelations I’ve documented came to pass way before anyone else’s did. Yet I’m the problem here.

Who are you when the lights fade and the curtains come to a close? How many faces have you worn in falsehood, embarrassed to show anything but your mask? I yearn for a time that will never come to be, and one that happened already without my knowledge. It’s a time gone by, never to return. They call me impractical, illogical, a dreamer. But there is a dream within the dream that I never wake from. The layers of lies we were told make us question every last drop of knowledge we attempt to quench our thirst with. We can drink of the eternal cup and never be satisfied. That’s just the nature of where we find ourselves.

Fishing for new ideas in my pond of past experience I encounter a hideous beast. It reminds me of my failures and broken promises to myself. I’m too ashamed to venture into any deeper waters for fear of drowning in a sea of tears. When I walked into this situation I never expected I’d wind up where I did. A whirlpool of transparent masks follow me to no avail. People disregard my visions. They tell me I need to get my prescription drugs adjusted, and pass me off to the supposed professionals. The same people who robbed me of my personality, and more or less left me for dead, simultaneously numbing me to the pain associated with it.

This way, they were under the mistaken impression I wouldn’t know. Where I once loved deeply and fully I now present as a mere husk. Where have all my feelings gone? And why won’t anyone return the favour to these dastardly mutts? I suppose I’ll have to expose them on my own. So here is my warning — encoded and backward masked, all so the right people hear it — I caution you against being fixed. I’m not saying you can’t be, mind you: just not by them. You have to find it within yourself, this remedy. It can’t come from anywhere else. Or else it’s immediately compromised. The contaminant is present, and we must rid ourselves of it.

If I were to tell you what I needed to tell you any other way I could suffer serious setbacks. I’ve tried being self-effacing, but I’ve had to adjust my approach. I turn to the noiseless void, and the abyss appears. I dare it to swallow me whole, but instead, it takes sharp little erratic bites out of me. This way I’ll never notice, it thinks to itself. But I feel every one. In agony, I try fight off its teeth, but to no avail. Everyone else seems to experience painlessness as parts of themselves drift away. But I can’t escape its clutches. Why do you not feel the pain I do? What rare cocktail have you concocted as the antidote for such matters? I see. You avoid my advance.

Sober as a church mouse, yet drugged to the gills. How can they call me clean when I stuff handfuls of pharmaceuticals they promised would heal me into my mouth? I remember a time when none of this mattered, when I was so fresh faced and filled with naïveté. Psychiatry was supposed to help, but it killed a whole other part of me I never even realised was there — until it was gone. People have suggested I go cold turkey. But they have their own limiting self-beliefs. I see the finish line like an oasis in the desert, but never get to it. No one appears real anymore. Doppelgängers dance eternally as I swig another glass of water with my medication sticking in my throat.

Back to the game, though. It’s not so much that it’s sucked me in as much as it’s become a part of my performance. I must remember always to ponder my existential angst in a way that’s productive. But it can’t be, and it never will. They say I should pursue other interests, get out of my own head from time to time. Although it’s all I’ve ever known. The human condition is on life support, and us as scribes must probe the anus of humanity, examining all its ailments up close. They say it’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. Why should it be me, though? There is no reason for me to walk away at such an important juncture.

Who among us is strong enough to survive another blow? We’ve been beaten black and blue by our masters, relegated to wage slavery, and are told to enjoy our intermittent breaks. We gorge ourselves on anything we can find to forget how miserable we are, but it never lasts very long at all. There has to be more to it all than gluttony and the tasteless pursuit of empty pleasures. I don’t care who writes me off. I’m not bothered by who thinks I appear insane. Perhaps I was — is it any business of theirs? Who can sit for hour upon hour exploring the id and come away uncracked? If I announce that I am such a person, would it even matter?

We come to the end of our time together and launch into the follow up questions. None of them are articulated well, nor do they resemble anything other than non sequiturs. How are we to cope among such fools? If we’re incapable of communicating the most basic of ideas, none of the more complex ones will ever make it out of our mouths before we blush and wince. Please, take this, and run far away. Never look back, nor belabour what happened here. You might be confused. Get used to it. Nothing fits together coherently, and that’s the nature of who we are at our core. Random number generators and misspelt missives. I’m out.

It seems that a good chunk of people default to a type of unsolicited advice giving these days, and I couldn’t be less impressed. We’re all struggling, none of us really have the answers, and to share unverifiable hacks is, in my view, tremendously irresponsible. What if everyone does what you tell them to do, and it doesn’t work? Because that’s how this goes. Everyone’s a mock guru now. Self-help is filled to the brim with charlatans, and independent publishing is making this ever more possible.

However, don’t get me wrong. Do your thing. Share your supposed knowledge. Just don’t be surprised when the act becomes stale, and people stop paying attention to your work. And isn’t that your whole gig, getting attention? I know. Without it you feel lost, empty, and numb. I sometimes feel a twinge of hope, when a writer I follow gets real with their readers — but they always seem to revert back to whatever trend is hot right now. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m probably irrelevant because I don’t pander.

But I’m in danger of that appearing as if it’s a gimmick. That I use the veneer of authenticity to garner interest. If that were the case, however, it’d ring hollow sooner or later, and I’d be exposed for the fraud my detractors suspected I was all along. And perhaps I give my enemies too much credit. The way I see it, anyone who engages in aggressive self-promotion is the opposition — and I mean anyone. Chances are few people care about whatever it is you’re selling, so give it up, along with the I’m innocent of all charges act.

We live in a world where everybody’s got an angle. Everyone’s trying to make their side hustle their main thing — and it’s the ones you’d least expect, that conceal their true intentions who’re the worst offenders. I mean, what better way to market your work than by stating you’ve got no skin in the game? It relaxes fools. They wind up taking the bait, and before you know it, they’re parting with their hard earned money. Whoever behaves in this way, I’m onto them. I notice it. I see it all. And you can’t hide forever.

Readers might be wondering what I have to offer then, if not advice. Where’s at least one useful piece of information in this screed? But that’s the point: I evade a cohesive message altogether, out of severe disdain for those who have all their ducks in a row. Yes, you’ve checked all the boxes. You wrote your hook, you’ve perfected your opening line — but to what end? You’ve failed to deliver anything of value. Your express intent was to get someone to click on your piece, but what else have you really got?

Most of us as readers feel cheated when we recognise the same refrain. But most don’t have the heart to admit it to the content creator. Instead, we abandon their work and return to the other five tabs we have open. Multitasking between useless activities and crucial tasks. This is becoming very meta, I get that. But if I don’t speak up I doubt anyone else will. Because people are scared. They’re engaging in deceptive practices. They want their numbers to jump up at any cost. As long as that passive income keeps rolling in.

I was never one for fitting in with the crowd, because I was too self-aware. And if I see people going one particular direction I usually go the opposite way. Not out of spite, nor contrarianism. Simply because I want more out of life than everyone else does. I’m not satisfied with making a dishonest buck. The art always comes first. Everything else after that is a most welcome bonus. You can take issue with my blowing the whistle all you want — but in your heart you know everything I’m saying is true.

More often than not, the truth offends people. It frustrates them to no end. And you know why? Because they want everyone to just quietly play the game and pretend everything is peachy. But it’s highly abnormal, treating your readers like chattel. It’s almost like no one has respect for their audience anymore. You’re going to serve up this slop? And you expect accolades and success for it? My only wish is that people were more discerning than they appear to be.

Maybe it doesn’t bug you that the internet is turning into some kind of reciprocal seesaw. That people are disingenuous and engaging in superficial behaviour. Perhaps to you that’s normal. But to me it’ll never be so. I live to shatter the perceptions of those who are blinded by the glib. It’s my personal mission to say what no one else will dare speak up about, out of fear of reproach. Honestly, I’d want someone to challenge me on my statements. I want to spark an open debate on the dishonesty so prevalent in this day and age.

Why is it so hard to be genuine? To admit your mistakes and face your inconsistencies head on? Because to me it comes naturally. I won’t go as far as to say I’m surrounded by idiots, but rather, frauds. I’ve long sought meaningful connections in a sea of closed off jerks. And when certain unfavourable characteristics are inadvertently revealed it’s no longer much of a surprise to me. I get that I sound jaded, and I may be throwing the baby out with the bathwater — though I’d expect more from those who consider themselves intellectually sound.

You might question why any of this means so much to me, and I guess it all hinges on my being a man of principle. A person who does the right thing whether or not others are watching. Who avoids virtue signalling like the plague. The minute I detect a level of falseness in another human being I disengage. I know there are certain conversation pieces that generate public interest. But I respect myself too much to dip my toe into those waters, just because it sells. You see, it’s not cool to me to be vapid. I desire more. Nay, I expect more from people — and I guess the issue therefore lies within me.

While I might appear angry or irrational, I can assure you I’m neither of those things. All you have to go on is my word, sure, but I wouldn’t lie to you. If you want comfortable conversations there are a million other places you can get them, but the buck stops with me. I’ll go ahead and address the elephant in the room, all while everyone tries to ignore it. I tire of the polite non-answers and empty positive affirmations that mean nothing beyond the lips that emit them. Lip service is just that, an empty platitude. Don’t fall for it.

If you have people around you who assure you you’re great and never question a single decision you make — who never sit you down and have the hard conversations with you — you’re being duped. And I say this out of compassion for the human condition. We like to prop others up, and make them feel comfortable. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But when you make a habit of lying to others about their efforts, you fill them with confidence based on nothing solid.

Before you know it, they’re making embarrassing blunders in front of the world when they get their shot, and it’s all your fault. I’d prefer somebody tell me when I missed the mark. Who tell me, kindly, that what I’m doing is ineffective and the reasons it’s not making an impact. At that point it’s up to me whether I go back and revise my initial plan, and the ball is squarely in my court. But nobody bothers to do any of that because they’re afraid of confrontation. We’re discouraged from correcting others when they falter.

Instead, people become prisoners of their own making. They manufacture the very jail bars they sit behind. They refuse to face the music, because it’s too much to bear. They continue making the same mistakes, time and again, because they have no guidance. This is a situation created by not having anyone around that keeps you honest. If I were to be brutally honest here, I’d say my own growth has been stunted by this occurrence too. I think people are afraid of calling their associates out. Because they don’t want to be harsh.

But critical thinking is paramount to honest discourse. You don’t have to dislike someone to disagree with them. In fact, it’s the people who love you most who should keep you in line from time to time. I like when I’m held to account to any infraction I may have made — and that’s because I seek growth. We can’t take personally those instances in which we’re given constructive criticism, but simultaneously, it’s so hard not to. We begin to think that anyone who offers to help us correct course secretly wants to sabotage our efforts.

So this is a possible answer to the question I posed initially, perhaps people are only trying to help when they share what they believe to be tips and tricks that’ll get others ahead. The problem is one needs to learn to separate the wheat from the chaff, and with so many self-proclaimed authorities around it becomes increasingly difficult to spot what’s truly helpful. We need to see credentials. Gone are the days that such freely given advice is heeded without question. Let us usher in a new era of rational scepticism.

No one cares how long you spend staring at a blank page. They don’t want to hear it. You only matter when you have something meaningful to say, and you execute it well.

I see so many people getting caught up in numbers and all that nonsense — and when we die one day it’ll all be for naught. You can be a bestseller, have a million readers, and all you can ever hope for is to be remembered for an accidental aphorism.

This is one of the very reasons why I don’t worry about what impact I’m making, if any. Because it doesn’t matter. Nothing does. I’m not in a particularly nihilistic mood or anything, despite it perhaps coming off like I am.

One of the ways in which I’m able to remain creative is by freeing myself from expectations. The way I see it, if I’m not beholden to anyone for anything I have a lot of room to play. And that’s fundamentally what art is. It’s what we did when we were kids, we scribbled our crayons on paper no matter how bad it came out. The act was enough.

I think we get so bogged down as adults about wanting to do something amazing that we forget why we started any of this in the first place. As human beings we yearn to express ourselves, and often times that can manifest in strange ways.

The idea of doing what you love has grown in popularity over time, so much so that everyone feels they’re entitled to live the life they want. But that isn’t how the world works, as most of our time is spent doing things we can’t stand. It’s just the nature of late-stage capitalism.

I’ve never felt that I deserve the life I have. Instead, I feel like it’s been a happy accident, and a series of choices that got me to where I am. And it hasn’t always been easy. I’ve sacrificed a lot of the luxuries most people enjoy — as well as access to basic necessities at my lowest.

Still, I feel grateful that I live the life I do, and I realise that it inspires envy in those who don’t possess the same freedom. Secretly, those who pose as our friends often want ills to befall us, simply because they’re miserable and disgruntled at their lot in life. And that’s why you have to be so careful who you keep in your circle.

I recently had to turn down what was couched as an opportunity for me to promote my work. Someone who I once considered a friend just couldn’t take no for an answer, and wound up harassing me to the point that I wished he’d just disappear. Unfortunately I feel like he damaged our friendship by mixing business with pleasure. He’s one of those types with so many grand ideas and no follow-through, and that frustrates me.

None of that stopped me from feeling guilty about turning him down though. I’ve struggled to assert myself for most of my life, and now, as I’m ageing, I’m beginning to find the courage to say no. I can’t help feeling like I’ve outgrown some of the people from my past — because they all seem stuck in the same place they were in back when I was an active part of the scene.

A lot of writers have heard it all before. The promise of exposure. Being expected to feel grateful for some freelance gig, and everything in between. It’s just the nature of the arts. What I can’t reconcile is how any of us are supposed to thrive within a system that treats art like a lottery ticket. It’s feast or famine. Imagine telling a professional in any other field to keep the faith, and hope a pay cheque magically arrives.

Trust me to choose all the hobbies and interests that cost more money than they make. I can’t help that I’m an artist and a writer — it just kind of happened. And I’m not the type to abandon my goals when things become difficult. I’m endlessly persistent, to a fault. I’ll continue hitting my head against a brick wall if I’ve decided that’s what I’m going to do, despite what anyone else says or thinks.

This is where we get into dangerous territory, for insanity is defined by doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. And I’m certainly something akin to insane. Need I mention my malady? Schizoaffective disorder. There. Now you can finally take any notion I put forth with a grain of salt.

The status of my mental health is probably of little concern to strangers on the internet, but if I redefine them as dear readers I start to feel better about the whole thing. It’s amazing what psychiatric drugs can do for you these days, as I’m a success story in that context. My hallucinations are more often than not kept at bay, and my mood is relatively stable.

Those same qualities that make me appear unstable to the general public aid me in my artistic pursuits, however. I can document and depict my moods through any number of ways. It just depends on which medium I choose at any given moment. I hear a lot of people say their art is a kind of therapy, but for me it sometimes inadvertently worsens my condition.

And the reason I say that is because I never quite know what I’m going to get. I work a lot with my subconscious, and therefore I’m tapping in to uncharted territory each time I sit down and create. There are many times when I’m disappointed in my peers for following trends and pandering to mainstream tastes. To me, that’s an instant turn off, and is also an indication that I need to distance myself from them.

While most artists are disorganised and unreliable, it continues to disturb me how unprofessional so many of them are. But I get it, the bar is so low at this point that almost nothing more is expected of us. And I’m pretty unprofessional myself, because I refuse to answer to anybody else. In fact I can still remember the last time I walked away from a gig and said that’s it, I’m going solo.

Working with others has got to be the one of the most unpleasant things in the world, so I understand why most people that exist in corporate settings remain disgruntled. It’s never fun to have to rely on a team when everybody shirks and looks to blame the next guy. That’s why it’s strangely comforting that the buck stops with me.

I don’t ever see myself going back to working for scraps and trying to satisfy ingrates. Art and commerce just don’t mix well, and I fear it’ll always be that way. For those who’ve managed to make the system work for them, I’m certain they don’t want anything to change. And please know, I’m not suggesting we ditch capitalism for any lesser ideal.

There are those who believe that all we need is socialism — whose goal is communism — and conveniently overlook all the instances in which it never worked. No, I’m happy we live in a society where capital rules. It means you can find ways to game the system and still be left alone to pursue your own interests.

Often those who argue for an alternative cornucopia, a world where every problem is solved, are highly inexperienced in the real world, instead retreating to the ideas churned out by universities. In short, it’s not that they’re uneducated, rather, they’re misinformed and their perceptions are severely skewed.

We all have a fantasy in our head about what the perfect world might look like, but realistically it is a destination to which we’ll never arrive. For life tends to kick you when you’re down, and remain a form of cruel and unusual punishment. This is what drives people to realise life lacks all meaning and everything is random.

Let us not assign significance to those things that don’t deserve it. While miracles are said to have happened in holy texts and magic remains a legitimate practise, all the world is not a synchronicity. Sometimes events feel tragic, and others leave you feeling ecstatic — but in truth, nothing is really good or bad. There exists a neutrality to every situation. And it’s our perceptions which colour them.

I’ve never taken to organised religion because it encourages magical thinking. Prayer only works because it’s an event of mass consciousness. If enough people believe the same thing, it’s been scientifically proven to have an effect. That’s why I know we have more power than we realise, but I can’t say why.

There are many unanswered questions that will stay unanswered, and we’ll just have to live with that. Because we’ve got no other choice. We like to think that we’re the most intelligent creatures in the universe, but when I witness the idiocy I do from some people I begin to have my doubts.

My message is never one of defeatism. I live in eternal hope that things will change for the better, but they almost never do. What I instead choose to do is look at things from a practical standpoint. We can’t be clouded my our emotions and personal beliefs, for in the face of eternity they’re useless.

Every creative hits a snag at some point or another, but there are clear ways around it. Sometimes we feel like giving up. Other times we think we have nothing left to give. However, that’s the elusive nature of creativity. The minute you believe you’re on the top of your game, that’s when you’re in danger of being humbled by a dry spell. Therefore we must avoid arrogance and hubris, for it leads nowhere good.

Though the reason I say there are ways around writer’s block is because I’ve lived through multiple instances in which they were present, and I’ve always come out on the other side okay. And for a long time I refused to accept that I was experiencing any blocks whatsoever. I simply thought it couldn’t happen to me. That I was somehow an exception to the rule — when I plainly wasn’t. We aren’t machines. We’re biological entities.

Fortunately enough, I’m not currently being plagued by a lack of having anything to say. But I’m always wary that it could happen, and fast. Some days, words come easy, and others, the flow is greatly lacking. It all depends on ones environment, commitments outside the studio, and I guess, their mood. When all those things come together, we tend to pay little mind to why. But when they don’t, we freak out. At least I do.

There really is no reason for us to lose our patience, as anything worthwhile takes a decent amount of time. When I’m stuck, I simply don’t write. I don’t try force something that isn’t working. Sometimes the best approach is to walk away. And while this might sound like awful advice, I’d like to caution you not to take any of what I’m saying as if it’s advice. Because I don’t have any hard and fast answers, hidden tips or tricks. These are merely thoughts and opinions that reveal my own method of producing meaningful work.

I like to cultivate a comfortable working area, free of unnecessary distractions. Often times — if not always — it’s just me and my word processor, as I wrestle ideas out on the page. I don’t like to write in longhand, because I prefer the clean interface provided by my laptop screen. Plus, when I’m cartooning I use ink and paper. That way, when I switch between the two practices, each has its own tangible feel. I’m fortunate that I’m able to draw, but in my view, anyone can. Some people just stop doing so after childhood.

Walking away can be hard at times, especially if you find solace in your studio. Or maybe you don’t have a studio, perhaps you just make do with a dedicated yet makeshift area in your house. The crux of the matter is that, in my humble opinion, all you need is something to write with and a flat surface. Chances are, all the fancy bells and whistles that some writers claim improve their workflow are nothing more than training wheels. And if you can get by without those, I’d strongly suggest you do. It’s you and the work.

My mantra involves simplicity, minimalism even. No one ever produced anything brilliant just because they had a book deal, an agent, and the most cutting edge writing software available. Those things don’t even help. Often they’re a hindrance more than anything else. I’ve heard some horror stories. You could write in notepad, and self-publish. Honestly, the world is your oyster — and a lack of any of these things just makes room for excuses. Excuses we all love, because they make us feel like we’re off the hook.

Say you’ve always wanted to be a writer, and you’re just starting out. Often, we think there are hidden secrets somewhere that’ll help us come up with incredible ideas and win us critical acclaim. But in our search we find out there aren’t any. That writing involves hard slog, and dogged persistence. And if it were easy, everyone would do it. Sure, there are new writers entering the field all the time, but in all honesty, few are in it for the long haul, once they realise how much work it all entails, and what the potential payoff is.

I write because I enjoy it. I don’t care if none of my work sells, but I do hope people find some way to read it. Even if that means I don’t get a cent. What matters is that the work resonates with at least one person. And those may be low stakes, but at least I’m not delusional enough to believe I’m a misunderstood genius. There’s always the chance that ones work is still developing, as it takes a long time to find ones voice. Very rarely does anybody start off knowing precisely what they’re doing. It takes years of trial and error.

Workshops, writing circles, and courses seem to me to stem from the same school as excuses. They’re mainly about connecting with others and developing a sense of community. But that doesn’t automatically mean that they improve your writing. As I said, it takes a lot of hard work. Sitting alone with your thoughts and learning new ways to articulate them. I believe if your work is based in truth, it’ll resonate universally. A dishonest person is often times a bad writer, because they refuse to confront their shadow self.

Having been a cartoonist for two decades, I never thought I’d encounter another creative practice that was as hard to break in to as writing. I thought for sure that it’d be a smoother ride. But I was sorely mistaken. I’d say writing is even more difficult than cartooning — because with comics you can lean on the visuals when the story isn’t strong, or you can lean on the story when the visuals aren’t up to scratch. It’s a careful balancing act, but with the word alone there’s absolutely nothing to hide behind. You sink or swim on your own merit.

No one ever prepared me for the direction I chose to take, and I’m not certain anyone could’ve. One thing that works for me however is a quality I possess that is a drawback in most other areas of my life: stubbornness. Once I have a goal in my head, I’ll do anything to achieve it, despite the obstacles that present themselves. But I refuse to beat a dead horse. Because that’s just counterproductive and redundant. Even though I know I must step away from the studio sometimes, I don’t. I sit in it and ruminate. And that rarely works.

In fact, I can’t think of a single occasion in which it did. But being a creature of habit, I find comfort inside my cosy little bubble. It almost feels like nothing can intrude upon my peace inside it. Inevitably things do, from time to time, but I don’t allow that to stop me from finding workarounds. And the way in which I do this is by switching between creative outlets. In case you didn’t know, I’m a podcaster too. I probably talk about stuff that is too niche to appeal to a wide audience, but it’s another important facet of self-expression.

Writing feels like a losing battle when it’s not going right. It can be all consuming, and prove difficult to multitask when something imperative is on ones mind. But in that single-minded focus I let out all the things I yearn to share on the page. I’ve found changing directions too fast can make my writing suffer. So I usually break up my day between creative practices. I’ll work on one project for a couple hours, maybe have a nap, and then pick up where I left off, either with my visual art or my podcast.

There is an all too common belief that napping is lazy, but I disagree. I do understand why certain people feel that way, because it was drummed into my head that it wasn’t allowed when I was growing up. Fortunately I was able to break out of that way of thinking, and now I rest when my body calls me to bed. I also think sleep is intrinsically linked to a boost in productivity. And I have no reason to work traditional hours whatsoever. The pressure just isn’t there — as I do what I want when I want, and no one stops me.

The next time you feel drowsy, and you’re trying to push through some Herculean task, rest. You’ll be surprised how well it works. Some people do have trouble sleeping at night if they opt to nap during the day, however. But that’s never been a problem for me. When night falls, I tend to be able to drift off to dreamland rather quickly, despite whatever task looms overhead. The way I see it the day has to end at some point, and sleep deprivation is a bridge too far.

So the next time you’re stuck trying to rearrange the words you’re writing, remember, this isn’t life or death. The world isn’t going to stop spinning if you can’t get your piece to sing. We all have good days, bad days, and whatever else exists in between. I understand the pressure associated with higher stakes than what mine currently are, because I’ve been there too. But being able to walk away at any point is freeing. Put down the pen or pencil. Step away from the laptop. Pursue an unplanned adventure out. Because you never know what might happen.

Every morning I start my day with a devotional, read from Robert Greene’s book, ‘The Daily Laws.’ I’d never consider this practice if it were written by anyone else. In any case, I happened across the following passage today: “The more civilised and moral we outwardly become, the more potentially dangerous is the Shadow.” So it made me think. For every noble act we engage in, in our heads, we live out an immoral reaction. And most people suppress this. The whole idea behind my taking on a pseudonym revolved around letting this idea loose. Expressing things I usually wouldn’t in polite society.

More often than not, on the surface, I tend to remain somewhat even keeled, but I always promised myself I’d tap in to those inner reserves, and expose my id as plainly as possible. And so this presented me with an opportunity — one where I was able to say the things no one else would ever dream of saying out loud. I also think too many writers are afraid of embarrassing themselves or bringing shame to their family, when they use their legal names. But we can’t live in fear of what others might say or feel, because only bad art complies. So, getting moralistic is almost always a loss.

However, I’m not encouraging anyone to go around conducting themselves irresponsibly. I’m only saying that I’m not afraid to get risqué from time to time. You can call it a shtick or a gimmick if you wish, but to me, it’ll always be more grist for the mill. We all have a dark side, and we try our very best to keep it at bay. People grow uncomfortable of the amoral, wrongly considering them immoral, when the two couldn’t be more different. Like a moth to a flame, Alexander Woollcott is widely believed to have said, “Everything I like is either illegal, immoral, or fattening.”

Even if you have no trouble following the law, mostly exhibit moral behaviour, and keep your appetites in check, this aphorism rings true for almost every human being that ever walked the face of the earth. We’re attracted to the dark, as much as we like to think we’re above it. We do things in private that we’d be ashamed to admit to publicly, all while we project this image that we’re paragons of virtue. And to me, it’s highly amusing that we do this. We tend to view those who stay well-groomed and wear three piece suits as more respectable. When a slob could be better behaved.

I’m usually wary of those who present themselves in such a way. Part of me is quicker to distrust a sharp dresser than an ordinary person. So I guess I view things in the opposite light. How often we’re hoodwinked by someone who’s adept at selling themselves. And this is why I go the other way — nothing about me is remarkable on the outside. I wear a baseball hat backwards, for goodness sake. I dress in a T-shirt and jeans. You probably wouldn’t peg me as an intellectual, based off of that alone. But this also speaks to my life’s philosophy, which assures that I stay physically comfortable.

You’d think the days of judging someone by their appearance were long gone, but we all do it, and that’s because a lack of taste offends our sensibilities. And not just some of us, all of us. There are particular styles of dress that I dislike, for no other reason than them jibing with what I think is appropriate. But the sooner we realise we’re all petty, judgemental hypocrites the better off we’ll be. I’m sure my dress code grates those who’re stuffy and conservative. To them, wearing your hat to the back is illogical. Because the peaks were designed to block out the glare of the sun. But to me it’s an aesthetic I’m going for.

Hip Hop culture shaped me in ways that I can’t even begin to describe — and I owe my getup to its rich roots. I might seem unusual because I’m multifaceted, and there’s nuance to my character. Or I might just get written off as a fool by those who are exactly who you think they are. But that leaves little room for mystery. I guess I don’t like to know what I’m getting — I want a surprise — when meeting someone new. Contradictions are the spice of life. And allowing yourself to be multiple things at once is what makes us all the more unique. That’s not to say single-mindedness doesn’t have its place.

A lot of people are sweet as pie on the outside, when inside they couldn’t be more bitter. This little front we put on in the game of life truly is mind boggling. If you’ve ever pushed someone nice to their limits, you’ve seen this in action. You wonder to yourself where that flash of seemingly irrational anger came from. You can’t reconcile who they’ve told you they are with who they’ve shown you they are. The trick in this instance is to realise we’re all that way. All those indiscretions you’ve gone out of your way to cover up over the years will inevitably make their way out of you.

We don’t need to look far to notice that man’s passion gets the best of him at the most inopportune moments. Whether we lose our tempers, or attempt to satiate our desires the outcome is the same. And afterwards, we’re left feeling deep pangs of shame or regret. Emptiness soon follows, and we seek to numb ourselves even further with substances and other forms of escapism. The cycle continues in perpetuity, and eventually we feel like there’s absolutely no way out. This is what we refer to as the void — the hole in our collective hearts that eats away at everything we once loved.

No one is above any of it, and everyone has a lack of control in some area of their lives. Those we now consider saints were merely humans who overcame these urges most of the time. But not always. And that is the key here: nobody is perfect. To err is a fundamentally human trait. We can try all we might to conceal our flaws, but they will at some point, without a doubt, be exposed. There are those of us who embrace this fact, and those of us who run from it. The question then becomes which we are. We have a choice. Fall victim to the pitfalls of the human experience with grace, or do it kicking and screaming.

One of the practices I’ve engaged in all my life has been keeping a book of shadows. These took the form of sketchbooks cum journals. I’ve drawn and written in them incessantly. And why I mention it is because it’s been a great way for me to come to terms with those parts of myself that I’d otherwise run away from. Much like writing, one discovers subconscious aspects of themselves that serve as lessons in how they think down the line. There are artistic representations that are both a shock and surprise to even me when I sit down and do this. And those places are where the shadow lives.

It might be arrogant for me to suggest anyone else takes up this activity. Or I might come off like I know what I’m talking about, which I don’t. So I’ll instead simply put the idea out there and let you, my readers do with it what you will. Not everything works for everyone in the same way. You might find that something akin to automatic writing dredges up traumas you’d otherwise avoid. And I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that. Whatever you can do to integrate your shadow into your your conscious self, I’d suggest trying, however. That way both sides of you coalesce and dovetail.

When I first took up the practice of keeping these particular notebooks I never knew they’d serve as windows into my soul. It honestly helped me make peace with some of the more uncomfortable truths that’d emerge. And while part of me wants everyone to experience that, some people just aren’t ready to. You can see it in the way they’re at odds with themselves. There are tells that act as dead giveaways. They refuse to address their base instincts, instead preferring to act as if they’re somehow not slavishly devoted to them, in secret. And I’ve often done the same thing, when I was less experienced.

You can’t chastise people for being who they are at their core, and this isn’t my intention here. What I’m hoping to do is encourage a more authentic version of us all to be expressed. Because if we’re constantly living double lives it’ll eventually catch up with us. None of us are good or bad, we just are. How we’re perceived is dependent on the behaviour we inadvertently exhibit. But other people’s opinions can’t be your guide. Truth has to come from within, but it never will if we do everything we possibly can to conceal it. While your shadow is part of you, it’s not all of you. There also exists an inner, shining light.

We’re inundated with surreptitious symbolism at every turn, and so much so, that the ideas these symbols carry tend to blend in with the unassuming backdrop of ordinary life. Little do we know our every decision compounds over time, and is shaped by the imagery that seeps into our subconscious. And soon, we’re making what seem like choices when they’re anything but. The impact that advertising and other forms of consumerism have on us is infinitesimal, and dizzyingly so. Life has become a series of questions that resemble a multiple choice quiz as opposed to the laissez-faire approach we’re encouraged to believe we enjoy. Impossible to escape it, we instead throw our hands up.

Everything down to the things we consider popular are controlled by some conglomerate, somewhere off-shore. Some have argued that we live in a simulation. And while I don’t believe that, our lives resemble something akin to one. This is because the large majority of us refuse to question any of the subliminal messages that are being transmitted behind the scenes. People will call you crazy, and dismiss your observations as mental illness, or worse, conspiracy theory. However we know we’re being conspired against, as that is the nature of humanity as it currently stands. And those who dismiss these notions out of hand are often the most compliant. Think about it. Now think about it harder.

There’s no coincidence that I’m considered schizoaffective. It’s a way to silence me. But I won’t stay quiet for a millisecond. Perhaps I shouldn’t admit to my condition, but the reason I do is because I think it illustrates just what the medical-industrial complex is up to. Create sweeping generalisations of the most brilliant minds you can, and render them unstable and quixotic, their behaviour dictated to them by their mood. I remember when I first got diagnosed. I was strangely relieved to know what was wrong with me. But the reality became darker after that. I realised I was now dependent on a cocktail of drugs to function, which was highly abnormal. But I did eventually make peace with it.

Despite appearing conflicted when I rail against the very people that saved me from myself, I have a peculiar calm that overcomes me in most instances. However, I can’t determine whether it’s medically-induced or not. During those times that I was going off the deep end I did indeed suffer incredible mental anguish, and most of it seems to have disappeared. What I can’t change is the existential questions and severe brooding, ruminating, and over-analytical sense of solipsism. I can’t figure out which of the challenges I face are real, or merely illusions that dance before my psyche. And it’s in this self-analysis that I become lost. Drifting farther away from rationality, I succumb to depression.

While I’d prefer to live in a world where shorthand isn’t employed on every street corner, there’s little I can do about it. And so I feel powerless against the undercurrent that pulls me under every time I attempt to catch my breath. People say they understand when they really don’t. Usually they’ll say anything they possibly can to exit the conversation and return to their private, make-believe world. We all live in secluded mental castles and try desperately not to be dragged out of them by other people’s drama. But some of us act as inadvertent magnets to the very things we despise. How that works I’m not sure, all I know is I’ve witnessed it too many times to count. But anecdotes count little.

When I first started questioning the world around me as a child, my parents would patiently explain why things worked the way they did. But over time, it became grating, and eventually they’d lose patience with my incessant mental probing. I wanted to know how things worked. I couldn’t get enough knowledge, my thirst for it was unquenchable — and this would intensify as I aged. The questions never went away, but the answers started changing, and soon I found myself cross-checking my field notes in extreme disappointment. It’s like when you find out that your parents lied to you about Christmas, and where the gifts come from. Not from some magical bearded man, but them.

That’s when it dawns on you: everything you’ve ever believed is a lie. And while some people get over it, I don’t think I ever did. That’s why I remain dubious to this day about anything anyone says. People will lie to get their way out of anything. It becomes a pattern. Everybody wants to retreat to their own comfort zone and not be bothered with the troubles of anyone else. Sure, there are some compassionate folks around, but more often than not, they too will lie when it suits them. With the nature of the human animal being so deceptive, mistrust is cultivated at every level of our lives. One starts to wonder if anything has validity to it, or if we’re all living in a complete and utter construct.

Whether or not the world is a simulation, I don’t believe anyone can tear a hole in its fabric. And I say this because of all the times I’ve tried. Now, I may be incapable, while someone else might possess some magical ability to bypass this supposed dream world. I haven’t met anyone who can though, despite searching for a saviour over many moons. The starlight keeps me company most nights as I puff away on my cigarette, and I look out into the cosmos with an indescribable ache in my heart. If we’re the only intelligence in this universe, it’d be a pity. Because we’ve barely scratched the surface of what I believe is possible. We’re all too caught up in our own limitations.

Perhaps those limitations are imagined. Maybe the entire world is a dream within a dream. There has to be a better way of defining what we refer to as reality, or the possible simulation. Words fail to capture the essence of what we experience as human beings. We can write our long-winded novels that question the human condition, but in the search for meaning we always seem to get lost. The trouble lies in transmitting ones thoughts. There’s a clear breakdown of communication somewhere, and I can only assume it’s an absence we all live with. The cause of our emotional pain and psychological trauma can’t be said to be self-inflicted, there must be an additional component.

In our collective search for meaning we encounter numerous non-sequiturs, all leading us to a dead end of sorts. Why we’re so obsessed with defining the things that exist around us I can’t say. I just casually observe it, and yet still, struggle to move on. I’ve often thought the nature of existence lacks any meaning whatsoever, and we’re all too caught up in trying to understand it to enjoy ourselves. But even random events eventually develop predictable patterns. That’s when we rush to interpret them, calling on the most brilliant minds we can find. Then the pattern interrupt arrives, and we’re left, once again, at a loose end. Whether we pursue answers beyond this point determines our level of sanity.

I feel I must be the only one who is disturbed by the way shapes and colours are arranged. I’m the person who sees a series of numbers repeating themselves and decides there must be a message attached. While this is a definite part of the symptoms I experience, I can’t help but feel there’s something else to it. For we’re taught pattern recognition from infancy. There are those who’ve stated quite categorically that I leave these ideas alone, and I’ll be happier for it. But as a person who’s highly perceptive to his surroundings it’s only natural that I’d personalise them more often than not. As much as we’re discouraged from admitting it, we all believe we’re the centre of the universe.

Left with the same questions I began with, life tends to feel like a never-ending treadmill I can’t get off. The same problems repeat themselves ad infinitum, and I’m left with nothing but my thoughts. And while I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but in my head, I sometimes wonder if change is actually possible for a person like me. Then I return to my senses and realise that I can be anything I want to at any time, and no limits have been placed on me by anyone important. It’s just the people that enjoy exerting control, force, and dominance over others that try make us feel that way. I’ll continue being unapologetically me, despite the many who discourage cognitive liberty by way of coercion.

Usually by the end of a piece, I’m covered in sweat, mentally exhausted, and my entire body hurts. I can’t quite say why, aside from the fact that writing takes a lot out of me. Despite all this, I enjoy the act immensely. The physical pain and mental anguish that comes with it is just part of the process. After all, I’m exorcising my demons on the page, and the whole affair is undeniably cathartic. Others have a different experience, but this remains mine. And I do it because it helps. It helps me think clearer. It brings my world view to the fore. And it allows me to show up in a meaningful way. If this was everyone’s experience, they might have abandoned the idea altogether.

This doesn’t mean my approach is more honourable than anyone else’s. It’s a little more complicated than that. We artists suffer for our craft, sure, but the return on investment is almost inexplicable. Having others connect with what you produce is paramount. It means you’re doing something right. But if no one does, that doesn’t automatically mean any given work is a failure. If we go by that metric, nothing would ever matter — to the creator, or the reader. I don’t believe work should be made with an audience in mind, because it then runs the risk of ringing hollow. And while I consider placating an invisible (or non-existent) target market foolish, we’re always writing for someone.

Allow me to admit something, however. I write primarily for myself. That might sound selfish or myopic, but it’s also the reason why I barely ever run out of steam. Writing is a promise I’ve made to myself, and I take that very seriously. If anyone else enjoys the ride, that’s a bonus. But if no one does, my expectations are already below ground level. I find this keeps me honest and engaged in the work. It shapes the narrative arc I’m building. And to those who accuse me of being too productive, I have nothing nice to say, so I’ll say nothing. Even though I’m tempted to. Even though I could. What often follows a comment like that is the accusation that I’m employing the use of artificial intelligence.

But I don’t, and I never would — despite doing so for the editorial illustrations that accompany any given peace. And I’m aware that this is a bone of contention for some, but it’s a personal choice and nothing more. I worked too long and too hard on my visual art career to want to continue it after it drove me into psychosis. And now I’m reminded of that living hell every time I think back to those times. Perhaps you’ve noticed, or maybe not, but I do tend to put some serious thought into my image generation prompts. That counts for little in some circles, but to me it speaks to the experience I gained as a commercial illustrator. My career started off fun and wound up horrible.

I patiently sat through endless rounds of revisions, painstakingly applying them to my client’s work. And so I wanted to free myself from that nonsense. I know what works, how to pair a striking image with a piece of writing, and make it shine. That might set me apart or it might not. I think it does. Okay, alright. I’ll give you back the horn. That’s a little much too tooting from me. I often wonder if confidence and arrogance are two sides of the same coin. And if they are, I’m probably in dangerous territory here. Disregard my hubris for the time being and try see past it if you will. The idea of me always was more appealing than who I really am. But good luck finding me beneath the mask.

It’s only ever been worn out of theatrics. And it’s a disguise that’s served me well up until now. This is a sort of psychosocial experiment I’ve foisted on the public, all while I sit back and observe. The orator in me wants to reveal my authentic voice, but something holds me back more often than not. What you’re witnessing is a mental construct that, when given enough attention, swells ever larger. Anti-social, ever possible. Playing chicken, definitely. Very few people can get me on the phone. I avoid specific subsets of people that have failed to follow through over time. And as it can be considered ones most precious commodity, I see no issue with protecting it fiercely. With my life.

A lot of folks would suggest I come out and say whatever it is that’s bugging me, and be direct in my communication style. But I’m smarter than that. If someone gets you on the hook, soon you’re agreeing to their bad ideas, and then you’re beholden to them. While I don’t enjoy disappointing others, one must draw a line in the sand at some point. Those who abandon their grand ideas at the last minute, despite committing to them verbally are nothing more than a walking liability. And I reserve the right to avoid them like the plague. I have one particular instance in which this power play is unfolding right now, and I’m proud of myself for not buckling under the weight of its force.

Understanding why working with friends or family is discouraged by most took a catastrophe to convince me of its truth. And I’d be lying if I said that situation didn’t leave a mark. You can’t just trust others right off the bat — they need to earn your trust over time. There’s nothing I dislike more intensely than having my time wasted, and unfortunately there are a great deal or time wasters around, most of them on two legs. If you’ve been burned, you’d be an idiot to engage in a repeat performance of what led you to be burnt. These are the bitter truths I’ve had to swallow along the way, due to my shame-inducing naïveté. I only say all this as a grave warning, and to protect others.

Keeping secrets about what works or what doesn’t is a habit that only the truly self-absorbed engage in. They want to hoard knowledge on earth, but little do they know one day their secrets will be revealed for them. This will come in the form of their deepest thoughts, recorded in journals, and not destroyed before they themselves expire physically. People go through your stuff when you die, and then they can really get into your head. But I guess you won’t be around to be embarrassed any more. With commonplace books taking the world by storm, more and more people are getting into the idea of journalling. But after we’ve filled numerous notebooks, we can consider them evidence.

Evidence that our thought process was either darker than we initially anticipated, or more nonchalant. And while nobody is carefree, that is often a front we like to project in this kabuki theatre we call life. We like to think that few events shape us into more rigid versions of ourselves. We tend to disregard the off-hand comments others make, hoping them to be misunderstandings. But almost everyone is a strategist in some sense, angling for control, often against our best interests. I’ll admit I paraphrased that from a Robert Greene quote, but now that I’ve given credit it where it’s due, it can no longer be considered plagiarism — rather an homage of sorts.

The point remains: friendly gestures are not always what they appear to be. Someone can smile in your face and knife you in the back. And they will. You just have to be ready for it. It’s only when we’re unprepared that it comes as such a shock. If we pay attention to micro-expressions we’ll uncover a whole other world of contradiction. That’s why I approach with caution those who appear to be wholly on my side. Too many grand displays of gregariousness become suspicious, and I’m left questioning the authenticity of the person. Some people are plain nice, sure, but most aren’t — especially when you look beyond the mirage. And it’s never easy to do, but it’s always worth doing.

My fear of phone calls remains a source of private horror. I could receive a call from somebody I know, and still think I’m being duped. And these days, with such major advances in technology occurring all the time, it’s highly possible that we could be getting spoofed by digital doppelgängers and deep fakes. Nothing can convince me otherwise, and therefore I remain a recluse, severely hyper-focused on and serious about his privacy. I’d go as far as to go a few kilometres out of my way to call someone from a phone booth — if that means the line won’t be tapped. Mind you, I’m not up to anything illegal or engaging in the purchase of illicit goods. I’m just careful of my footprint.

This creates many instances of frustration for those closest to me, who can never seem to get me on the horn when they need to. With so many layers of security and insulation, I’m deemed problematic in the availability department. However, I must go to great lengths to protect my peace, and this remains one of the only methods I know how to exercise my personal sovereignty. I’d encourage those who’re met with such frustrations to not blow up at me and worsen the whole affair — but often times it happens anyway. We’re expected to be there when people text or call us nowadays, without excuse or prior arrangement. But I’ll keep living in my protective bubble for as long as I possibly can.

Honing in on a single idea seems harder than juggling a few at a time. It’s just how my mind works. But I’ve given some serious thought to paring down whatever point I’m trying to make. I’d say my work is strangely linear, yet slightly fractured. Unpolished fragments and half-finished thoughts are always contained within the body of any given piece — however, what I’ve come to realise is that I need a decent chunk of space to shape my overall thought process. It doesn’t naturally occur to me to pinpoint and record moments in time in a brief fashion. Instead, over time (it’s been said), that I formulate a personalised response to stimuli in encoded messages aimed at the ether.

In this way, I can easily dismiss any claims that are made against me as utter nonsense, when they’re anything but. And perhaps that is dishonest, but who’s really paying attention? Chances are very few, if any. I’m a small fish in a big pond, after all. I wouldn’t want it any other way. But it matters not what I want, because if there’s anything that’s certain in this life, it’s that we rarely get what we’re after. Instead, we’re faced with the cold, hard realities of life. Being told no more often than not, and having to take our lumps with a reluctant smile. I get all this, and therefore I’m able to accept rejection in a somewhat nonchalant way. So if you’re prepared for failure, it won’t scare you.

While it isn’t easy to progress through a maze of setbacks, once they become commonplace, they’re just another part of the process. I’ve allowed small infractions to develop into crises of faith too many times to count, all due to my avoidance of the temporarily uncomfortable. If only I could stomach small potatoes, I could then overcome the bigger fish I have to fry. But it all gets lost in the ruins of procrastinatory behaviour. I actively avoid that which is expressly required of me, by default. See, I’m quite happy pouring my time and resources into the unnecessarily ornate, out of sheer adoration for pretty, useless artistic trinkets. They call this an objet d’art, among other things.

People will think you a fool for the most frivolous reasons imaginable. They’ll call you every name in the book. But all while they’re doing so, they overlook their very own foolishness. And that’s the arrogance I can’t stand. I’ll admit I’m easily offended at times, then others, comfortably numb. And that has a little something to do with the cocktail of psychiatric drugs I’m prescribed. Far be it from me to use it to promote victim status — after all, the most beautiful minds in the world possess some kind of mental disorder on paper. I do think we’re misunderstood, yet not monolithically so. Here and there, the little barbs folks emit from their sharp tongues sting and prickle those gentlest.

To pay them no mind is to admit a sort of defeat, however. For inadvertently we then encourage such abuse. It’s like indicating to the worst offender that it’s open season on those most vulnerable. And I’ll admit to being so, just like I’ll admit to my intermittent outbursts of undeserved rage, aimed at targets I deem worthy in the moment. It never feels good when I look back on it, but I also have to remember, there are those who wish me harm — no matter how wide they smile in my face. The way I handle this is twofold: keep a record, mentally. And then strike back when least expected. It might sound facetious and two-faced, because it is. But I’m no saviour, or bedrock of goodwill. No.

Where these notions resonate is where they make the least impact. It’s only when someone vehemently disagrees that actual emotion is evoked. Because ninety-nine people may nod and flash a grin, while one spits a vicious succession of vitriol, all aimed at you. And it’s in such an instance that our wheels start turning. We’re actively engaged. Adrenalin starts coursing through our veins, and that’s a rush for the most deeply twisted of us. Deny it all you will, if the scab is there, we pick at it — until it becomes a wound as big as our heads. This is the nature of the human being. To celebrate none of its wins, and only focus on an infinitesimal loss. You know you’ve felt this too.

Mindset is determined by what we repeat to ourselves, over and over again. We can strive to be better, but there’s always that devil on your shoulder uttering profanity. It encourages doubt, sets you on a wrong-headed path, and before you know it, you’re acting like a sociopath — despite being anything but one. I hear the term narcissist bandied about endlessly today, like it’s some kind of taboo. You do know that all of us possess said qualities, however. It’s just to what degree we’re prepared to admit it that either aids or harms our potential actions. And this is why I don’t take personal offence at most epithets thrown my way. For the human condition is one in constant flux.

Many of our greatest thinkers have attempted with a good old college try to overcome our base instincts, and almost all have failed miserably. It’s not that we don’t have brilliant men and women on the frontlines of the intellectual war — because we do — rather, it’s a case of our internal instinct that inches toward self-annihilation. We’re kamikazes in civilian getup. Flying high one minute, then gone in a flash. And therefore there’s very little room left for the in between. Our quiet moments tell us more than those instances of white hot passion ever could. Because that’s when we get to know ourselves. If only we could stay there. But that’s not the nature of life, for it’s ever moving.

Short tempers abound, and fingers on the nuke buttons. Crazies in expensive suits regurgitate the lies of the past, and we cheer on in utter ignorance. We think things will just get better next time, if only we elect the right person. But anyone in power gets there because they have a thirst to exert limitless control over others. No one would ever admit to having their rights trampled, but everyone seems to get caught up in the rush of the next great hope. Dictatorships thrive because they feed off the basest negativity of the human race. As polite and civilised as we appear to be, we’re anything but. No one takes much time to consider the repercussions of their choices, for they think them sound.

It’s in our perceived wisdom (and lack thereof) that we falter. We think we know what’s best. We see ourselves as the exception to the rule, and therefore expect special treatment. But if everyone is special, no one is. I don’t revel in my nihilism, instead, I see it as a knee-jerk reaction to the world around me. If everything is giving me the indication that it is a certain way I’d be a fool to disregard it. And perhaps in my folly I exhibit foolish attributes — though no one is my judge. That’s reserved for my life review when I shuffle of this mortal coil. Until then, the bearded man in the sky will record my every transgression. And I will one day feel the weight of all that I’ve subjected others to.

It matters not how soon or late we tire of everyday human events. The world keeps spinning despite our decisions, and after we’re gone, we leave only bones behind. Perhaps a few memories too, but those will be gone in a generation or two. I’m aware that it all sounds so futile, and maybe it is. But it’s also the nature of reality, and that can seldom be argued with. I get the we all see things from different perspectives, and mine may seem dark by comparison. But that’s only because we’re encouraged to incline toward the light, despite how treacherous things become. Ask anyone who’s grieving to cheer up, and you’ll be met with resistance. Well, I’m mourning the zeitgeist itself.

If you feel the ache in your heart and soul, and are uncertain how to fill such a gaping void, despair not. For everyone lives with pieces of them missing, due to the hurt and other burdens they carry. It’s called baggage for a reason — for it follows you wherever you go. I can’t tell you how to rid yourself of such a thing, or explain how to let go of it, because I’m just as lost as you are. And to do so would not only be irresponsible, but arrogant. Two things I try avoid. Try as I might, I still release snatches of the behaviour I’m less than proud of. Imperfection by proxy, change is an evasive beast. You’re told to consider the bigger picture, but you want nothing more than instant gratification.

One day when we return to wherever it is we came from this might all make sense. Then again, the cycle may repeat eternally. Reincarnation was removed from certain holy texts for a reason. The powers that be don’t want you to think you have a second chance. Though I was never one for doctrine or dogma, my religious upbringing exposed me to profound questions. I then took what I learnt and internalised it, while most other children became rebellious. Grateful for the trials and tribulations foisted upon me, I was able to grow with enough practise. And while I’m still far from where I’d ultimately like to be, sharing my journey reveals deeper truths not even I expected were coming.

I make a bold statement. Shortly thereafter, I state the opposite. I live to contradict myself. And it’s in these contradictions that I discover deeper truths, about myself, the world around me, and eventually, what I think. I’ve learned that I’m incapable of forming an opinion right off the cuff. So this is my process. Disassembling my views by way of a thorough self-analysis is key. While I know many rush to blurt out their opinions — and so they’re inherently valueless — mine go through a rigorous back-and-forth before I reach any forgone conclusions.

This is also how I protect myself from sounding like an absolute fool. In certain circles, I’ll always be considered one, and that bothers me very little. At least I know in my heart of hearts that I worked to make my views legitimate. By who’s standard, I’m not exactly certain. Perhaps mine, and my various personalities’. You know of one, through the shattered lens of my moniker, but there’s another important component: the real me. The one with a legal name, and a chequered past — mainly caused by the eruptions of two sides of the same person colliding.

Lately, I’ve encountered some new characters, and I’ve chosen not to integrate them wholly into my make up just yet. Because I need to test their mettle. I need to see what works and what doesn’t. After all, some part of this is a performance — no matter how many seats are occupied in the audience. I will play to a crowd the same way I’d engage in a soliloquy. The numbers can’t matter, and the only solution is to forge ahead despite any perceived setbacks. I don’t know who needs to hear what I have to say, and perhaps it’s none of my business anyway.

Working this all out on the page with the complete transparency of watchful eyes is cathartic. It means somebody is paying attention, and can correct me if need be. Therefore I need to remain receptive to feedback of any sort, in order to preserve my sanity. I can look at something from a certain perspective, but it’s only until I’m confronted with my own idiocy that I’m able to correct course. And sometimes, all you need is someone to hold up a mirror rather than say much. That shuts the best of us up very swiftly. And I’m far from the best of us.

My flaws are on display for all in sundry, and without them I’d cease to be human. In fact I’m a series of beautiful mistakes, stitched together, and passing myself off as a person. This is completely at odds with how others tend to present themselves — the self-appointed authorities with repurposed anecdotes framed as hard-and-fast rules to success. But I’ve never been interested in success in the traditional sense of the world, because my values are based on something very different. I define victory by the type of demons I’m able to overcome. Everyone has skeletons in their closet, all that varies is the number of them.

There’s also the matter of exorcising ones demons, and we all have different approaches to how we do so. Some of us get it out through our pens, others with spiritual practices. The problem is the devil releases a dozen more diabolic entities every time one is freed from a human vessel. You could go the religious route, and come up empty. Or instead, you could learn to integrate such beings into your daily tasks, ritualistically having them advise you on certain matters. This is of course an act of a serious diabolist, and requires tremendous insight into their presence.

Accidental magic is as dangerous as magic done wrong, and so we must anoint ourselves in whichever holy oils we see fit. There’s a reason why these traditions exist, after all. They’re there to be used — it’s only the purpose of such acts that shifts. Unusual spectres have haunted the greatest minds, given and taken from them since time immemorial. And one of the most effective ways of channelling these beings is by learning what they can do for you. For if a purpose isn’t being served, it must leave, and leave fast.

Having been numb to the goings on in any given infested residence I can’t say with much certainty which places are occupied. But I know of others more sensitive than I who have whispered warnings. I know I’m protected by divinity — as most of us are — and therefore I can face the nastiest of spirits with a lack of fear. My first inclination is never to run when I encounter these peculiar haunts, rather, it piques my curiosity tremendously. Call it a perverse fascination if you will, but I want to show them I’m not afraid, because they feed off fear.

While you can’t exactly will yourself to be unafraid in these situations, you can cultivate a fearless heart with enough practise. And by doing so, the bitter, wandering souls have no loosh to feed on. Often times the undead are just as frightened of us as we are of them. So with this two-way street in mind, one can set out to scare off these bad actors with sage and semi-precious stones. I lived with obsidian rocks in the corners of my previous dwelling for three years straight, and that was a highly effective deterrent.

You don’t need to know much to get by on your wits alone — all you need is large enough castanets to appear as if you know what you’re doing. And this is how many mountebanks get away with murder. Fake it till you make it is an old adage that many have derived great meaning out of. And while I wouldn’t want to be on record encouraging charlatans, I’ll take the liberty of giving them a pass in a couple instances. One, people love a show. Two, entertainers are not required to tell the truth. And three, the audience roars with applause no matter what.

Some people deserve to have the wool pulled over their eyes, because they’re so used to getting one over on the next person that they never suspect it’ll happen to them. They feel they’re immune to being scammed by a grifter, and therefore they’re ripe for the picking. They’re blinded by their arrogance, and I take great delight in watching them come apart at the seams. There’s an element of schadenfreude here, perhaps, but when directed at the right target, it’s merely a taste of their own medicine. I’m sure those who oppose me and my ideas would feel the same way in my shoes.

As human beings we’re constantly trying to stay one step ahead of the curve, but there are times we forget that inaction might just be the wisest choice. The stratagems employed therefore become a kind of limiting world view — one in which we feel like we have all our ducks in a row, but nothing could be further from the truth. A crucial part of all this is to know when to slink away, be quiet and keep yourself uninvolved. But that’s almost harder to do than to be actively plotting the next step. I’ve at times fallen for the banana in the tailpipe myself, when doing nothing was necessary.

Pain is an essential ingredient in the human condition, and without it we’d learn very little. That ache to express ones innermost thoughts can’t be contained for long. It requires a vehicle to convey what we yearn to share. And that vessel in our mind, body and soul. This is why art has such therapeutic qualities. It touches something inside of us that otherwise would remain trapped. And anything that is stifled has almost no way to grow. These are basic human needs, but are often overlooked or abandoned in service to what are considered more important things.

We’re conditioned to disregard play, and instead pursue serious matters — when the chief aim of this life is to leave our mark on it. I find it remarkable how eager most are to buckle to the pressures of the system, which I see as a monstrous, amorphous blob, all consuming in its gluttony. We owe this invisible jail none of our attention, and least of all our livelihoods, for if we lose all of the trappings we’ve come to enjoy in this life, what else are we left with? Emptiness and regret at all those times we passed over the little moments for capitalist gain.

Of course we need not live in anarchy, but there has to be a better way. What that way is I can’t really say, all I know is that I too indulge in the pleasures afforded to me by the system — and hence, I’m inherently hypocritical. No single person is ever apolitical, they always have a natural bent, one way or another. But we run from this. We like to see ourselves as exceptions to the rule — myself included. What we must realise sooner rather than later is we’re all complicit, no matter how much we like to think we’re not. And the only way to exit the game is by winning it.

Just because I haven’t written about the occult for a time, that doesn’t mean I’m not still fascinated by it. In fact, I purchased The Kybalion a few weeks ago now, and the only reason I haven’t gotten around to reading it yet is because I’m in the middle of Ryan Holiday’s ‘Discipline is Destiny.’

While part of me is disappointed at how slow I’ve been progressing through its pages, I have just moved house — and that means adapting to new surroundings as well as a new workspace.

Being that I’m someone who holes himself up inside his studio for weeks on end, this streak has unfortunately been interrupted. And I can’t doubt it any more. A change in environment has officially affected my creative output. I’m not sure I want to draw right now, anyway. Sometimes breaks are healthy.

But I’ll be damned if I don’t write. Writing has become incredibly important to me, for a variety of reasons. One, it helps me organise my thoughts — which is important for someone whose own mind plays tricks on him. Two, it helps me formulate my opinions on the world around me. And three, the act itself is intellectually stimulating. Something that ranks high on my list of priorities.

The reason I began this piece by making mention of the occult however is because I want to discuss the dangers of witchcraft. My wife knows of someone who, in the heat of a feud with another woman online, attempted to cast a spell on her. Apparently she wrote her name on a piece of paper and dropped it in water. But just about everyone knows you’re supposed to burn it instead.

So why am I cautioning against the use of witchcraft? Because a lot of folks have no idea what they’re doing. They wouldn’t know a hex from a spell. And unfortunately, when you play games with magic without taking proper precaution you yourself get burnt.

Throughout all my years studying the occult I’ve never once cast a spell. That doesn’t make me any better or any worse than anyone else, sure, but my point is that I respect the craft far too much to toy with it. There are others who are way more knowledgable than I on the subject, and so I steer clear of involving myself in the dark arts unnecessary.

Having an interest in something from a theoretical standpoint is very different than being an active practitioner of it. You could call me an armchair magician, filled with opinions and ideas and no real experience — and partially, you’d be right. But I know which side my bread is buttered on.

I also know I’m not a pillar of sanity, and I value my mental wellbeing too much to entice the devil. Conjuring spirits and calling on demonic entities involves a great deal of skill and know-how, and I’m always prepared to admit the things I don’t know.

So why would anyone want to reanimate the dead, or bother wandering spectres? Because they’re ignorant, and looking for a rush in all the wrong places.

While I’m not particularly religious, I was raised a Catholic and got married in a church. And while I’m no diabolist, I do have a statue of Baphomet on my night stand. But you get my drift, there’s some inconsistencies here. The only difference is I’m more than prepared to admit to them.

Satan symbolises independence and liberty in my mind. Sure, I don’t want to go to hell if there is an afterlife, but I see the deeper meaning and allegory behind certain figureheads.

Do I agree with Satanism at all? No. I’ve done a deep dive on the subject, and devil worship certainly isn’t for me. Plus they’re something akin to Atheists, and that’s an idea I’m even less interested in.

One thing I know for certain is that magic certainly exists. And there’s no doubt about that in my mind, because I’ve seen it in action. Just because I don’t practise it myself doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I’m less solipsistic than that!

Manifestation is similar but different. We’re all creators, supposedly made in the image of God. And although it’s frowned upon in Judeo-Christian circles, sorcery is practised in some of the most banal situations you might expect.

We have pagan rituals baked in to the human experience. The Catholic church is filled to the brim with rituals — which are inherently magical. As a matter of fact, I can’t think of many instances in which paganism hasn’t been integrated into the human experience.

The problem is we go through life doing things out of tradition. And we inadvertently involve ourselves in magical acts. Think of the last time you had a synchronicity. Or when an owl landed on your lawn in the dead of night and wouldn’t leave.

These are all little signs that add up to us later, and then we realise the importance of them. I’m not saying everything is a hidden message, but a lot of stuff is. And you could cite my schizophrenia right about now, supposedly calling my bluff.

Meaningful connections are forged through legally binding documents all the time, and we forget how remarkably ancient their origins really are. A demon has to have a legal right to enter into your body — and an exorcist is an individual who’s well versed in the process of making them leave. Evil looks for loopholes, and any way it can warp or twist your perception, it will.

You might think I’m just a random guy who sees patterns interwoven into the fabric of reality, citing peculiar occurrences, and making a meal out of them. And you’d be quite free to think that. Instead, however, I’m a little more learned than you might expect.

I’ve read Aleister Crowley’s works. I’ve studied The Golden Dawn. I’ve read the Bible, the Holy Qur’an, the Bhagavad Gita and The Satanic Bible. There is a common thread that runs through all of them. And what that thread is can only be understood through lived human experience.

Nothing makes sense unless you rub elbows with the masses, really getting up close and personal with the human condition. Our suffering is one of the aspects of life that brings us all together. Through it we learn that conflict and controversy can often shape us in ways we don’t expect. In ways that are invaluable lessons down the line. Although pain is unpleasant and we try to avoid it, it’s also a necessary evil.

I’ve always been the type to look deeper than surface level, and that bothers certain people. People who are Polyanna and putting on a front. I’d say one of the only things that gets me in the most trouble is my tendency to be over-polite, as well as always anticipating that the other shoe is about to drop. I’ve been told I tiptoe around like a little mouse, and I’m unusually furtive. These aren’t aspects of my personality I’m proud of, mind you, and they bring me more discomfort than anything else.

How I marry that to my shadow side is where the profundity lies. I’ve invented a literary device to aid me in exorcising my demons, by embracing them publicly — and this goes back to my pseudonym — the only version of me you might know. To destroy ones own reputation is often liberating, because from then on, nobody can actually slander you or engage in effective libel.

When people ask me what religion I follow, I usually give them a glib answer that I know will appeal to their sense of comfort. Little do they know the peculiar spiritual beliefs I hold. And that’s the point. I’ve done too much personal research to be tethered to one ideology. And the same goes for politics. Telling people what they want to hear often figuratively gets them off your back.

Please keep in mind I’m only illustrating my personal experiences, and I do my best to avoid giving unsolicited advice. There’s already enough people engaging in that kind of folly for it to appeal to someone as self-effacing as I.

When I find myself in a hole, I gather enough inner strength to dig my way out of it on my own. As often times problems are self-created. And most people are looking for somebody else to blame. That never makes the core issue disappear, all it creates is a scapegoat.

Why we find it so hard to admit what we don’t know is beyond me. It was the Greek philosopher Socrates that said, “For I was conscious that I knew practically nothing.” And Plato who later paraphrased him by saying, “I know that I know nothing.” And these were wise men. The inference I draw from these quotes is that none of us have it all figured out, and honestly, I tire of those who pretend they do.

For not is it only foolish to offer unsolicited advice — it’s also dangerous — because often times heeding it has negative life consequences. Sure, one could strike it lucky and have the strategy they employ work to their benefit, but I’ve witnessed these things go pear shaped instead, too many times to count.

Every time I read a piece that smacks of what the algorithm churns out I become less comfortable participating in the game by proxy. But there’s almost nowhere one can go these days online without their activity being tracked and fed into some form of aggregator. I just have no idea how it works, and while part of me longs to know, another part lives in blissful ignorance.

The only value I see in any given writer is how they communicate their lived experience. I as a reader don’t want to witness mimicry at every turn, and people behind keyboards desperate to do the right numbers. And as much as I consider this a me problem, perhaps you may feel a similar way.

What we do with the talents we’ve been blessed with is paramount, yes. But as Tim Notke’s famous saying goes, “Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.” Thomas Edison made a claim that runs parallel — “Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.”

While these statements are true however, there’s always the matter of luck that comes into play. So whether you want to sit around waiting for a happy fluke, or put systems in place that can create success is entirely up to you. I don’t believe there is any hidden secret to yielding the results that we most desire. Because existence unfolds randomly, and no amount of planning ahead can prepare you for what may come.

Keeping in mind why we started doing what we do in the first place is helpful. It gives us perspective, and reminds us not to lose ourselves to futile, unpredictable outcomes. I guess I’m just yearning to uncover the authenticity beneath all the fancy wrapping. But there’s no act to drop if you’ve stayed true to yourself all this time already.

The internet has provided tremendous opportunities to the undeveloped voice, but it has simultaneously lowered the bar of quality all round. You might not want to agree with me, but the truth is universally relatable, and in your heart you know it’s true. I’m no hall monitor, nor am I one of the many gatekeepers that shut out the mavericks who thought they were ready for the big leagues.

Personally, I enjoy unfinished thoughts and less-than-polished work. I’m an outsider artist, after all. There’s something incredibly refreshing about knowing someone hasn’t gotten a stamp of approval from the establishment. Because really, the publishing industry is something akin to a cartel now. And maybe it’s always been so — I just couldn’t imagine my fate hanging in the balance, and dependent on the mood of some editor.

The greatest books in the world remain unpublished. They never met the requirements expected of them, and in short, were graded on whether or not they’d sell. So there’s a reason all the books on the bestseller list resemble each other so strongly. We’re being fed what the powers that be think will appeal to us. And that’s very different from what actually does, though.

Throughout the course of my entire life I’ve always been told how I should go about approaching my creative projects — always with a tinge of condescension. You need to market yourself better. You need to get with the times. Stop doing things that way, and do them this way instead. And never once have I ever been deterred from my natural approach.

Us artists are inherently bad at business, and I’ve never met a successful one I envy. I came to find out all these types were good sales people, disguising themselves as creative. Art and commerce are strange bed fellows, and they rarely go well together. Chances are if you’re making work that does good numbers, you might just be pandering.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bitter about being a nobody. For if I ever became a somebody I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. The irony of course is when others look to me as some kind of success story because of how frequently I expose myself to creative problems. That’s the point when I have to sit them down and explain the only reason I keep doing what I do is out of sheer stubbornness.

I don’t make much money, because I’m too consumed with perfectionism in my craft. And the amount of time I pour into any given piece is utterly disproportionate to what I earn from it. As gruelling as that may be, it’s just the way it is. And I only have myself to blame.

If I ever wrote something clickbaity, that’d be it. I’d be done for. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Better to be ignored by the algorithm than to acquiesce. I’ve heard it all before — submit to publications, check your stats, research what people want to read — and it’s all garbage to me. The whole reason I am who I am is because I don’t do those things. I’m the outlier, sworn to my own ideals, and I just won’t budge.

A lot of the time suggesting one should adapt is just sucking up in camouflage. At least when you stumble across my work you know I didn’t consider any of those things in the least. It doesn’t make me morally superior, and it doesn’t mean I’m a great writer — it only means I’m earnest to a fault. That might make me enemies, while others may roll their eyes at it. And I don’t care.

There’s this major push that’s become trendy, to make things human centric. To swear off any involvement with artificial intelligence. And honestly, I think the lady doth protest too much. I like certain parts of what these chat bots can do for me, but I’d never categorise my usage of it as art. And I’d never try and pass it off as my own work.

But the world is changing fast, and to stand in opposition to the newly established order doesn’t make anyone who’s whingeing about it any more appealing. I’m appalled when I see people that collaborated with these agents pass over the fact that the work is not truly their own. It tends to puff them up, and make them believe they’re capable of more than they are. No, you cheated. And everyone knows it, but is too afraid to say anything because they’re swept up in the craze.

Making words fit together in interesting ways has been part of the human experience since time immemorial. There are stone tablets and preserved parchments to prove it. But I find myself somewhere in the middle. How one can ethically use something that’s unethical to begin with is redundancy in its purest form. This isn’t a spat over how many gallons of water were used to fulfil a useless prompt. It’s instead a case of if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. And if you don’t join in now you may get left behind.

To experiment with the very things that frighten you is to expose yourself to micro-traumas, and that can only make you more knowledgeable in the long run. I’ll never lay down an edict. I’m so non-judgemental people struggle to detect where my boundaries begin or end. And if certain people want to lie to themselves I’d never stand in their way. Armageddon may just be around the corner. I’m just helping it along until the eschaton arrives.

A lot of the stuff people write about I can’t relate to. And while I’d hope that isn’t the case with how others view my work, I’m not so sure I can do much about it. I’ve never been one for chasing hot topics or current affairs. I instead make attempts to show up authentically and give my idiosyncratic view of the world, and often times, this is as limiting as it is freeing.

Trying to fit in with the world around me is like forcing a square peg into a round hole. It never works. For I live on my own terms — fiercely independent in my thought process — and therefore not bogged down by other’s expectations of me. My approach to living a fulfilling life is simple: allow whatever comes to be what it is, with very little conscious curation, if any.

I’ve gone places in my mind that I could never go physically, exploring a vast array of ideas that challenge my own way of thinking. And I feel this is the only way to grow meaningfully. If one becomes too rigidly tethered to one school of thought they become paralysed by such limitations, and by alien values.

The way I see it, everyone has a story to tell. And the only reason just a handful of us actively tell our story is because we break free from the expectations placed on us by society. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that I’ve successfully slain that dragon. I just appear more aware of it than most. Whether I am or not is entirely dependent on individual perception. For I could resemble that of a visionary to one person, and nothing more than a fool to another.

The most conscientious person you know has a dark side. Nobody is exempt from human temptation. Most people are just trying their best to make it through the day, while others have found better coping mechanisms. This comes in the form of learning to delay gratification, and not being a complete and utter sociopath.

I certainly have parts of myself I’m uncomfortable with, things that don’t quite fit with the overall persona I like to project out into the world. But that’s also a false front. Writing under a pen name has saved me a great deal of embarrassment, and sometimes I forget how much of myself I’ve given to a mental construct.

Mind you, I am a person underneath it all. Not an egregore. For I exist in the flesh, while the idea of me lives on through my pseudonym. Throughout my life certain individuals have expressed frustration at my habit of getting too deep too fast, but I don’t see it that way. I’d rather have an intellectually stimulating exchange than one which is glib or superficial. Scratch the surface and everyone remains comfortable, but start prying into what’s beneath the tip of the iceberg and watch others scatter.

I’d never want to be the guy who holds too firmly to his beliefs, and so they’re constantly in a state of flux. I enjoy questioning the status quo — something taboo in certain circles. Questioning other’s motives is a sure-fire way to make enemies across the board. If you get into the motivations behind why they do what they do you’ll be met with incredible resistance.

Those who have something to hide will see you as a threat, and try cover up their many indiscretions. I’m not particularly impressed by the version of the self that most project, in an attempt to distract from their true nature. And this is because it’s an inherently dishonest practice. But then again, if we all walked around showing who we truly were those darker parts of ourselves would be illuminated. Nobody seems to want that by any stretch. Instead they hide their hand and disguise their intentions.

But to what end? What good does showing the world what you want it to see do for anyone? And why are we so obsessed with the public’s perception of us? The pretenders are legion in this instance. They’re out in full force. And I’d rather avoid having any interactions — even remotely — with the unquestionably disingenuous.

There seems to be no escape from this, however. To err is human. The desire to put ones best foot forward tends to outweigh the bitter truth of who we are. I want to see others for who they sincerely are, and there are many ways to determine their character. Some of the methods I’ve employed have turned me into something of a human lie detector. It’s a scary premise.

I guess the thing that disappoints me the most is my own knee-jerk dishonesty. As much as I like to think of myself as someone who is candid, open, right and just, with qualities befitting that of a morally upstanding citizen, I tend to fall short of it all. The only reason I don’t beat myself up about it though is because I can accept the fact that I’ll never be perfect.

The human condition is one thing — and my personal problems compound the issue. I suppose there are instances in which I do dole out punishment on myself with what I believe to be just cause in the moment. But it’s a bad habit that does nothing except produce guilt. My upbringing aside, there is room to take responsibility.

Most people can accept that they’re telling white lies, but I have an internal barometer that sets off alarms when I do anything short of tell the truth. And there really is no difference between a little lie or a whopper. Because once you start treating fictions as realities you’ve got to remember all the concessions you made along the way.

I’d never publicly shame someone over their dishonest portrayal of themselves. Because it’s all too deep-rooted in us to do so. And I need to realise that people are doing their best to make sense of an otherwise meaningless existence. No one gets to tell you who you should be, despite all the institutions that try to mould us into mere clones.

Human behaviour can get overwhelming at times, even to the most hardened deceiver. And almost nothing is as devastating as being trapped in an uncontrollable, perpetual feedback loop. Why our minds work this way is a mystery to even the most accomplished of psychologists.

Repetition and monotony are the cause of horrific acts in many instances, for as the old adage goes, the devil makes work for idle hands. The sense of isolation in everyday human events is staggering, for even though we’re surrounded by those that resemble us physically, we couldn’t be more psychologically diverse. We all have common traumas. In the collective unconscious, they’re rife.

Where I’m going with all this is a couple different places. In order to pursue the truth above all else we need to take a long, hard look in the mirror. But we can’t stop there. We have to actively eliminate those habits that are holding us back from our full potential. I know I do far less than I could, out of sheer inertia. So I’m with you in your struggles.

Honesty, to me, is the highest virtue. I’m aware that everyone has different ideas about what makes one virtuous, and some people almost lack a conscience altogether. But if we can agree on the little things we can take leaps and strides which incrementally change the bigger things. And questions like why we’re here might seem poignant.

But my tendency toward nihilism makes me disregard such a question. The futility of my existence is apparent. I can only do so much to change the course of my life, and there is a point where I become incapable of changing those things that have been ingrained in me over time. It’s not like I’ve given up trying to alter my behaviour — instead, it’s a case of my personality having become intertwined with my mortal flaws.

While some might feel that my concerns are wholly unimportant in the face of our socio-political climate, I believe a level of solipsism is unavoidable in the human id. Everything we encounter is a collaborative interaction. How we choose to interface with reality is dependent on a variety of factors. Most of which we’ve been conditioned to respond to in certain ways. To break out of what is considered the norm is to then free yourself from the expectations placed on you by society. And this is no small thing.

We’re so trapped in a state of limitation that we forget who we can be, if only we acted less conventionally. To transgress past the established order of systems laid before us is to supersede the ego. And that is the pinnacle of progress. Never forget that your potential is only as limited as you believe it is. And I’d suggest we all stop letting others dictate to us what is possible in this life.

When I was a kid, Friday afternoons were a big deal. When they arrived, I was finally freed from the constraints of school. Rules went out the window, and I could play Sega Genesis with my best friend until his Mum got off work. Often times I’d even sleep over at his house, and that meant even more freedom to do what we wanted.

Fast forward to present time, and every day is a Friday afternoon. I’m fortunate enough to not have a boss breathing down my neck. I can do what I want when I want, and very little gets in the way of that.

I eventually lost contact with that childhood friend, though. He went on to be a paediatrician, while I pursued a career in the arts. And I can’t say for certain whether he enjoys his work as much as I do, but something tells me he probably doesn’t.

Thinking back to my demeanour all those decades ago, I don’t think I was ever comfortable with authority, or being told what to do. My late father also seemed to exhibit this trait, so as the old adage goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

But I sometimes ask myself what I’m doing with the lack of structure I champion. I question whether I’m using the finite allotment of time I’ve been assigned to the best of my ability. I wonder how much time I waste on creative dead ends, and whether any of that even matters.

If I were to look at it pragmatically, of course it does. But I just can’t stomach the potential power struggle involved in being held accountable to anyone other than myself. And this isn’t unique to me — there are many others out there who buckle under the weight of their responsibilities.

Perhaps you’ve even experienced it. Not holding a straight job for long. Being fired for smarting off on the clock. Going from temp position to temp position, just enough to make ends meet. But I think a new consciousness is emerging. One that can’t be tamed by the security of a pay cheque.

People want to be free to make their own decisions about how they spend their time. A lot of folks are leaving the conventional workforce in droves. And they’re thriving in the gig economy. So how would you feel if I told you this isn’t very wise?

Yes, we need entrepreneurship just as much as we need those who can hold a stable job. And both keep the economy flowing. But what’s happening is more and more people are finding ways to work unconventional hours, freelance, and live outside the lines — which is the very thing I do.

But sometimes the lack of a safety net results in a serious casualty, when you fall. And this is why I encourage most of the people I encounter to hold on to their jobs for dear life. Because not everybody is built for self-employment, in fact, the large majority of people aren’t.

No one seems to talk about the devastation or consequences of failing once you’re on your own. They tend to focus on the upsides — like all the free time they’ll have, and how working remotely saves them fuel in the tank.

This isn’t the fantasy you might dream it is. More often than not, most days are gruelling. And one is subjected to way more pressure than they would on salary at some firm. Just because I’ve made the choice to go it alone and not relegate myself to a cubicle somewhere doesn’t mean it’ll automatically work for you.

Most people like the benefits of a legitimate job. The health care that comes along with it, paid sick leave, and time off (in the form of leave) which you’re still compensated for. None of those things exist when you’re the captain of your own ship. And far be it from me to discourage anyone from pursuing their dreams, but at some point you have to weigh up the pros and cons.

Are you ready to fail and have nobody else to blame? Can you make an erratic income stream stretch? And are you prepared to work on Christmas — even if it is doing something you love? The answer for most people is that they want the stability of a salary. Well, you probably won’t get it on your own.

When I think back to all the time and money my art has cost me as opposed to earned me, I wince. I try not think about it. But I’m forced to, every time I log in to my banking profile. I’m not saying you’re incapable of making it happen, I’m just warning you how alienating and soul-crushing it can be.

Not only am I a terrible businessman, I run my own business. I’m a dreamer, and while I like to live in hope, those hopes are dashed more often than not. You could interrupt me right here and say, “Well, maybe you’re just not very good at what you do.” However, I’ve spent just over two decades in the creative industry. And I’m here to tell you, sometimes it’s not even how subjectively good you are, it’s about who is capable of making sales.

I also have this incredibly selfish attitude of wanting everyone else in the neighbourhood to go to work, and allow me to enjoy the tranquillity of a quiet suburb. I’m not one of those types who can work in a busy café. And I don’t even listen to music when I write or draw. So when I encounter another remote worker I kind of feel like it’s turning into a thing.

My previous neighbours worked a hybrid of in-office and remote. And what this meant is that they were always coming and going at odd hours, plus, it seemed like they were goofing off a lot more than they were working. And I have to admit I didn’t enjoy living near that.

In my heart I know I’m not cut out for a full-time job. My brain just doesn’t work that way. I feel less confined when I’m able to get up and go do whatever I want. And I don’t work well under pressure. So being in the arts is simultaneously the best and worst decision I’ve ever made in my life.

If you have a job and you’re considering leaving the comfort of a sure thing, in service to doing what you love, I’d say go ahead and give it a try. But make damn sure you have a back-up plan. I’ve survived homelessness. I’ve experienced a psychotic break. And in both of those instances they were related to my life decisions.

A lot of people say only you know what’s right for you, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Often we overestimate our capabilities and leave no wiggle room for potential failure. I wouldn’t wish the financial strain I’ve experienced on my worst enemy — but I also know I’m incapable of acquiescing to what the system expects.

We’re all cogs in the machine, which keeps turning irrespective of us needing it to slow down or not. It’d be irresponsible of me to encourage you to take a leap of faith when I know what dangers lie on the other side. And while this might sound like doom and gloom, it also happens to be the truth.

At some point, everybody wonders whether they can take a shot at living their dreams. But as Marilyn Manson said at the close of ‘Man That You Fear’, “When all of your wishes are granted, many of your dreams will be destroyed.”

Most of us live in a prison of our own making. It’s very easy to get in, but almost impossible to get out. But for me particularly, I sometimes wonder to what degree of severity my self-created status as prisoner is.

One of the things that trip me up is the sense of obscurity I exude, which stands in the way of me being relatable. I ask myself the question, time and again, do I actually want to be palatable to mainstream tastes?

And I know the answer already, despite the rhetorical thought pattern that plagues me incessantly. If I were to compromise my voice, I’d be doomed. Doomed as far as miserable, and unfulfilled.

There’s a reason why I don’t appeal to wide swaths of people. I can’t be placed in a box. And my quixotic nature is on display at all times, turning this way or that so sharply that I might just become unrecognisable to those who think they have me pegged.

I try my utmost best to never show signs of self-satisfaction, for to me it is one of the most repugnant qualities an individual can possess. And I feel a pang of instant disgust any time I detect it in another.

I don’t think I’m particularly intelligent or remarkable at anything outside of my immediate wheelhouse of expertise, but I even question that, so not as to wind up tooting my own horn.

The question then becomes how can I adapt without compromising my voice, style or message? And why do I have this palpable need for validation outside myself?

Well, I think it goes back to a low self-esteem. And that’s not totally on me. For there have been many instances in life where my confidence has been dashed by those who sought to minimise my value, and succeeded in doing so.

It might seem like I’m playing the blame game now, so let me put that to rest and question my own motives: the performative aspect of what I do might seem hollow, and no amount of explaining it away will contextualise it more transparently. So is this a show or is it authenticity? I’d like to say it’s both.

When was the last time you did something purely for attention? Don’t slink away now. Put yourself on trial.

We as human beings are hardwired to develop connections with others — it’s one of the ways we find meaning in an otherwise cold, disconnected world. I crave solitude to the nth degree, but when loneliness presents itself I greet it with panic.

Fortunately, I’m privileged enough to have a support network that acts as a safety net for when I fall. But not everyone does, and so I can’t exactly fault them when they act out.

So what does validation look like to you? Is it feeling heard? And to what degree do you rely on the opinions of others? Because it can become a slippery slope.

I’ve never wanted anything more badly than to be freed from the constraints society has placed on me. And as much as I try break out of the mould I’ve been conditioned to fit in, it at times feels like a losing battle.

An invisible, intellectual prison surrounds us at every turn, asking that we agree to populist ideologies, and our response is often to go with what we consider the lesser of two evils. But that’s not a choice, it’s a compromise.

What if we instead forged ahead without swearing allegiance to such a duality? For there are always other options, we’re just gaslit into believing we have to surrender to bad or worse. And this is why I categorise myself as fiercely independent.

If I could fix myself I’d have a reason to offer a hand to someone else who needed it. But I’m deeply broken, and must tend to my own garden first. I never seem to evolve past that point though. The angst and discontent are all consuming, swallowing up any remote possibility of emotional availability.

Sure, I’m present for my loved ones and do my best to show up for them instead of checking out, but I’m also deeply flawed and end up turning inward more often than not.

So really I’m left with a sort of Hobson’s choice — which is to say, no choice at all. It’s endlessly embarrassing for me to be so elusive, and I never planned on it being one of my core qualities.

All trapdoors and side-roads considered, I do once in a while pirouette nimbly between grandiosity and shame. It’s an artful dance, but one that can be categorised as utterly useless to the wrong crowd.

Is my goal to entertain or be true? Again, I’d say both. While the average reader might pass over my screeds and call them nonsense, a key few nod in recognition at the observations I make. It’s just in finding them that the mission gets so convoluted.

Do I want to be seen? Or is my attention-seeking behaviour linked to something darker? I’d say the id is on full display now, and while some have the urge to look away, they can’t help but rubberneck at the remnants of a full-on collision.

At some point I realised I was holding myself hostage. And the inner dialogue that unfolded began scaring me to a standstill. I needed something to come out, but I wasn’t sure what it was.

All those years of suppressing my urges to be something more resulted in the creation of an alter, one I’d go on to employ as a literary device, utilising a moniker to disguise my real identity. So those aspects of who I am — and that I was ashamed of — then came pouring out of my pen. And I believed I’d finally freed myself from the confines placed on me by polite society.

But the hidden truths were much darker than initially anticipated. Yes, I could now express my innermost thoughts. But at what cost?

It began taxing me emotionally, and I got confused about which part of me fit where. I allowed myself to explore this shadow so freely that some aspects of who I was became increasingly difficult to articulate saliently.

Subsequently I gave in to becoming reactionary, consequences be damned. And in turn, the darkness leaked into my personal life. This went on to cause me great strain, and eventually I stepped away — while at the very same time, life got busy.

It appeared as if I was staging an absence to drum up speculation. To feed the myths I’d woven so carefully into a tapestry of half-truths. All the while I was out tending to real life responsibilities. It’s funny how that works.

Who knew a fun little side project would turn into a lifelong career? There was little reason to escape the excitement of having others watch me initiate self-destruct. And that’s because my perceptions became incredibly skewed along the way. After all, this was supposed to be fun.

No one knew the depths I’d plunge to feed the pond scum. I had the self-appointed task of evaluating crazies and putting them on blast. And when you’re encouraged to keep doing so you inevitably rise to the occasion.

Because we all want acceptance, and community. Even those of us who went to such great lengths to establish independent thought. At some point, group think occurs, and you’re left holding the bag.

But this was a blessing in disguise, really. Because I was able to place distance between myself and the more outlandish claims others were comfortable making. Not out of prudishness or to preserve my reputation, mind you, instead, to say what I really thought.

And there are those in the audience that it annoyed. They expected me to drink the Kool-Aid. Little did they know, however, that was the antithesis of what I set out to do in the first place.

So I became a kind of outsider in my own circle. The person who they couldn’t control, and it became increasingly hard to predict where I’d go. And it certainly evoked outrage in a key few, but at that point I didn’t care what anyone thought.

At some point I considered encouraging others to let their shadows loose, but that notion received mixed responses. I didn’t want to appear to be laying down edicts as to what acceptable behaviour was, so anything went.

Honesty, to me, was the pinnacle of human achievement. If we could just find our truth and share it with the world we might be able to let off a bit of steam. But that doesn’t resonate with everyone, because we all have our own ideas about what’s acceptable behaviour.

As a libertine I’d at times go further than most, but that was all part of my shtick. Who cares?

More folks than you’d expect act as gatekeepers to the facts as they see them. But nobody has carte blanch to revise lived human events and present them as anything other than what they are.

I’ve of course engaged in back-and-forth with the best of them, and have come out on the other side relatively unscathed. That might be somewhat untrue, but I’ll call it my subjective truth.

Little did I know that creating a pseudonym would open the floodgates as it did, but I learned over time what became possible. You may have no interest in covering your tracks by way of an alternate identity. But I realise the story behind mine could both warn of the dangers and benefits of such an idea.

Out of all the people I’ve looked up to in my life, Robert Greene has had the biggest impact on me. His book, ‘The 48 Laws of Power,’ is akin to how some regard the Bible — it’s that effective a body of work. And even though I’ve had the opportunity to work underneath some of the greatest artists in my field, I still return to Greene when I’ve got to solve a major creative problem. His strategies are as timeless as they are Machiavellian, and they’ve helped me navigate some of the rockier moments of my existence on this earth. You see, when you’ve been trained to think your way out of sticky situations, you approach these occurrences with a whole new way of being — one which is tactically sound.

I never saw myself as strategist until I became a student of human nature. And because of it, I went through life suffering with many of the same issues that hold others back. In short, my journey wasn’t particularly remarkable or out of the norm — for everyone has faced some version of the challenges that plagued me. One of the most valuable things becoming a strategist has taught me is that my tendency toward wanting to be brutally honest in any and all events that arise is counterproductive. For the truth only takes you so far, while employing a sense of manipulation can take you much farther. Moralistic and virtuous types will scoff at such a premise, audibly crying foul.

But it doesn’t matter what they think, because none of us can keep our hands clean and get ahead. I suppose it depends on how far you’re willing to go, or how bad you want what you want. And showing your Achilles heel to possible enemies is like going swimming in shark infested waters with a cut and hoping a band-aid will save you. It won’t. Now I’m not saying one should operate from a standpoint of moral bankruptcy, no. All I’m saying is that we as human beings respond to certain pressure points, and learning where those are isn’t actually dirty pool. I’d love if the world responded well to my being forthcoming. But in order to get what you want you’ve got to set a reciprocal tone.

Within minutes of making any decision, most people ask what’s in it for them. Irrespective of whether that’s appropriate or not, we all do it. We feel certain things are not worth our time. And time is a precious commodity — something not to be wasted on trivialities. How it is one goes about making others believe there’s something in it for them is crucial. We like to think of ourselves as gracious, giving and generous, even when we’re none of those things. And if someone comes along who gives you an opportunity to put those traits on display, we tend to bite. Unlike some of the self-help or philosophy of today, Greene demonstrates why going in the opposite direction to what’s expected can be sound.

Within his bestseller and subsequent books Greene has introduced me to intellectual giants by way of historical accounts. His storytelling has a rich, illustrative quality that takes the reader on a journey like no other. In this way he is the undisputed champion and observer of human nature. But not all of his books grab me in the same way his most notable work does. And that’s to be expected, because nobody can be at the top of their game one-hundred percent of the time. It takes many hours of exhaustive personal study to exhibit the qualities this author does. The thing I enjoy most is how he weaves practical lessons alongside factual accounts, making his stratagems all the more credible.

But I didn’t stop there. I’ve conducted extensive research on those historical figures that elicit fascination in me, and that of course, while tangentially related to Greene, is outside of just the works he’s authored. If a situation presents itself in which I’m not sure how to process it or actively determine what course of action to take, I think back on all those Laws I’ve internalised. I then cross-reference my current issue against tried and true methods which yield real time results. Consulting the playbook time and again, I then go on to derive deeper meaning out of its many screeds. In this way I’ve appointed Greene my master, and I dare not ever attempt to outshine him.

For not only would it be impossible, I do also have things occur to me that fall out of his wheelhouse. And that’s when I have to forego the training wheels and determine what’s best by my own volition. But this doesn’t pertain to me alone, as a lot of folks turn to an oracle of some sort, in order to yield the results they wish to attain. It might appear as if I’m committing sacrilege by appointing a mere mortal as my idol, and call it what you will, but we all have our own coping mechanisms. Nothing yet has warranted a different approach, and that is to say my consulting with a near-flawless text has worked almost every time. And while our methods may differ, we both get to where we need to go in the end.

However I’m not beyond reproach or above correction. There certainly is a moral grey area on the table. But we as human beings operate in peculiar ways, ways which inspire both fascination and fright. It’s in moving beyond what’s jarring that we allow cooler heads to prevail. I certainly don’t expect anyone else to take heed of my approach and apply it to their own set of challenges — for we’re all unique, as are the issues we face. Looking to the past and what it can teach us provides an invaluable guide, for cycles tend to repeat over time. We must never allow ourselves to become too rigid in our thinking though, for a true strategist knows how to adapt when necessary.

This is what Greene refers to in the 48th Law, when he suggests we “assume formlessness.” He encourages us to then forge ahead, forgetting everything we’ve learned in his book, throw caution to the wind, and adapt. Because if we can’t think on the spot, and we’re in the habit of following a rulebook at every turn, it is the antithesis of what he teaches. This notion is repeated at great length in one of his subsequent tomes, that being ‘The 33 Strategies of War.’ And war isn’t just something that happens between hostile enemies, with boots on the ground — it unfolds in everyday human events. The person who stands between you and your promotion? That’s war. As is any other given instance.

Viewing things through the lens of enemy factions having me surrounded at every turn has actually brought me a kind of inner peace. And while that might sound preposterous on its face, through this practice I’ve learned how to pick and choose my battles. Some things are better ignored, while others deserve ones attention — it is up to us alone to determine which is which. In another Law, this notion is put forth: it is Law 36, entitled ‘Disdain Things You Cannot Have: Ignoring Them Is the Best Revenge.’ Greene illustrates the importance of silence in certain instances. And I’ve applied this strategy and had it work for me on a number of occasions now. There are times however when devoting your attention to something is worth it.

As a student of human nature, ones job is never done. And the subject is of endless fascination to me. Never in a million years, before encountering such a book, did I think I’d be able to rise to some of the challenges I have with courage. And if inspiring courage is not a virtue I don’t know what is. For a person like myself, who is at times overly gregarious and unusually naïve, arming myself with the knowledge I’ve gleaned from Greene has been priceless. I still struggle within myself to be less than sincere — even when I’m dealing with a hostile opponent — but that’s all part of the game. There are those who have discouraged others from reading Greene’s work, citing the danger associated with his ideas.

But being offended at an author who has achieved what he has is par for the course. I personally enjoy challenging work. Stuff that makes me question my skewed moral compass. And for this reason I was able to see past the moralistic outrage exhibited by those who perpetuate the myth that honesty is the best policy. What intrigues me most about human nature is the tendency to want to appear more moral and upstanding than we really are. And so, I look to the imaginative apparitions of my idols in the middle of my studio session, pondering what they’d do in my shoes. To improve as an artist one must respect the conventions of the past, yes, but we can’t allow them to suffocate us.

There’s a gulf between who we’re becoming and who we are. It’s the emergence of a new consciousness: that of the post-human. And I’m not referring to a thinly-veiled jump in technology. A lot of people wonder where we go when we die — some believe there is an afterlife, others believe we simply decompose in the ground. But I’m not making flippant inferences around that issue either. Us as human beings have been said to evolve, and while I’m not certain how I feel about Darwinism, I see us as entering the aeon of omega. What this means to me might differ vastly from what it means to you, but there’s no doubt in my mind that something remarkable is occurring.

If we look to the butterfly, we know they go through four stages of metamorphosis. This process begins with an egg, then moves on to the caterpillar, and after that, the chrysalis. From there, this magnificent creature eventually transforms into a colourful flying insect. And so it doesn’t take much to conclude that we’re currently in the stage of the chrysalis (but in human terms). We’re on the brink of a change so profound that it might inspire fear in the less educated. While society may seem to reach new lows all the time, right now we’re on the precipice of a high point. In turn, I ask you if you’ve noticed it too. Because things don’t feel the same way they did even a few years ago.

This however may not be cause for alarm, and I’ll tell you why. A transformation is deeply necessary if we are to thrive as a species, and there’s too much information coming at us at once for it to have no effect. What we’re going through is not some psychosomatic dream, no. It’s instead a psychic shift. While our human bodies remain relatively in tact, our minds have adapted to processing the influx of media we consume. And this has fundamentally altered our make up. So how, you ask. Well. Now more than ever before we have an uptick in those who visit with and are treated by psychiatrists. It is said that mental illness is the result of a chemical imbalance. That’s true.

But what’s driving this chemical imbalance? The old way of doing things is going out the window, that’s what. According to doctors that specialise in mental health we need to take medication to balance ourselves out. As I do. But what if — and this is pure speculation — our brains are evolving to a newer state? As I’ve written before, nothing remains static. And we’re constantly living through changes. In our environment, in society, and apparently now the chemical make up of our brains. I’m not here to float some crackpot theory about big changes coming on the horizon. Instead, I’m giving you my unfiltered thoughts on how different everything is now to the established order.

If you don’t feel the change, at least know of it’s subtlety. Evolution is said to have unfolded over millennia — so why should this be any different? There is a point at which the metamorphosis becomes noticeable in my view, and I believe we’re caught in that in-between stage, where it is. I’m not spouting platitudes or beyond reproach. If somebody else can present an argument to the contrary, I’m all ears. The nature of this shift in the collective unconscious is palpable for a few reasons. One, the growing number of individuals who can’t connect with others. Two, the social alienation felt by so many, all across the globe. And three, the now widespread ability of clairvoyance.

Over the course of my chequered past I’ve developed certain skills. Working closely with clients on creative projects and having them consult with me about the vision they want to bring to life led to me tapping into a kind of psychic connection. In short, I eventually got to the point where, with enough effort, I could read their minds. This might sound preposterous on its face, but I experienced it first-hand. And while I have no other evidence than my personal anecdotes, I’m not a scientist, so the burden of proof is somewhat irrelevant in this instance. I also went on to get diagnosed with psychosis, which goes back to my theory on brain chemistry. So I’m a walking, talking case study.

You could say me bringing what my clients envisioned to life was sheer dumb luck, or good fortune. But success happened on too many occasions to be considered synchronicity. I’d say I had a ninety-nine percent hit rate, easy. Sure, maybe I got good at drawing information out of people on the job — but I feel there was more to it than that. I’d never disregard psychiatry or encourage anyone to quit their medication regimen. That’s not what I’m suggesting anyone do, for that’d be terribly irresponsible, and result in tragedy. I do believe our brains are evolving quickly though, and what we’re seeing as a by-product is an inability to cope with information overload and overstimulation.

The posthumous are said to be those whose reputations live on after death, for good or for evil. But I’m searching for a way to articulate what comes after being human. I get that my arguments are light on fact and heavy on subjectivity, but that doesn’t change the reality of what I see coming. Transhumanism isn’t where I’m going with all this. For I don’t believe we’ll integrate technology into our biological make up. And if you give it enough thought, you’ll notice the origin story of these little shifts. Post-humanism, to me, is more a state of mind than that of a physical change. And therefore it’s first going to be recognised in intellectual circles. But we need to be open to the idea.

The amount of time we spend in our heads has increased, and undeniably so. Psychic abilities are hence being formed without much knowledge of where it’ll all head. The only people who’ll be left behind will be those who are disconnected from the vast pool of knowledge that is available to so many today, by way of the internet. Think offline rural villages and locales that haven’t been quote unquote civilised by the same social graces most of us have. They’ll continue to operate within the bounds of their shared oral traditions and herbal medicines. All while the pharmaceutical industry booms in modernised cities. So if you’re in any way interested in preserving your sanity, go off-grid.

And I say sanity tongue in cheek, because almost everyone today is suffering mentally, under the weight of universal interconnectedness. The internet has been useful in the vast majority of instances, but it is now shaping us in ways that are inexplicably irredeemable. I say all this to say that technology has had its hand in what we’re becoming. But, in my opinion, robots are not about to rise up and wage war on humanity. I could be wrong, and I hope I’m not, but as advanced as the technologies we utilise have become, we’re still the ones behind the wheel. There are however Chicken Little’s screaming that the sky is falling, and there always will be. Technology is a tool.

I present none of this without hope. I believe adaptation is the natural course of evolution, and when new ideas are introduced the strait-laced and stuffily conservative will scoff. And that’s because they don’t want change. They want things to stay the same. And so, they believe that by preserving the old order they can wield control over others. But I’ve got news for them, they’ve changed too. Just more slowly. Slowly enough to not experience any discomfort, which their self-created bubbles provide. And we all have bubbles — places we retreat to in our heads that feel safe — but they’re not. We’re all delusional to some degree, some more than others, because humans are fundamentally flawed.

Whether we’re ready for it or aren’t, events unfold by fate alone. So we can’t cling to the establishment’s idea of normality. Evolution is an exciting time. It allows us to become something more, and therefore find deeper meaning in the world around us. While superior intelligence can create a wider range of emotion, it also expands our consciousness in ways we don’t quite expect. This theory might strike fear in the hearts of some, it might inspire hope in others, but at the end of the day it is inherently irreversible. For once we pass the precipice of a new way of being we advance concurrently. A rising tide lifts all boats. It doesn’t matter whether you’re ready yet, it just is.

You could completely disregard my pontifications on this matter. The way I see events unfolding might only make sense to me. What one can’t argue with is that we’ve been through many cycles that resemble this one since time immemorial. And that’s why it doesn’t have to scare anybody. But and still, change is something many are averse to. We’re going to elevate our consciousness over time. There is simply too much coming at us to remain in the dark. And with this sense of illumination, we can use it to light our path ahead. Enlightenment lurks around the corner. It’s now too close to deny. And it won’t involve meditation or asceticism. Quite the opposite. We’ll soon be post-human.

As winter turns to spring, my lived experience is reduced to words. I’m not fully certain how any of this happened, but here I am. I sit before the page, in awe of the inner workings of the human mind. Not my own, mind you, but of all the literary greats that came before me. To truly stand on the shoulders of giants one must acknowledge the canon of the past. I never became a writer in the traditional sense — it just kind of happened one day. Sure, I always wrote, but I didn’t fall in love with language fully until I began engaging in the act of writing as a creative practice. It is almost a spiritual experience for me. One which resembles that of a sacred tradition, passed down since time immemorial.

The inexplicable joy of the craft tickles my amygdala in ways nothing else quite could. And a blank page inspires not fear but curiosity in me, at all the possibilities that lie ahead. I’m viscerally disgusted by those that commodify an otherwise sacrosanct art. The way I see it, the minute something revolves around commerce it loses its essence. I don’t take lightly the responsibility on my shoulders to shape the minds who happen across my efforts. And if there is a chance that I could change someone’s mind I’d rather not do so. This isn’t about winning an argument or proving a superior intellect. It’s pure, unadulterated self-expression — the most valuable currency we have.

Nobody ever asked me to write anything. I’ve done it of my own accord. I despise the notion of winning the approval of any editor or gatekeeper. I’m alone in my pursuit of the truth, and nothing can silence me, except the almighty algorithm. I’m not sure how it works and I’m not sure I want to know, because like the financial climate, it appears to operate randomly and without much oversight. Who would’ve ever thought us as creatives would be subject to a machine curating our tastes? And is it ethical, despite how widespread it all is? I perform to an empty stadium or a cosy, poorly lit room all the same. And it doesn’t matter to me whether these ideas pass an imaginary test.

The way I see it, no one is as arrogant as those types who believe years of experience in any given filed grant them a degree of pomposity. I’m simply not interested in people who’ve gotten comfortable with the idea that they’re an authority on anything. Because we’re all lost and confused — it’s just that some of us won’t admit it, instead consumed with appearing in control. We can read books and study behaviour all we want, but we can never quite break free of our human limitations. We often know what we should do as opposed to what we do do, yet disregard it entirely out of hubris. Our ego is our biggest blind spot, and no one seems to want to admit that to themselves.

Because if we do, we come face-to-face with the unknown. And busying ourselves with trivial nonsense feels more important a task than truly understanding who we are or why we’re here. Don’t get me wrong, however, for I can’t answer that question. But the difference is I don’t pretend that I can. I don’t want to be preached at or talked down to, and I suspect anyone who does is a gullible fool. I don’t look up to anyone, for anything, ever — because I see through the pantomime like a cheap glass. Performative so-called professionals dance before us in peculiar ways, all with something to sell. And then we get the lone wolves, sustained by their own inner strengths. Which are you?

I say forget all those years of expertise you’ve racked up and start living like a student. Humble yourself before the world and become receptive to learning from it. This might sound odd coming from a man who lives behind drawn curtains and a temperature controlled cocoon of his own making. But just because my message is right doesn’t make me a perfect specimen. People will hate you for your successes, and not-so-secretly celebrate your failures, but the only time you’ll get any respite from the hostility is if you take it upon yourself to draw meaning from an otherwise fatuous life. All events are absurd. And never listen to those who draw signs from the patterns they observe.

Pattern interrupt aside, nobody is coming to save you or I. It is only by self determination that we’ll ever progress beyond utter paralysis. The world is cold and unforgiving, yes, but so too can you be to those who deserve to be smote. I know too much and not enough simultaneously, for I’ve seen behind the curtain accidentally. Do you really think any of us are as proficient at what we do as we pretend we are? The answer is left up to providence. I can’t abide bogus claims disguised as wise words, and never could. So when the show is over and the audience has left the hall, where will you be? Does the superficial flood of euphoria sustain you beyond that point? As it escapes me altogether.

I’m not here to fill space, or take up real estate with fictions. I give of myself bitter and true. You’ll never find wit in those who exhibit tendencies toward the glib. So stop looking for it there. The only person who knows what’s good and just seems to be the individual who hasn’t made a habit of dispensing advice they’re unqualified to disseminate. I tire of the self-appointed experts in the face of so much meaningless dreck. To destroy ones public image is therefore the only appropriate response to such bombast. This is why those who saw through the lie wound up in insane asylums. Because the truth is not only hidden but criminalised. Watch out what you say. Don’t show your hand.

There are very few of us who can show their hand and still win. To count on such a stroke of good fortune is a fool’s errand. Keep your secrets close to the vest. Only offer suggestions when you know in your heart they’re sincere and sound. Because if anyone heeds your poorly conceived advice and things take a nose dive — which they usually will — you’ll be stuck holding the bag. I don’t say any of this with glee or satisfaction. The nature of reality is punishment enough for the conscious or clairvoyant. Good work being its own reward is a lie. It’s a sly trick the creators of productivity culture have employed to occupy your valuable time. So resist the urge to acquiesce.

Kowtowing is one thing, bootlicking is another. If you’re burnt out and defeated by the systems that have been put in place you’re not alone — everyone is. Even the affluent are suffering in their own way, just more comfortably. Your silence buys the wrongdoers their freedom to destroy us. If only we used our mouths to sing, as opposed to swallowing the garbage that is dumped into us like a landfill. We’d be better off not engaging the devils at all, but they’re instead invited to every banquet that the rich and powerful hold. We’re governed by those of a reptilian bent. They may not be literal lizards, but they operate with the same lack of psychological development a snake would. Wake up!

All the institutions that promise us their welfare have turned their backs on us in our moment of need. Everyone is out for themselves and community has gone out the window. Illuminating that which is otherwise overshadowed by deceit is a tough job, but someone has to do it. I couldn’t fathom a sixty year prison sentence disguised as an office job. And my opting out of that way of life has cost me dearly. Just about every artist is compromised now, by the demands of the industry. To find a truly independent voice you should look to the madman on the streets. He’ll show you they way. Everyone that is banished from the system that suppresses its participants is a visionary.

I’m not a vigilante. I’m a citizen of the world who opened his eyes and realised he was being robbed. Robbed of his time, robbed of all meaning, and too frightened by the powers that be to act like a victim. No one deserves to be shunned and isolated the way those who operate outside of the system do. But if you can’t play their game they’ll drive you to a park bench in the winter, starving. Anyone who participates in the hollow theatre however is rewarded tenfold. Because then they’re not a threat. Would you want to pose a threat, if you knew the consequences? Or are you afraid of what it’ll cost you down the line? Most of the people I know don’t understand, barring a handful.

They’re led around by the nose and don’t even realise it’s happening. There’s no coincidence that I’ve been labelled a person with a chemical imbalance. The world has little use for me and the drugs are said to help me fit in with the flaw and disorder of the modern age. So I take my medicine and swallow my pride, just enough to get me through the difficult parts. Unfortunately I’m fighting a losing battle however, because nobody will pay mind to somebody who is mentally ill on paper. Every diagnosis is a paper trail. And every ripple turns into a tsunami eventually. I could tell you to get out while you can but I know it’s impossible. If you do however find an escape hatch, I’m all ears.

The left doesn’t have the answer. The right doesn’t have the answer. No one has the answer. And we’re hurtling toward unavoidable disaster, all while we yell over each other about which side is the more rational decision. I certainly don’t have the answer either — but I do have some ideas I’m willing to share. I read somewhere recently that one needs to give their readers a reason to care. So if living in the post-capitalist age isn’t one, I’m not sure what is. I’m aware that there are economists who can tackle this issue factually, but I’m going to come at this with my speciality: opinion. That’s all. I’ve become increasingly disillusioned with my options at the ballot box. But I still cast my vote.

There are those who’ll roll their eyes at such a notion, dismissing the discussion as old hat. But the way I see it this is no partisan matter. I’m not here to bash the Trump administration, nor Biden’s efforts at governing the most powerful country on earth. I’m here to connect with you as a human being who is going through problems that aren’t dissimilar from yours. Because let’s face it, the price of groceries and petrol has skyrocketed worldwide since this whole spat begun unfolding at the Strait of Hormuz. A lot of people don’t address these things because they’re either not bothered or they’re incapable of articulating their thoughts on it all. But we can all admit that we’re suffering.

That’s the common ground we share, whether we want to face it or don’t. I’m usually one of those individuals who tends to give attention to my personal affairs over geopolitics — but what can be more relevant than that which affects us all? And is there not a relationship between the self and the collective unconscious? I’d say so. I have just about no paper trail when it comes to banking systems. I’ve never used credit (despite attempting to) and I believe there is good reason for private financial institutions to not want to do business with me. After all I’m an artist, and to many, especially on paper, that spells broke. Functionally, I might add. So what gives? Why cut me out?

There’s a good chance my efforts are being suppressed by the powers that be. And no, I don’t have a messiah complex or anything — for I do believe there are others being targeted. Capitalism is a vicious monster, and its alternatives are equally as damning. The truth is if you want to do anything in this world you need an abundance of money to do it. You can’t just be scraping by, or work on a sliding scale and expect to play in the big leagues. But do I really want to? How would that look or feel? I can’t begin to imagine it, because it seems it’ll never happen. You could suggest I seek out a straight job, and end my misery. But, unfortunately, I’m actively oppressed by race based laws. Yes.

It’s illegal for an employer to hire me in my country of residence, because I was born with the wrong skin colour. I’m not kidding. It’s the year 2026, right? What business does a government have enforcing such draconian tactics? Reparations. For something I never did nor was a part of. I’m happy and creatively fulfilled as an artist and writer, but it’s always been financial suicide. From day one. And while I had a sneaking suspicion that it’d be the case it wasn’t until I was living it that it dawned on me so dramatically. Don’t get me wrong, however, I’ve had my fair share of adventures in spite of the hatred that’s been directed my way. Many people suffer for their art. I’m no exception.

I’m pretty good at keeping it together in public. In keeping up appearances. But no one really knows how bad I have it, because I don’t make a habit of complaining. In fact, this is probably the first time I’ve written about it openly. You’ve heard it all before. The one percent wants to keep the little guy down so that they can continue their out-of-touch lifestyle sans consequences. Howard Lutnick laughs uncontrollably when the press mentions the Epstein files. Your president — wherever you may reside on the globe — doesn’t care about you at all. All politicians are crooked. They’re kleptomaniacs, and we keep voting them in. When do we rise up and do something about it all, though?

I’ve never been big on protests. I suppose you can call me socially conservative in that sense. But I’ve always seen my pen as the only weapon I have against fascism. In my career as a cartoonist, I’ve skewered the best (er, worst) of them. And when Charlie Hebdo’s staff got gunned down, it was my very own 9/11. I couldn’t fathom how a group of Islamists could literally get butt hurt enough over a cartoon drawing to spill human blood. Any robust liberal society understands the role of satire in the modern world. But that’s the problem, right? These bloodthirsty extremists are stuck in the eleventh century. I continue to poke fun at what’s otherwise considered sacrosanct. I always will.

I don’t have one idea above all else that I defend. I’m not particularly religious, and I don’t get my back up when people make a mockery of my beliefs. Because I’m civilised. I understand the difference between make-believe and reality. There’s a clear line dividing the two. One of the biggest drawbacks of modern life though is that we as humans are inherently irrational beings. We think what we do makes sense — and it might to us — but we’re all over the place. Our emotions take hold when we should be using our heads. The heart leads, and in turn, bleeds for it. And the only way any of us is going to break free of the self-imposed oubliette is through critical thinking.

But it’s easier said than done. Even the most refined intellectual still struggles with his appetites. We always want more than we have, and we’re prepared to do anything to get it in the heat of the moment. Reducing those fits of passion, and tightening the reins on our pleasure centres feels near impossible, and so we don’t bother even trying in most instances. The only way I’ve managed to curb my addictions has been by force of will. It’s like the person who chain smoked for fifty years, has a heart attack and then never touches a cigarette again. Sometimes you just need to rip the band-aid off. Go cold turkey. Recognise that chasing your desires is an empty, soulless quest. Pointless, really.

Because there’s always going to be some shiny new thing that piques your curiosity — that you think you must have — and that’s where capitalism gets us by the short and curlies. If you were fortunate enough to have been born to a time where your money worked for you and not the other way round, chances are you’re part of a bygone era. Why do you think tiny homes have blown up? No one can afford the cost of living. People are instead choosing to reduce their stressors in service to a more tranquil existence. And everything we do is a reaction to this stranglehold the system has on us. We’re subjected to pain from infancy to the grave. Nothing is ever free. And we let it happen.

If enough of us said enough is enough, would it make any difference? What does your resistance look like to an amorphous blob gorging itself on the labour of the masses? Chances are it considers you insignificant. Capital is a monster — and it’s going about its business right out in the open — it’s not even hiding under the bed. So you look to the alternatives: socialism. Libertarianism. And they have major holes in them too. I can’t help but feel that everywhere we go today our sovereignty is encroached upon. What does cognitive liberty mean to you? And who are you, when you strip away all the material distractions we adorn ourselves with? Fragile, afraid, and alone. The nobodies.

All of the chaos that surrounds me feeds my polemics. I’m reduced to an angry and unhinged bystander, who can do very little but yield to my literary urges. My pen is my only form of respite from an otherwise overstimulating world. And so I become my own worst enemy, enacting all of the ignorance that has been perpetrated on me first. I don’t want to be this way. I want society to work. But it’s broken. Our political systems have crippled us. We’re left paralysed by our own hand, thinking that to cast a vote is a symbol of hope. Nothing ever seems to change, in fact it appears to worsen as the days go by. No wonder they pump us full of psychiatric drugs. There’s no way out.

I return to my initial observations, and they all seem so hollow now. Who even cares whether the political class is compromised? Corruption was borne to our fattened excuse for leaders. The only thing left to do is overthrow the kleptocracy and make ourselves our masters. Slavery exists in a newer form. Wages go down, the cost of living goes up, and we’re left living in the equivalent of a Victorian closet in modern day. I might not have any of the answers, but I know one thing: the temperature in the room has changed. I’m not talking about the climate, either. We’re being boiled slowly like frogs. And our demise has been calculated that way so not as to alarm us in real time.

There are those on the internet that consider me nothing more than a giant troll, and while I accepted the term in good faith for a time, it doesn’t change the fact that it cheapens what I do and who I am online tremendously. A more fitting characterisation would be misunderstood — but there’s no way you can make people understand what they’re determined to misinterpret. I’ve certainly behaved in the manner that is befitting of the title troll at times, sure. But that’s not precisely what I’m all about or what I have to offer the world. I lean in to the concept of a trickster more willingly — for I jest, and use humour as a literary device, to entertain and question the norm.

But reducing it all to my being a troll is an oversimplification that, at times, has led me to a sense of mild discomfort. Not that it’s incumbent upon anyone (least of all strangers) to placate my ego. Hubris indeed possesses a slippery quality, one akin to trying to grasp at an eel. In short, it muddies the waters and in turn leaves one, more often than not, empty handed. None of us can seem to escape its clutches however. Because we all fall prey to wanting our amour propre validated in some way, any way. Wanting to be accepted by others is almost like a drug. We’re incessantly caught in a sort of centrifugal loop, one that resembles an ouroboros, chasing our tails in perpetuity.

Mind you, none of this has all that much impact on the surface — instead, it affects us at a psychosocial level — and it’s something that remains invisible to the naked eye. Imagine you were I, and somebody bangled you with the weight of a caricature which is inherently valueless in the greater scheme of things. I presume you’d feel cheated. But, as I said, I took it all in the spirit in which I assumed it was given. And in turn, became the very thing they accused me of being. Because at that point, what other option do you really have? You can either embrace the cartoonish stereotype or engage in a fruitless argument to the contrary. Fortunately I’ve got my own stratagems.

It’s not so much that I’m offended or taken aback by the idea that I can be mischievous in the face of slander or libel, playing with it like a cat does a mouse. No, I welcome critique as it’s warranted, and even go as far as to embrace that which doesn’t describe me at all. For there is a kind of mystery and world-building that takes place in such instances. It helps grow ones origin story, expanding the universe they thrive in. The irony of all this is that I was called a troll by a troll, and the troll isn’t even that effective at being one. I can switch gears and tap in to my alter, no sweat. But at some point you recognise opps for what they are — those trying to build a bit of notoriety off your back.

Honestly, I don’t have an issue with that, though. Everyone is attempting to navigate their online experience as best they can. And I can forgive a fool for they often know not what they do. It’s when someone is deliberately trying to get a rise, and then you give it to them, that makes you the fool. There are psychological mind games at play all around us, all of the time. Anyone who tries to make you believe otherwise is either naïve or straight up dishonest. Power is sought in various ways and through various channels, but these efforts all have the same purpose: to establish dominance. I on the other hand don’t feel the need to chase power by way of shady tactics. As I meet others halfway.

If we can both get a kick out of the interaction I don’t see it being all that harmful. And not only have I been slandered under the suspicion that I’m a supposed troll, my writing has been attacked. The culprits involved tried to couch me as someone who is employing the use of artificial intelligence to write all my articles and books. That, if anything, put me in a bit of a spot. For how are you supposed to prove that you do everything yourself, without its help? This is where nuance comes in. If any of my detractors actually took the time to read my output, my voice would resonate through any given piece. But they don’t want to take the time to do that, because they’re the real trolls.

I suppose it was all designed to get me to address them anyway, and now they’re getting their shine. I’m not stupid enough to believe I’m above a bit of the old back-and-forth, because really, it is the spice of life. Human nature is revealed during the course of rigorous debate, and all the while barbs are being exchanged we learn more about each other — if we’re at all open to doing so. The most frustrating part of someone reducing your online activity to that of being a troll is that it’s such an overused dismissal. And I’m not certain anyone cares whether or not that’s what’s taking place. It becomes important to me because I’m a man of principle. The rumours of my disguise have been greatly exaggerated.

If I were to think back to all the times some bad actor tried to paint me in a bad light I might just laugh myself into a stupor, because those instances are too ridiculous and numerous to even possess the desire to count. It’s the same old song: accuse someone else of something they didn’t do, then sit back and watch them try to defend their honour. Call it falling for the banana in the tailpipe, call it anything else in-between, at the end of the day it’s nothing more than crosstalk and manufactured conflict. These people are out for clicks and views. They exist all around us. And we’ll become one of them if we aren’t careful about our behaviours. I can’t abide a hit job without getting my jabs in.

This is what frustrates the real trolls, however. They’re often times fragile, damaged people with no other reason than misery to lash out. They want to be part of community, and seek acceptance in all the wrong places. I’m not here to mollycoddle them, though. I’ve been attacked and therefore my compassion has worn thin. As far as I’m concerned, when the tables turn, they get what they’re due. If they want to go around spreading lies about others for their own entertainment and then hide behind disclaimers that’s on them. It all just seems hokey to me. And they clearly have nothing better to do with their time. All throughout, I’m in my studio making things happen creatively. Who wins?

It’ll all be revealed in due course. I’m not about to bellyache at being misrepresented. In fact, I can’t get enough of the attention if I’m to be honest. It’s flattering to inspire such a single-minded focus in another human being. But calling them human beings is a stretch. Their humanity is greatly lacking, and they only seem to realise any of the damage they’ve caused when they get their just desserts. Look, I’m not here to dole out punishment for bad behaviour. I’m here to cheer it on. And if you expect any less from me you’re still learning about who I really am. Certain parts of me are reserved for those I let in. Others can bang my door down for years and get nothing in return. It’s all a cinch.

Nobody ever handed me the playbook on how to weather these ridiculous storms. I wasn’t ever mentored or coached by anyone I called my master. I figured it out on my own through trial and error, and by educating myself on human behaviour. Some people have deep seated issues and know nothing more than to lash out at those they envy. And the jealousy itself manifests in the most peculiar of ways. I can’t help that I’m a source of pain for those who choose to demonise me. For the intellectual oasis we’re said to be approaching is never guaranteed. We have to find our own purpose and meaning, sans the habit of tearing others down. And defending oneself is a whole other affair.

I don’t pretend that I’m above the mud. I’ll wrestle with these piggies when it’s warranted. It has to be worth my time though, and often it just isn’t worth responding to in any way. The way I decide whether it’s a valuable exchange is by gauging how much fun I can derive out of it. If it stops being light-hearted and gets much darker I can even find my way through that. Most people would be devastated by at least half of the events I’ve lived through in my life. But I’ve chosen to integrate whatever chaos comes my way into my character, transmogrifying the supposed pain into joy. If you can laugh at your enemies you’ll make them doubly annoyed. And since their purpose is to irritate you too, have at it.

In all my years on the internet I decided my approach would be authentic, raw, and confessional. I cultivated a persona by integrating my shadow into what I show others. But none of this points to a double life. See, I’m a conscientious person. I like to exhibit a courteous demeanour most times, and only switch to a more impish nature if provoked. Many of the people in my life know of this quixotic sensibility. But some don’t. I’ll never allow myself to be defined by a troll’s projection, however. For they’re the ones who’ll have to live with the consequences of throwing a cheap shot. And honestly, that’s punishment enough for being the scum of the earth. To them I say have fun while it lasts, because it won’t be long.

While change frightens a lot of people, myself included, nothing ever remains static. And if we think our comfortable little routines are going to shelter us from the world, we’re only being foolish. Sloth is a silent killer, it creeps up on you and before you know it you’ve blown your bundle. Most things take hard work, patience, and dedication to get right — but we never seem to want to face that fact. We tend to think we can glide through life, living in a bubble, and expect everything to work out in the end. But that’s rarely how life goes. And I’ve never met anyone lazy that achieved anything of value. They might get lucky here and there, but it never lasts, and it’s just unsustainable.

But let’s face it, none of this is the exciting answer. People instead want to believe that there’s some magic tip or trick they can employ to bypass it all. And while that may be true in rare cases, anyone who’s looking for shortcuts is probably a slob anyway. One of the things I’ve noticed is that having a sense of self-belief or confidence leads to a self-fulfilling prophecy of success. If you never believe you’re any good at anything, chances are you’re going to do one of two things: either try really hard to overcome that, or not try at all. Possessing a defeatist attitude only turns us inward, which then results in eventual social ineptitude. I know because it’s happened to me. I wall myself off at times.

All that has ever done for me has had a negative impact on how I view others and myself. When I know I’m going to be dealing with other people and not relying on my own efforts I tense up, manifesting a looming sense of foreboding. I immediately draw the conclusion that stuff is going to go wrong, simply because I don’t believe I work well in groups. This is why I’m very reticent to collaborate with others creatively. I’ve always pursued my craft in a solitary fashion, and it has given me a tremendous return on investment. And so I’m wary to add other ingredients to the mix, for the simple fear of failure. At least if I screw up on my own project I have myself to blame.

Because truthfully I don’t enjoy pointing fingers or passing the buck. I’m a diligent and persistent creature, and solitude is the fuel that drives my passions. Of course you can clearly see I have my blind spots, and I’m far from perfect, but the point is the way I work has yielded the appropriate outcomes. Getting out of ones own way has to be the most challenging undertaking anyone can attempt, for we’re able to make excuses to ourselves in our solitary moments, and cover up our mistakes before anyone else catches them. Simultaneously, the hardest thing one can do is hold themselves accountable when no one else is watching. It takes guts to bear such a responsibility.

I wouldn’t say I’m an outright liar, but there are some things I’m inherently dishonest about. Usually to other people, and very infrequently to myself. Because living a lie is often times easier than the confrontational nature of raw authenticity. The reason I do this is because a lot of folks just can’t handle the truth. They want to look away from the unpleasant parts of existence and pretend they don’t exist. And so, in a way, they’re being sheltered from reality. It might seem solipsistic or even self-destructive to outsiders, but we all have coping mechanisms, and most fall squarely in the category of being unhealthy. So why brow beat those things out of yourself with therapy? It’s costly.

Of course, I’m being facetious, but I wouldn’t presume you grasp my meaning, due to the opaque nature it was put. Evasiveness is another trait I’m in the business of possessing despite its drawbacks. It has been said that my work here is encoded in a way, so that only certain people understand it’s profundity. Yet I was always under the impression that my thinking process was linear, and closer to the concept of easy reading. We as human beings are the animal that will not be itself. We’re constantly trying to shift our focus off what we really are and blend in to our surroundings like chameleons. And while I’m not quite certain why this is the case, it is compelling.

So where it all leaves me — being that I play trickster in the face of scrutiny — I can barely fathom. Key people know certain sides of me but never the whole. And I continue to surprise them with my contradictory platitudes. This is what keeps things interesting, and gets others hooked, because we’re all looking for a thrill despite our many protestations to the contrary. It’s why straight jobs instil fear in the hearts of the truly creative. And why free spirits buck the system. Not all of us are meant to fit in the mould we’re dealt. Sometimes the two just don’t line up. We must never play to what is expected of us while denying ourselves the right to thrive. That leads to unbearable sadness.

A sadness that is pervasive, and all-encompassing. A sense that we can’t express ourselves fully, and we’re to walk on eggshells. The way I see it, if the person I show you I am is not somebody you’re willing to accept warts and all, it’s your loss. Because my heart got me where I am, and my brain will never get me out. I’m emotionally mature, and just because most other people have hang-ups in that department is no fault of mine. I can respect others and their flaws to a degree, but I can’t bear to witness somebody trying to cover them up. Superficiality is the death of depth. Perhaps a redundant statement for certain, but true nonetheless. Small talk is a specific type of personal hell.

When I’m in attendance at a social gathering and nothing of substance is being said because everyone is too polite to say what they mean I feel like I’m drowning. I subsequently excuse myself to go to the men’s room (an outright lie) and steal away to a quiet space away from the crowd in order to relieve myself of the mounting pressure. It’s not that I can’t put on a front — for I most certainly can — it’s just that it drains me of my life force, in every sense of the word. If I instead have the opportunity to discuss something of importance, something that sparks intellectual curiosity, I’ll do so in no time flat. Most people are so guarded they won’t let themselves go there.

But if we don’t, what we’re really doing is a mystery. The lengths people are willing to go to uphold the view others have of them is astounding. Because sometimes we need to hear that our friends or acquaintances don’t have it all together. That they’re trying their best to make their way through life without sacrificing their soul. People will say I get too deep. That my approach is inappropriate. And it’s anything but. The problem isn’t me. The problem is the social structure we’ve encouraged through hoodwinking and white lies. That may come off like I’m blaming the world and taking no responsibility for my own actions — and you can think so if you wish. Maybe that’s what I’m doing.

I can’t help but think our collective habits are inherently flawed. That plasticity is encouraged over substance. But if no one seems to care that it’s the case, perhaps I shouldn’t either. The thing is that I do, though, no matter how hard I try not to. The level of apathy encouraged in the average citizen of the world makes me sick to my stomach. It all comes down to the subliminal messages we’re sent — through the media and on the internet, in advertising, and even by those who supposedly govern us. I’ll never be governed though. Cognitive liberty is my number one priority. And living in a post-capitalist age no one seems sure where they’re going to end up. I’ll give you a hint: nowhere good.

The ramblings of a madman may be indistinguishable from my screeds, and that’s okay. I’ll comfortably wear the dunce hat while possessing the highest IQ in the room. Again, I’m being facetious, but this time I’d hope you got my meaning. Explaining our shortfalls away and living through a string of excuses only goes so far. If we’re serious at all about changing the course of events before us, we must first embrace change in our own lives. If we can’t do that, we’re toast. Simply put, there’s a treacherous degree of suffering to undergo before we decide enough is enough. How and when that’ll happen will be determined by how honest we can be with ourselves.

I come from a place of compassion toward all of humanity, even though I at times seem as if I’m attacking it from the inside out. The thing is I never want to come off cheesy or glib. For while there’s hope to be had in the darkest of hours, only our inner strength will see us through. If we’re incapable however of reaching past the pain and getting to the root cause of our issues we’re doomed. The task before us is not as overwhelming as we might think. Sure, it’s complex, confusing, and disconcerting. And there’s no doubt about that. But if you really think about it, change is constant. It’s our perceptions that limit us. If we can master our darker impulses, we’ll soar.

I got up around six thirty this morning. Approximately two hours into my day, I’m behind my word processor, typing away. Am I living the 5 AM lie? Not quite. But this all kind of flies in the face of what I’ve been opining on of late. In the interest of a slight recap, yet at the danger of repeating myself, I’ve maintained that my writing later on in the day — late afternoon, early evening — seems to be the sweet spot. Well, the opportunity presented itself way earlier today, so I’m just going to go with it. It’s fine if you get up at five. I won’t begrudge anyone that. I do enjoy lying under the covers till my circadian rhythm jolts me awake. I just think ‘The 5 AM Club’ doesn’t do what it promises.

Now, I’m aware that bashing Robin Sharma is bound to ruffle a few feathers, but as Robert Greene has said, “If you find yourself in a lowly position that offers little opportunity for you to draw attention, an effective trick is to attack the most visible, most famous, most powerful person you can find.” How I interpret this is that it’s an effective way to piggyback off of the notoriety of the influential. I know I’m a nobody, and I’m quite happy being one. But if I can get some cheap traction I’m bound to go ahead and do it. None of this is really about what time you choose to rise from your sadness mattress — instead, I see it as me poking holes in the reputation of a huckster.

People who peddle their bestsellers have effectively sold out, and bought in to mainstream publishing tastes. They’ve often softened the blow of otherwise effective work for a buck. And that’s how I’m almost certain I’ll never be one of them. Being an outsider artist means doing things your own way, willingly shelving yourself next to underground and self-published efforts. It’s a clear rejection of the elite stamp of approval most seek. And I get that writers want to make a living from their work, but I think the question becomes “How much are you willing to compromise?” Personally, I won’t budge. Call me hard headed if you will — at least you know I’m giving it to you straight.

I’m not interested in sending my readers on a wild goose chase. Sure, I make them work for a payoff from time to time, but I just can’t see what point being evasive and trite serves. The truth is, if you want to be accepted into the fold you must sell your soul. It’s an undisputed fact. There’s no coincidence someone like Oprah Winfrey is a bestseller — after all, she cracked the nod of the establishment, despite the questionable behaviours she exhibits. If you’re struggling to read between the lines here she was chummy with not only Harvey Weinstein but she appears in the Epstein Files. And for someone who was abused herself, it’s not hard to draw the conclusion that the cycle continues.

It just goes to show you how wealth and fame can buy people’s silence. And while these elites need to be held to account, they probably never will be. Then you get the little guy, who’s battling to make ends meet, all while those with the money to make it all go away cackle maniacally. There are those who’ll couch what I’m conveying as conspiracy theory, and honestly, I’m fine with them thinking that. It just continues to disgust me how being well-connected gets you off the hook automatically. For if we the people would just muster the courage to rise up against fascism, tyranny, and authoritarianism their goose would be cooked. The problem is we don’t think we’re powerful enough.

And we doubt the validity of the claims espoused in alternative media channels. We tell ourselves we’re not sure if anyone would go as far as they have. We also can’t seem to believe it’s true how depraved they really are. But the reality is much darker than what we see on the surface. It’s just the tip of the iceberg. And being angry about it without putting our activism into action is utterly useless. While I’m not comfortable with most forms of protest I do believe this stuff is serious enough to warrant it. The trouble we encounter is not the existence of the military-industrial complex alone. It’s a worldwide phenomenon, not merely something that exists in the greatest country on earth.

The tentacles of the state reach far and wide, and everyone is subjected to scrutiny and remote monitoring. Yes, I’m a schizophrenic. Yes, you’ll probably take what I’m saying with a pinch of salt. But the human animal has an instinct — a sixth sense — that tells it when it’s being watched. Have you ever felt it? Have you ever discovered a bug or camera hidden in your domicile, in the most inconspicuous of places? I always suspected there were bugs and cameras in my home. I also had a psychotic break over it. But I just don’t think we can dismiss the possibility out of hand. They say it’s against the rules for an AirBnB to do such things. But there are too many coincidences indicating the opposite.

The prevalence of paranoia in my life is self-evident. People will think I’m a kook, and I very well may be. But that won’t stop me from ploughing ahead regardless. After all, I came here to express myself fully, and I’ll be damned if I don’t fulfil that promise to myself. Very little spooks me more than those who eavesdrop with the help of sophisticated technology. I’ve known some people who’ve been gang stalked and had their lives made a living hell. But it’s a hell we need to bring awareness to and stand against together. Most people just aren’t prepared to do that — and that’s how these bad actors get away with it. If you pay close enough attention to your surroundings there are synchronicities.

Have you ever had a conversation behind closed doors, in the privacy of your own home, and then your landlord seems to know all about it? Maybe you don’t rent. Perhaps you haven’t got a landlord. Instead, it could be a neighbour. Those are the things that strike fear in my heart if I am to be frank. But then again people will say I’m making loose connections where there aren’t any. We’re convinced by the masses that we’re crazy, and we’re gaslit by public officials, so why would this instance be any different? It isn’t. There are more and more people walking around with bogus diagnoses when their living environment is what’s making them lose their minds. Don’t believe me?

Big Brother doesn’t just symbolise an abstract sense of oppressive authority anymore. It’s a carefully curated series of co-ordinated events perpetrated by a shadowy cabal hidden in the window dressing of the ordinary citizen. They collaborate not only in the dead of night, but are instead a specifically choreographed catch-all cloak and dagger collective that exists in plain sight. And I for one have seen behind the curtain. Legitimate spies and faux whistle-blowers work hand in glove against our best interests around the clock. The supposed electrical repairmen that appear in my neighbourhood street are participating in a phantom pantomime designed to observe my personal comings and goings.

You might not believe me, and honestly, I’m used to folks turning a blind eye to it or making excuses for things when they’re clearly off. There’s an obvious psychic attack being perpetrated on our sovereignty, and most — if not all — governments are intertwined in these clandestine affairs. I’ve had cars follow me, signs given through successive digits in numberplates, and even artificial neighbours installed alongside my living environment. And chance encounters have rarely ever been what they seemed. Look, I know it sounds far-fetched, and I’m used to people dismissing it all out of hand. But when you’re the one who’s been targeted it’s anything but an overactive imagination.

People like me, who speak truth to power, are used to the excuses. We’re used to being told, “Oh, that’s nothing.” And we’re incessantly confronted with the reality that we seem preoccupied with being persecuted. The only way anyone ever gets it or begins to empathise is when the tables turn. When they’re backed into a corner by the invisible powers that be. These events are explicitly designed to make you question reality, therefore rendering you powerless. All you need to do is start questioning the lie and you’ll have a target on your back. The masses are asleep. They believe what they’re told and eat up the nonsense they’re fed like pigs at a trough. And the only way out is through.

Most successful writers — if asked — would advise that one engages in the practice of getting ones writing done first thing in the morning, before the world has had time to corrupt their flow state. But what if you’re not a morning person? I’m all over the map with regard to what times I write — it’s usually random rather than planned — however, lately I’ve noticed that I do most of my writing later on in the day. What this allows me to do is let ideas stew until they eventually claw their way out of my head. And while I’d never be arrogant enough to offer my own advice, I will say the late afternoon or early evening continues to bear fruit, as far as my personal productivity is concerned.

Now, I might very well be doing this whole thing backwards, but it works for me, and that’s all that matters. And sure, if I have a bad day, I wind up not publishing anything. Oh well. My overall aim is quality, not quantity. There’s also the not-so-little matter of medication, which clouds my perceptions to a degree. But once I’m caffeinated, I’m usually off to the races. So what do I consider a bad day, anyway? A day that involves interruptions that can’t be ignored — all the boring, mind-numbing banalities of everyday life. And everybody deals with them. I’m just not very good at it. As a highly sensitive person the mere energy in the room can throw me off. Maybe you’re not like that.

I’m not a holy roller by any stretch. I don’t pray, meditate, nor do I do anything that involves physical exertion. In some ways I could be considered a non-entity where spirituality is concerned. And rather unhealthy, to boot. But intellectually I crave an abundance of stimulation, which is at times, admittedly, tough to satiate. I choose to indulge this act rather than moderate it. Because why would I? How harmful can the quest for knowledge really be? The way I see it, jocks for instance focus intently on the way they look on the outside all the while neglecting their inner life. Everything is about sports, training in the gym, and the fancy packaging. And there’s nothing I hate more than the superficial.

There are things everyone tends to swear by — things that sound good on the surface — but I instead prefer following my own path and determining what’s right for me. I’m not about to force myself to wake up at 5 o’ clock in the morning because Robin Sharma thought it was a great idea. I’d rather get up once I’m well rested, and perhaps even treat myself to a nap throughout the day. Because, really, what purpose does getting up at dawn serve? It might be cool to watch the sun rise, but underneath it all is there some part of us that wants to be congratulated for it? I’ve tried and tested all kinds of schedules — including waking at or before dawn — and it never magically altered my life for the better.

We need to realise that no one is paying attention. They’re too absorbed in themselves to examine another’s life and emulate it. What works for you will most likely never work for me. And that’s just the way it is. We’re unique for a reason. Think about what life would be like if we were all at the top of our game one hundred percent of the time. We wouldn’t think twice about small wins or even slightly larger victories. My philosophy is to inculcate a sense of freedom and manoeuvrability into my day. That way interesting things can happen, and events can evolve organically, all while I’m there to observe or participate in them. If I followed the supposedly sage advice of writing before anything occurred to me, what would I write about?

The answer is simple: I’d come up with something. And perhaps my work would be better for it. But I have a sneaking suspicion that my creative output has very little to do with whatever rigorous discipline I subject myself to. It instead exists in its own way, and in its own time. Outside of time, even. If you scour through my past efforts a recurring theme reveals itself: that which involves matters of the human psyche. Why this is I can’t say. But if I’m revisiting it time and again it must mean something. I’m a scholar of human nature, that I know for certain. I observe and then narrate my way through this experience called life. It’s just how I am. And none of it is intentionally contrived.

I’ve developed a fondness for the genre of self-help. I don’t see myself as someone who can write it well, but I know I’m a fan. That, business, psychology and philosophy are the sections I gravitate toward in the book store. But fiction doesn’t quite do it for me. I prefer to read about stuff that actually happened, and how it can be applied to my life. So it’s non-fiction all the way. It’s not that I inherently dislike fiction, it just doesn’t grab me in the same way. Of course if I were left alone on an island with nothing to read but fiction I’d dive right in. But that seems a bit extreme a circumstance to propel me into something that otherwise fails to move me. I believe we must follow our interests — no matter how kooky they are.

But self-help also only goes so far. There’s a point at which reading about what you should do versus doing it presents itself. And it’s at that point that one needs a wake up call. I once read a piece by Ryan Holiday in which he boldly announced that anyone who wants to be a writer must do one simple thing: live life. Live an interesting life. Rack up experiences. His rationale was then, later, you’ll be able to draw from those experiences and your writing will flourish. Holiday has also made the claim that writing comes easy for him — which, while it sounds egotistic on its face, I suspect is him employing a technique from his lifelong mentor, the author Robert Greene.

Greene wrote about this in ‘The 48 Laws of Power.’ In Law 30, he maintains that one should conceal the effort behind ones achievements, in order to create an aura of natural talent. Now clearly Holiday is doing something right. He’s a bestselling author. But whether or not his work comes as easy as he says it does may forever remain a mystery. I feel Holiday was in a privileged position to have worked as Greene’s research assistant, for the man is one of the most brilliant thinkers of our time. No question. I instead take the approach that if something doesn’t come easy to me I’ll admit it. And contrary to popular belief, I don’t engage in mind games. That is to say I don’t view people as psychological playthings.

There are people out there who’ve trolled and criticised me harshly — who’ll say all kinds of stuff about me if you get them in the right setting. My moniker alone instils fear in the hearts of the most hardcore of edge lords. And there’s no doubt about it, I’ve courted controversy throughout my time online. But when I began my writing journey I slowly shifted my focus off them and onto my inner workings. Little did I know it’d turn out to be an almost daily habit and not a phase. Because we all go through phases. People think you’re not serious about something when you try it out for the first time. They think it might just be a temporary side road or momentary detour from your usual activities.

But they become surprised when you’re able to show up every day and maintain something of a work ethic, especially in a field as difficult to break into as the literary arts. I came across this fellow who calls himself a failed writer — tongue in cheek, perhaps — and when I read his stuff I unfortunately realised why he doesn’t get any traction. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, we just can’t pull off the vision in our head. No one is good at everything. But it takes a certain kind of tenacity to bear with the initial speed bumps and come out on the other side unscathed. I believe I have an intensity to me that allows for eventual growth at the things I devote my attention to.

You could dress it up in terms like manifestation or magic if you want, but truthfully it’s a whole other ball of wax. I’ve been blessed with a sense of persistence that few people possess. And I don’t necessarily think that abandoning something that seems like it isn’t working is the right approach. As the old adage wrongly attributed to Albert Einstein goes “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” My retort to that is that I’m a paranoid schizophrenic on paper, so I’m clinically insane anyway. I won’t let anyone stand in the way of what I believe to be important. And I mean anyone. For those who know me know that once I get something in my head, it’ll eventually become a reality.

I don’t pretend to have it all figured out, because truly, no one does. The little that I do know however, I have absolutely no problem sharing. Whether wise, pithy, or both, some things are indeed better left unsaid though. And it’s a struggle to stop myself from tackling subjects I don’t quite understand in order to see what I know about them. Our collective knowledge lives in the recesses of our subconscious, and one of the ways to bring it out consciously is to write about it. And while I’d never describe myself as particularly intelligent or profound, there are times when I surprise even me. These are usually happy accidents and a tremendous part of them hinge on luck.

I fall short of reading as widely as I should. I tend to stick to the topics that interest me, and I realise this creates a sort of stilted, stunted situation in which I could be considered nothing more than an idiot savant. Because if we do have a legitimate thirst to understand the world around us it is incumbent upon each individual to engage in rigorous personal study. But not just in one area, in many. I can’t seem to help my pickiness on my trips to the book store, but as one of my readers once said, everyone has the right to be that way. What I infer from this sentiment is that because there are far too many bad books out there, we should be as discerning as we like. So I won’t beat myself up.

Romanticising the renaissance man of old only goes so far, for we live in a completely different time now. Our days are filled to the brim with enough non-events and distractions to result in one devoting their time to everything and nothing at all. That is to say, our search for meaning — if taken to the extreme — becomes more than a full time job. Recently I read a piece in which the writer in question did everything short of chastise others for publishing regularly. And this made absolutely no sense to me. Surely something that isn’t fully formed will eventually slip through the cracks. Especially today, where what stands between us and our readers is a simple button: publish.

I just don’t think it’s a good idea to discourage anyone from expressing themselves fully. Just because a person might not be able to keep up with the quicker pace of things nowadays doesn’t mean that everything can be categorised as slop. Let me make something abundantly clear, though. I really don’t have the time to write as much as I do. But I make the time. Because it’s important to me. It’s a release unlike any other, and I take great pains to agonise over every single word. I’ll gladly own and embody the term tortured artist. The funny thing is you can pour your heart and soul out every single day and people still don’t actually know you. There’s an evasiveness to it all.

And that mainly depends on the fact that people are too wrapped up in their own problems to even care what the next person meant by what they said. Self-absorption is at an all time high, myself included. This all comes from a man who’d rather inspect the inside of his head than rub elbows with the unwashed masses. Solipsistic, maybe. Anti-social, perhaps. I just couldn’t be bothered with the glib vacuities of superficial, egotistic bores. And that’s because I have my own life to tend to, as we all do. I guess, as I age, I’m starting to realise why a lot of folks wind up unconcerned at the trivialities that surround them in most instances. We don’t harden our hearts deliberately, it just kind of happens.

The grit and determination required to function in a world where narcissists and sociopaths reign is rather disconcerting. You won’t get anywhere with your efforts alone, either. Like I said, it requires a bit of good fortune too. But often we tend to forget this. We seem to believe that positive self-belief is the key to overcoming our obstacles. Well, if that’s all it took we’d all be wildly successful. Think back to everything you’ve achieved in life. Chances are there were people along the way who gave you a lucky break. Because no one — and I mean no one — is ever a self-made man. Affirmation porn does nothing for the average Joe but confuse him. It also instils a sense of magical thinking.

We’re told that if we just hold on a little longer, everything will work out. And more often than not it doesn’t. Then we feel cheated. We look at other people and wonder why they have it so good. We compare ourselves unnecessarily and it leaves us feeling ashamed of our lack of accomplishment. When all one needs to do is turn down the volume and focus on the small steps in front of them. Major strides happen almost always by accident, and we have this tendency to want to take credit for the good times, distancing ourselves from the bad. This of course has the complete opposite effect that we intend it to have. We think we’re on the road to success. Finally! Then life humbles us.

And it humbles us fast. We end up devastated and confused. We don’t know why lightning isn’t striking twice. But it’s because the minute we saw success we thought it’d last. I’m here to tell you it doesn’t. Things are going to take a turn for the worse sooner rather than later, and it’s when that happens that we feel like fools. I don’t think most people realise how trapped the otherwise wealthy and influential are in their own oubliette. We tend to idolise those who were at the right place at the right time, all the while ignoring our own small wins. If only we knew that success and failure are both sides of the same coin. A coin that can flip in a moments notice. We tend to overlook this fact.

I met a man with one arm today, and he had the most upbeat aura I’ve encountered in a long time. And it made me ashamed at my own self-pity. Here I am, waking up every day with full functionality, autonomy, and relatively good health, and I squander it time and again. I doubt myself. I disregard my own agency. I focus on what I don’t have and how it makes me feel. There are hundreds of things I could do, that all fall to the wayside, because of my own short-sightedness and rigidity. I’m here napping while people are out there changing the world with their ideas. And again, if I look at my reasoning, its driven by a perception that is severely skewed. But do I want to change?

All of my past behaviour gives me every indication that I don’t, no matter how hard I consciously might say I do. You see, it’s easy to fall victim to comfort and convenience. That’s what most of us do. We’re so terribly focused on those things that make us feel good that we let precious time that could be better spent slip through our fingers. Look, I don’t have all the answers, and I’d never pretend I did, but I think one of the most crucial aspects of this whole affair is that these problems are self-created. We condition ourselves to be the way we are. But there’s also another factor that must be considered: the media we consume. Everywhere we turn we’re told to cut corners and chill.

Whether it’s being encouraged to sit back and let technology do our work for us, or that shiny new toy we have to have — it’s all a focus on consumption over creation. Why bother to paint that landscape when a few prompts will result in the same outcome? We use critical thinking to solve that problem that hasn’t left your desk when you can just type a few keywords into an interface and be done for the day? We need to develop more self-respect. We can’t give in when any little task gets hard or forces us to rack our brains. And we owe it to ourselves to preserve human sovereignty. The way we do this is by utilising our God given talents. Tapping in to our general knowledge.

Almost no one summarises a body of text by hand anymore. There are tools at our disposal to do so, right? I remember listening to this radio show, and the host said he no longer writes his own show notes. Instead, he gets a chat bot to do it for him. I never listened to him again. Look, we can’t escape the reality of these systems’ existence, but we can choose how much of ourselves we give over to them. I’m far from the poster boy for this kind of talk, but it’s getting ridiculous. Human beings fall into two categories: those who are fascinated by technology and how it can be integrated into our daily lives, and those who eschew their involvement in any such thing. So which are you?

There’s no right or wrong answer. And you might even fall somewhere in-between. I have a fondness for paper books, but I also own a Kindle. As a cartoonist, I draw on paper, but I scan my work into the computer to post online. Both of these things can coexist, and there’s always nuance. But my insistence to buy paper books and work on paper is me honouring tradition. I’ve tried drawing on an iPad, and while it’s cool, I still prefer paper. And you know how many times I’ve been laughed at for doing so? The point of all this is it didn’t deter me from doing things my own way. We need to protect the humanity of our work. And what that means to others may vary. All I know is I’ll never acquiesce to a fad.

Let me tell you a secret. If you have something weighing on your mind, sleep it off. If you’re stuck and feel like nothing you do is working, sleep it off. If you’re just having a bad day — you guessed it — sleep it off. Sleep rejuvenates both the body and the mind like nothing else. It’s a hidden gem in plain sight, and naps are highly underrated. I’m well aware that it’s frowned upon greatly in this modern era. We’re expected to be on, and power through our obstacles by sheer force of will. But sometimes, all you need is rest. Before I hit the hay this afternoon I felt backed into a corner. But not anymore. And the only thing I did to rectify the situation was lie down and sleep. It’s as simple as that.

Now I get that most people don’t have the luxury of working from home and setting their own hours. But if you do, by the grace of God, take advantage of it. Come to think of it, I’m increasingly surprised at the amount of days those who have full time jobs seem to be allowed to work from home. No one is watching you. There’s no shame in it. And if you’re anything like me, you’re able to drift off to dreamland at the drop of a hat. I’ve had a dissatisfying twenty-four hours to say the least. Suffice it to say I ran in to a system glitch with my bank and had to wait additional day for funds to clear. Subsequently, last night I went sleep shopping on Amazon and had to return a bunch of stuff.

On top of that I’m stuck between moving house and having to furnish a whole new household, so there’s a looming sense of being in limbo that I just can’t shake, no matter how hard I try. And while these things might just be mild stressors to most normal people, to me they feel like a series of severe catastrophes. This might be because I’m a highly sensitive person. It could also have something to do with me living with schizophrenia. Whatever it is though magnifies what gets otherwise overlooked by the average man. And there’s no doubt about it, being that I can make a meal out of the most banal situation in a literary sense, I naturally tend to gravitate in that direction.

They say my medications can cause sleepwalking, sleep eating, and other unusual behaviour. But I’ve never before gone so far as to buy books in my sleep. I’ll admit, that scared me. Fortunately enough they were relatively inexpensive, and Amazon’s return policy is pretty streamlined. But I have to stop myself short of asking what if I’d done more financial damage to myself under the influence of these drugs. Because my mind tends to run wild. I can faintly overhear pieces of a conversation from, say a neighbour, and draw all kinds of paranoid conclusions. My brain tends to go places it shouldn’t, and I struggle with something of a persecution complex. That’s putting it lightly.

But as normal as it might be for someone with my condition, I’ve never gotten used to it. This is another reason why writing is a suitable outlet for my tendency toward free association. With it I can construct miniature realities that I can look down upon and be proud of. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with doing so. Fictions can exist perfectly well aside non-fiction, and I get to call the shots. Another of the most useful parts of all this is my vivid imagination, which, while getting me in hot water in real life situations, makes my fantasy worlds all the richer. And the beauty in it all is that it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. It can exist on its own merit. All inconsistencies aside.

No one stands between me and what I choose to make real on the page. Unlike back in the old days, I’m not subject to an editors feedback, and my prose can be wholly itself, warts and all. Nobody can make me revise anything, because we’ve cut out the middle man and done away with the gatekeepers. And sure, breaching whatever terms of service you’re subject to could land you on the wrong side of the ban hammer, but is that really so bad? There are a wide array of options at our disposal as creatives, and an internet connection provides endless opportunities. Never before at any point in history have the floodgates been opened like this. And there is no longer room for excuses.

If your piece slips through the cracks and goes unnoticed, is that such a tragedy? Surely the reason we do what we do is less contrived than that. I’ve spent hours upon hours — not to mention days, weeks, months, and years — on work that not a single human being has seen. I short, I’m either not that good a writer yet, or my marketing sucks. I’ll freely admit I’m allergic to self-promotion, without so much as a twinge of shame. It just isn’t my bag. Instead, I choose to entertain myself first, and whatever happens after that is a welcome bonus. I’m not itching for recognition, awards, accolades, or critical success. I’ve simply resigned myself to being a guy who writes, and writes frequently.

But there are those who are ready to criticise even that. They tell you you shouldn’t publish too much. Rather edit as ruthlessly as possible and polish as aggressively as you can. Then sit on it. I’m sorry, but I might be too impatient to do all that. And perhaps my work suffers for it. One thing I do know is that I’ve been couched as unusually productive — something which has raised its own set of erroneous red flags. As much as I read the unsolicited advice that gets bandied about with respect to writing, I internalise very little of it. I’ve come to realise those who’re accomplished enough at what they do would be off enjoying their success and not spending their time selling workshops.

Another thing that doesn’t appeal to me on any level is the premise of what they call a writing challenge. It’s challenging enough white knuckling my way through a page for my own purposes — so why would I want to subject myself to jumping through flaming hoops just so I can experience an empty attaboy? It’s cringe worthy, really. I’m a self-publisher first, and it’s no coincidence I’ve kept my involvement with publications to the bare minimum. This whole idea hinges on the carrot that gets dangled in the face of the inexperienced. Getting credit and recognition has become its own currency in the age of social media. But honestly, likes just won’t pay your bills.

Nor will shares or subscriptions. That’s why I have a level of admiration for those who actually go out there, roll up their sleeves, and get their hands dirty. And while that’ll never be me, there’s also a selfish reason I enjoy the idea. Because the more people that have day jobs the quieter the suburbs are during working hours. And for someone who works from home, that’s utter bliss. I’ve treated myself like an exception to the rule far too long to believe I’m anything else. I don’t care how tone deaf it seems, that just is the way it is. And people have come to accept it. Sure, sometimes a slick or sardonic comment flies out of their mouths now or then, but that’s actually small potatoes.

Here’s the thing. I know most people’s bark is worse than their bite. I know most people mean well when they start out on whatever road they go down. It’s somewhere along the way that they get corrupted by the devils who cross their path. But there’s a gulf between meaning well and acting for your own selfish interests, and that gulf is the middle ground. I don’t pretend to be a God fearing man. I have very unusual spiritual beliefs. But I’ve also learnt (the hard way) what works for me. I’ll never be dogmatic or try and force my ideas on others. I tend to live and let live. However the one thing I won’t give up on is myself. I might let relationships sour over time unchecked. I might not fight fair.

However, I respect the process. And everything involves one to function. No one ever taught me how to do anything on my own, I always had people in my life that took over completely. And now that I’m finally learning to do stuff in my own way I’m realising how incapable and fragile I’d become in my ignorance. It’s not exactly my fault that life worked out that way, but and still, I must take responsibility for my part in it. By being too gullible and naïve I sealed my own fate. Something that takes a great deal of time to change and course correct. If you had to ask me point blank what the most valuable takeaway is that writing leaves me with it’d have to be clarity of mind.

Because not only does it help me organise my thoughts and practise my coherence, it’s also connected me to a higher force. Call it God, if you will — I feel it’s something more profound. Before I ever considered being a legitimate writer I wrote. I just never thought what I wrote was worth anything or good enough. But I’m careful not to attach it to closely to my identity because I know how easily one can become a caricature of themselves. And I’m no carnival barker. All I am is a random dude sitting behind his word processor making sense of things. I can’t be anybody else. And nor can you. So let’s embrace who we are before somebody else decides who we’ll be for us.

NOTHING MATTERS

Once you get used to the idea that life isn’t as serious as you think it is, and most of it can be disregarded as futile, you’ll free yourself from a self-imposed cage. The task before you is to sublimate what is an inherently meaningless existence, elevating it beyond that with your purpose.

And while finding ones purpose is easier for some than it is for others, all you need to ask yourself is one question: What is the thing that drives me more than anything else on this earth? Once you determine that, your reason for being comes in to focus, and the colour will flood back into the universe.

When I was a child, I gravitated toward art and books, constantly inventing my own characters and homing in to their fictional motivations. This created a private world I could retreat to, beyond the marital problems my parents had.

But not everyone finds their purpose that early. So what about those who are well into adulthood and still haven’t found their groove? To that I say it’s never too late to discover your passion. But perhaps that passion doesn’t make sense career wise — do it anyway.

I can’t even count how many times I’ve been given the advice, “Don’t worry about the money.” Because if you’re driven enough it’ll find its way to you. Your personal sovereignty is something you’re born with. But it depends what you do with it. Will you accentuate it by prioritising your freedoms over all else? Or will you willingly acquiesce to being a slave to the fascistic rule of this age? Supreme power and authority lives within in you. And it’s up to you to keep the fire alight.

PINING FOR THE SPECTRE

If you leave enough traces of yourself behind, then subsequently disappear altogether, it is only natural that those accustomed to your company will long for your return. Your absence will not only make the heart grow fonder, but there will be little room for the hatred or disdain of your constant presence.

Your goal is to instil a level of fondness in others, evoking a liking for you that can’t be erased. Once you disappear suddenly, it’ll both shock and confuse people. Remember, it is not your job to be reliable, but instead create a vacuum where you once stood firm.

Our personal sovereignty depends on the stratagems we’re willing to employ. To acquiesce to the guardrails of any system outside of your control will only water down your level of influence. And the entire point of this particular exercise is to lull others into a false sense of security, all the while maintaining the upper hand.

This spectre is the memory and essence you project onto the human interface responsible for perceptions. Have it dance before them, and make the show a memorable one. That way they will never forget the experiences you created out of seemingly thin air.

No one can be all things to all people. But what you can be is the elusive source of escapism everyone yearns for. Embody the stage master, take your subjects on a journey only you can provide. Then pull the rug out from under them unceremoniously.

It will inspire fascination. It will bring wonder to an otherwise dreary existence. But what it won’t do is leave the audience unaffected. Spread like contagion a sense of allure, giving onlookers an undeniable fantasy.

DEAD FREQUENCIES

There are those among us who are not only dead in the eyes, but they possess a defeatist disposition. While it may seem outside of your control, the energy you give off is not as knee-jerk as you might think. The only one who can grant you agency is yourself.

We build most of our oubliettes ourselves, all while we can choose to be unrestrained by the dictators of our time. Darkness is not dead, nor is light alive. Neutrality is where the danger lies. Sitting on the fence and distracting ourselves with useless deliberation. Inadvertently choosing inaction over what is difficult but must be done.

When you encounter a dead frequency you’ll know it. Individuals with nothing beneath their façade are the first source of sabotage. They have no moral compass because they opted out of life long ago.

The best way to meet the energy I’m describing is with open rebuke, forcing the subject into taking a noticeable stance. And with cowards this task is simple. Who we are and what we’re about is a series of choices. Those who are one way today and another tomorrow stand on shaky ground.

To circumvent the lukewarm one must have the courage to speak truth to power, to address the elephant in the room — no matter how large. Avoiding any action whatsoever, for fear of repercussion, is a dead sure way to allow your life force to be siphoned by the parasites that surround you.

Raise your frequency by elevating your consciousness, and that can only be done by living in the present. Forget the past, don’t over-anticipate the future. Look your enemies in the eye, then proceed to act without flinching.

BURIED TRUTHS

Beneath the sands of time lie those certainties we’d rather not face, but face them we must. If not now, then later.

Don’t leave it till later. Do it now. Confront the truth before it sneaks up on you and catches you off guard. No one is born a liar, deceit is something we learn as we age. Our innocence falls away, as years of stain rack up. You may never get your childlike wonder back, but what you can do is alter your approach to the harsh realities of life.

You can choose to look them in the face and consider them for what they are. It is not the absence of challenges that makes one great, no. Controversy. Trials and tribulations. Peaks and valleys.

Fear has frozen many during the course of millennia. But you can be different. You can brave and thaw the icy onslaught of everyday life. You have choices, so what will they be? Will you conceal your weaknesses or own them? It is no doubt easier to pretend we have no soft spot. But to openly draw attention to it and demonstrate fearlessness? That is almost unheard of.

People more often than not take the easy way out. They surrender their privacy without question, all while sacrificing their freedoms — because everyone else is doing it. One must work tirelessly at preserving their sovereignty.

You may be afraid. You may not want to rock the boat. But it is in standing up and speaking out that you strip the factions that seek to control you of their power.

After all, what is more important to you? Ask yourself the questions no one dares to. Put yourself on trial. Wage war on your listlessness and those things that hold you back. The truth is universally relatable. Nobody can deny it. What you can do is change the course of history, today.

MURDEROUS SCRIPTS

Most people will have a plan for you if you don’t have one for yourself. That’s why it is crucial to follow your own star, and make your own way.

No one wants to be subject to the demands of those who consider themselves above them, and if they say they do, they’re lying. Sovereignty begins by being the captain of ones own ship, and accepting the consequences of pursuing independence. While it’ll cost you a great deal, in the end it’ll be worth it.

The script is the map others have of how they expect your life to go and how you should behave — reject this at every turn. You know what it is you must do, in your heart lives your own map, and it is imperative to follow it. Be prepared to own your mistakes, as such a chain of events is far better than to be under another’s thumb.

Meditate on the liberties you wish to attain, but don’t spend too much time envisioning it. What you must do is physically manifest those ideas, so they become tangible. Once you learn that your success is dependent on you and only you, you’ll be freed from the idea of a saviour coming to your rescue.

Whether you sink or swim, then, is directly related to how much responsibility you take for your own fulfilment. Burn the script that is foisted upon you like an effigy. Take the leap of faith you’ve always dreamed you would. It is up to you alone to traverse the path you’ve envisioned.

Many travellers falter after a time. Your job is to stay resolute and keep your eye on the prize, and such a prize is invaluable. It is your key to the door of destiny. You hold a set of keys, and it is up to you to find which fits where. Never allow fear to intimidate you, it is only an emotion.

When I don’t get the time to tinker in my studio I become anxious and feel like I’m falling behind on my creative projects. But sometimes, even when I have the opportunity to spend my day back in it, I come up empty. While I’d like to avoid characterising myself as someone who sits behind his word processor, staring blankly at the page in front of him, there are times when that’s exactly who I am. Writing doesn’t just pour out of every writer, for most of us it takes work. And it’s in the work that we begin to lose our inhibitions and show up, with authenticity. A writer is only a writer if they write — otherwise they’re nothing. And what I mean by nothing is that they’re just a regular person.

Referring to myself with respect to writing, I tend to dole out punishment when I’m unproductive. And this comes in the form of negative self-talk, as well as an inescapable fear of failure. So I must make myself sit and write. The thing about writing is though, that it never gets easier. Every word or phrase becomes more difficult to conjure over time. We ask ourselves if we have anything worthwhile to say in relation to the glut of previously released work. And then it becomes overwhelming — that looming pressure to one-up yourself, and improve on the last piece or where it went. I remember when I first started my writing journey I had all sorts of topics at my fingertips.

Now it just seems like I’ve exhausted all avenues and I’m just a shell of the man I once was. Nothing feels good enough, and I tend to obsess over whether or not I’ve become repetitive, or covering a particular angle I’ve touched on prior. But I have to give myself grace, and roll with the punches. This I realise. After all, perhaps my writing has improved or even become more nuanced than when I first started out. Whether I’ll ever know the answer to that for certain I can’t say. And uncertainty is the cause of many missteps. It clouds our vision and influences the state of our id like nothing else. Sure, there might be some people who embrace and celebrate change, but I don’t think that’s me.

I often wonder if all the books I’ve read on strategy and human nature have had any solid application in my day to day life. Or if instead I’m just a poseur, trapped in the workings of my own head. The reason I’m pondering this is because I came across a short thread online which discussed a new trend of young people who voraciously devour philosophy, psychology, and self-help without actually applying any of it to their lives. Seeing as though I’m an intellectually curious type I might fall squarely into that category. But here’s the thing, if I applied all of the advice I could garner from these supposed resources I’d be a walking, talking contradiction. Not everything deserves to be lived out.

I can appreciate a decent self-help book and not internalise everything it suggests. I can disregard all the ideas I want. And after all, maybe some of these books are designed to be conversation pieces instead of actual guides on how to live ones life. That’s my sneaking suspicion, anyway. For a lot of things sound good on paper, or even feel right, when they’re dangerous in the wrong hands or intended to be taken with a pinch of salt. I’ll never stop collecting books that pique my curiosity. Never. Despite disagreeing unequivocally with some of the notions they put forth. I think we all need to be a bit more open to these opportunities that serve as windows into ideas we could never formulate on our own.

That’s how we grow, and fundamentally how we change. Good books alter our perspectives. Even if we might not think they do. They can make arguments we never considered and shift our often times rigid thought patterns. And that’s the reason why I love to read. Admittedly, there have been times when I’ve picked up a book I thought I’d enjoy and it turns out to be a tad too preachy or misaligned with my own beliefs, and truly, life is too short to endure an unpleasant read. So I abandon those books and wind up donating them to organisations who resell them for a good cause, or to someone else who might appreciate them. Because I don’t just hang on to stuff I’m not going to ever read again.

In a way I see that as a waste, and of course they take up physical space. Even though I own a Kindle I prefer paper books and view them as superior. There’s just something beautiful about paging through them and sniffing the pages. It’s a physical experience, owning a book. And although I’ve authored e-books myself, I understand why fewer people purchase those than the original, tactile object. I guess you could call me a bookworm in this sense, or even a nerd. And by that I don’t mean I play Dungeons and Dragons or collect superhero comics, no. I just totally geek out when I enter a book store or browse Amazon. I’m far from socially inept, but I have my quirks.

One of the things I do find particularly sad is the decline in overall book sales worldwide. Because if we’re honest about it not everyone reads. Start talking about one of the major streaming services and you’ll get more excitement out of others. A lot of people don’t want to actively take the time out to read, and they’d rather sit in front of a screen and binge whatever new series is out. In fact I know a filmmaker who makes references to movies all the time, and I quickly put that monologue to bed. I’m just not ever going to understand his predilection for film. So I figured why sit through his obscure references in conversation, and burst his bubble early. I don’t enjoy passive consumption.

A lot of folks are into film though, and that’s great. But I can’t change the fact that it’s not my medium. In fact, thinking about it a little deeper right now I don’t even listen to podcasts anymore. Most of my leisure time involves creating something — whether it be a piece of writing, a drawing, or some other form of art. And it feeds something in me tremendously. It’s almost as if I feel like I’m doing jail time or being held hostage when someone makes me sit through a feature length film or subjects me to their musical tastes on one of those dreaded sound bars. Noise pollution is a thing, and we all deserve the privilege of quiet enjoyment. The thing is most people can’t do that.

They want to distract themselves from their own thoughts. They don’t want to be alone with their traumas or hang-ups, and this is an advanced stage of avoidance many across the globe engage in. By allowing myself to process my musings on the page it gives me a release. Without it I’d surely feel stifled and turn inward, rendering myself incapable of coping with the outside world. Fortunately enough my wife is quite similar — we both enjoy a relatively reclusive lifestyle, one filled with quiet, low-pressure activities. I feel sorry for people who wind up incompatible with their significant other over time, because it must be difficult to reach irreconcilable differences.

In my home there is no yelling. No unnecessary arguments or petty dramas. And because of it I’ve been able to grow, over time. When you don’t have anyone breathing down your neck or barking up your tree you get to discover who you really are, beneath all the fancy wrapping. The way I see it most conflicts are avoidable with enough compromise and conscientiousness toward one another. Nothing really needs to be a big deal with enough maturity. And the reason I know this policy will survive the test of time is because it’s remarkably consistent. I know what to expect — despite my past hang-ups along with a touch of neuroses — and everything is going to be okay. Always.

Those closest to me view my writing as a whole other side of my personality. For this reason I might not write in the exact same way I conduct myself in real life. And I don’t necessarily think that’s hokey. Writing allows one to plumb the depths of their inner workings. And obviously I seem to have a whole other side to me beneath the surface. It’s one of the reasons I chose to make work under a pseudonym, to tell you the truth. Because in my heart I must’ve know there’s an alter ego itching to get out. Seeing as though my visual art is attached to my legal name I thought I’d take a different approach with my writing. And I’m pleased I chose to do so. Maybe it has something to do with my mental illness.

Then again, maybe not. I don’t have a split personality, there’s no Jekyll and Hyde thing going on. I just require a slight variation in identity to release my innermost thoughts. I answer to my moniker when those who know me as it address me. It’s become integrated into my self quite congruently. What I won’t ever do is try and marry my legal name with my output in this context. There’s a clear separation for a reason. What that reason really is I can’t say. But instead I follow my inclination to do so intuitively. Unfortunately, if you’ve attached your legal name to your work it might be too late to change that now. However I’m not trying to coerce anyone to adopt the same approach I’ve taken. For everyone is their own person.

I'm slowly learning with the right approach and perspective nothing has to be stressful. We create so many unrealistic expectations for ourselves out of sheer habit that in the end we tend to freeze. And it’s in this paralysis that we wind up avoiding tasks or compounding issues, when they really are a cinch in all actuality. The way I’ve come to realise this is through the way my wife processes otherwise anxiety-inducing situations. She has a tremendously calming presence, which is helping me unlearn so many of the past traumas I’ve racked up. Don’t get me wrong though, I’m not saying legitimate stress doesn’t exist — of course it does — it’s just in how we handle it that really matters.

Having spent most of my life mentally placing myself in the eye of the storm just doesn’t help. It’s, simply put, awfully counterproductive, and not conducive to progress in any form whatsoever. In fact it sets one back instead of propelling anything forward. Despite now knowing that circumstances don’t have to cause me angst, I still tend to view minute challenges as impossible hurdles. And I want to free myself from this corner I’ve painted myself into, but years of seemingly unavoidable strife and strain have resulted in me crippling myself when anything difficult presents itself. I guess before I brand myself as someone who has done a complete overhaul I need to accept I’m just not totally there yet.

To me it’s amazing that having someone in my life that doesn’t split hairs over nonsense can change me in any way, because there are so many instances in which walking on eggshells has been drummed into me. I suspect I’ll never rid myself of the neuroses I carry, but I do believe I can minimise the amount of it I feel or exhibit. Upon mentioning neuroticism however I will address one caveat — a lot of the times, outwardly, I appear fine and of flat affect. This is due to the psychiatric medication I’m on though, and I’ve come to understand all of it numbs me to a degree. But apparently not enough. For I still experience the severe ups and downs inside.

I sometimes wonder if this will ever change, and something tells me it probably never will. If I can be on as much medication as I’m on and still get anxious over small potatoes part of my mental illness has to be treatment resistant. That’s the bad news. But the good news is, if I actively give changing my reactions my best effort, I might some day overcome them. Maybe not fully, but to a degree in which I’m capable of dealing with minor challenges and not turning them into major ones. Mind you, none of this is anything to be proud of — to be so broken that I struggle to function — it just means that I’ve got layers of compounded trauma lurking about in my psyche unchecked.

Who we turn to in times of conflict has a tremendous influence over how we’re able to transform said situations into anything remotely manageable. Honestly, the only person I have is my wife, for all the other people I’m quote unquote close to tend to ramp me up inadvertently. And that’s because they have their own baggage and problems they’re carrying around everywhere they go. Look, I wish I wasn’t the way I am, but can I be anything other than myself? That’s rhetorical, and pretty self-explanatory. I want so desperately to live an existence in which I’m healthy and functional, but instead I’m the opposite of both those things.

I tend to avoid making appointments with my psychologist because I don’t want to face my demons. And that alone defeats the entire purpose of what I claim to want to achieve. In reality I’m not taking responsibility for my mental health, and I’m actively avoiding the coping mechanisms that could dismantle my dysfunctional habits. However I don’t believe I’m alone in that, as many people out there don’t bother to address these hang-ups in any form or fashion, until it’s too late, of course. I know I appear too sensitive to handle the hurly burly of life, and maybe I am. But it’s a part of me I can’t seem to run away from, hide, or avoid for any extended period of time. And that’s on me.

Very rarely do you find anyone willing to admit to their flaws as readily as I do, so at least I have that level of self-awareness going for me. I know so many different people who aren’t self-aware, and to me it’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever witnessed. How do you not get introspective and reflect on your shortcomings? And what is the point in going through life subjecting everyone else to your personal failings? In truth I think it’s the pinnacle of selfishness to do that. A lot of people don’t want solutions to problems because then they have to find something else to complain about. I’m not perfect however and I never have been. All I know is I want to be a better version of myself.

But it’s a slow, windy road. One with many obstacles, thorns and pebbles. Nothing tends to be easy or go smoothly unless it’s directly and effectively addressed. The crux of the matter is that whoever put us here on this earth is playing some kind of sick joke on us, by having all in sundry experience the pain and anguish that comes along with being human. Suffering is a part of life, yes, and it surrounds us constantly in different forms. We deal with loss at almost every turn and have to face the daily decline of our collective health by virtue of us inching all the more closer to the great sleep, or death. None of this is fun or invigorating in any way, and it all happens regardless of who we are.

The rich and the poor both suffer setbacks of different kinds, and amongst those who have everything they ever wished they could have we still find an intrinsic misery. Accumulating wealth is not a ticket to happiness by any stretch, for even though it might provide more time for personal reflection, often isolation presents itself. That’s why I’ve never been in a rush to hit the jackpot — because I know true happiness is a state of mind. Examining the other side of the coin, even if we are poor, we can still pursue those interests that bring us personal satisfaction and joy with enough moxie. It all tends to come down to how much time we can buy back in a system designed to suppress.

And the system itself, while broken, is a vacuum none of us can escape. Try doing anything without money and you’ll soon find yourself at a dead end. Lines of credit are extended first to those who don’t have the means to pay it back. All while the little guy battles to put bread on the table and meat in the pot. A sickness pervades the nature of reality — a bloated, overgrown monster that does us all in eventually by way of coercion. And this oppressive force is ever present, insistent and incessant, swallowing our efforts to climb the ladder of progress at every turn. I’m personally so disinterested in appearing as if I’m something I’m not that often I show my Achilles heel too freely.

Nobody escapes death though. We can’t conquer it by force of will, and not even magic can extend our brief lives. Those who freeze their bodies cryogenically in hopes that one day they’ll be reanimated are who I suspect to be among the biggest fools in history. But I’ve never been wild on science, as, to me, it tends to rely on nothing more than anecdotal evidence and agree upon meaning. And I say that because there have been too many instances across the annals of time in which theories have proven to be so wrong that they’re appalling. Human beings try their best to make sense of the world in their own way, yes, but at what cost? At the cost of sheer idiocy.

I can’t even begin to express eloquently how disappointed I am in my lack of growth despite every opportunity to do so. Perhaps I need to try harder, or give up on trying to make sense of things altogether. I don’t want to be one of those types who adopts a defeatist attitude before he ever gets off the ground, but the reality of the matter is that there isn’t a lot of hope to go around in the face of all we endure. People could call me pessimistic and I’d gladly adopt the characterisation, simply because it’s too close to the truth to disregard. But if I were to describe myself it isn’t the first term that’d occur to me. This is a degree of hubris and bias I posses which we all do. And there’s no escaping that.

While I began this piece eschewing the premise of stress I’ve successfully dashed my own efforts at eradicating it. I can’t seem to in any way escape the unnatural levels of cortisol that pump through my veins over almost nothing, and to hope one day to overcome it all magically and out of nowhere is just foolish. I suppose I need to accept that I’ll forever be trapped in this cycle of self-analysis and rumination, and that writing about it all may in some way worsen it. For as cathartic as I believe the process to be nihilism always creeps up on me. The futility of our existence remains evident at almost every turn. My only hope is that I can create something meaningful from my confusion. Have I done so?

Not only did I suffer an internet outage over the past few days, but I’m also smack bang in the middle of moving house. And this has affected my creative output for the worse. Fortunately enough I’ve been patient about it all and I’ve refused to beat myself up over things I can’t change. Sure, I could’ve slapped together something sub par, but that isn’t my style. When I come to the page I do so with intention. There are many writers out there who swear by disregarding whatever challenges life throws at you, and they suggest one plough ahead irrespective of distractions. But they’re just not being realistic. Sometimes there is no window of opportunity to produce good work.

One of the mantras I live by is that the work must come first. Not in the sense that I execute tasks despite interruptions, no — rather, that I devote myself entirely to creating something worthwhile. The crux of the matter is my tendency to crack under pressure. I’m not one of those types that thrives on stress, tension, and anxiety. Instead, I prefer to have all my tasks relatively squared away before I sit down and do the work. And while this might seem counterproductive I don’t see it as inherently counter-intuitive. In fact I believe it’s awfully instinctual — which is, by definition, the complete opposite of counter-intuitive. With all that out of the way, let us explore some other things.

I’ve gone to much trouble to study vast areas of the human condition. On top of that I’ve incorporated black magic into my life’s journey. And both of these subjects have served me well. I believe that personal research — done on ones own steam — is the backbone of literary non-fiction. The genre I’ve come to realise might resemble what I do most appropriately. I tend to not bother with fictions, and even when I do, they’re weaved into my autobiographical accounts so subtly that almost no one can detect them. Of course, writing under a pseudonym flies in the face of these claims to a degree, but that isn’t very high on the totem pole of my admissions. Maybe it’s dishonest.

But I’d prefer to craft work that is relatively evasive in part — which carries on the tradition of the esoteric and the New Age. My feeling is that if it’s a little slippery to grasp a hold of it provides a layer of mystique that is generally required to cultivate interest in an otherwise obscure moniker. Mind you nobody taught me this — I am a maverick in the truest sense of the word, finding my way haphazardly, and through trial and error. If we really think about it, life is a tragicomedy that never lets up in providing new material. All one has to do is observe close enough and patterns emerge. We human beings are obsessed with the shapes and colours that correspond to our quixotic moods.

There are case studies in the realm of psychology that reveal to us how archetypes guide our actions, but one thing I try to avoid is citing too many abstract sources, for I can manifest what I need to convey of my own accord. The minute I happen across a piece that starts making scientific claims I’m turned off. That might come down to personal preference, or a tendency toward the grey area between fiction and fact, but I’ve long since accepted that this is the case. And I get that folks wish to back up their claims with solid proof, but the level of disinterest I have in anyone proving anything to me by basis of fact is severe. The most authentic observations I can provide are based on feeling.

I have an urge to intuit my way through the fog, not be guided by seemingly de facto yet otherwise invisible maps. There’s just nothing more boring to me than a hotlink redirecting me to every little side road that occurs in a writers head. Everyone is different, however, and if that’s what works for them and their readers, have at it. There’s good reason why I don’t utilise links and footnotes in my work. It reeks of academia — something of which I refuse to be an official part. My wife tends to believe I’m rather the fountain of knowledge, but I’ve told her before (in my view) that it’s all pretty surface level when you really boil it down to its essence. But that doesn’t mean I’m fronting or projecting a false image.

The way I see it, opinions are valuable in the literary space. Everyone might be able to formulate one in a few seconds flat, but they reveal who we are inside and what we’re about. They’re a window into our collective psyche, and no machine can effectively manoeuvre its way around that one … just yet. But I’m sure they’ll find a way to train these agents to mimic human behaviour as best they can in time. And does that scare me? Probably not as much as it should. I’m always floored at what comes out of my pen on the page when I sit down and don’t have anything particularly interesting to address. I’m surprised by it too, just as surprised as the reader might be.

However I’m not dabbling in hubris here. Yes, I’m proud of what I’ve been able to accomplish so far in my writing journey. Whether it makes sense to anyone else is almost irrelevant. And I say almost because as much as I want to get linear and pragmatic that just isn’t the way my brain works. You have to work with what you have at your disposal. All the books you read and observations you make when people watching — if that’s even a practice you engage in — come out when you sit down and do the work. I’m not shy to say that I’ve utilised black magic. For as far as I’m concerned the white lighters have it all wrong. Esotericism is my bag, and it always will be. Don’t ask me why.

There are those in whose hearts I strike fear when I make mention of the dark arts. They categorise it as something akin to devil worship or human sacrifice. But nothing could be further from the truth. Rest assured, if any of it involved that kind of thing I wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole. But people will draw their own conclusions — that I’m not worried about, not in the very least. The craft is generally misunderstood, and blanks are filled in that are such whopping lies no one could ever believe such nonsense with a straight face. The problem then becomes organised religion — the Judeo-Christian factions as well as the Muhammadans. In short, if you think magic in any form spells sin you’re sorely mistaken.

And sin is a concept that winds up creating a lot of self-hatred. I’m not saying we should all do whatever makes us feel good regardless of the consequences. Instead my view is to eschew hedonism for its own sake and determine where it is we can grow, despite other’s attempts at deterring us. The truth is hidden knowledge is sealed behind the walls of the Vatican and other religious sites. Al-Aqsa has its buried gems as does the Ethiopia. And there’s a reason why the Ark of the Covenant is being kept out of arms reach. Those who are in power don’t want to acquiesce any of it. For if the human animal reaches enlightenment all the banking systems will quickly collapse, and society is feared to fall into complete disarray. This is why we’re being kept in the dark.

It’s no coincidence that these treasures are scattered across the globe and we’re encouraged to forget about them. How we’re occupied with sweating bullets over numbers on a screen. Wage slavery abound, we get no second tries. I’ve been off the books without a paper trail my whole entire life. It’s why I can’t get a line of credit. This is how we’re controlled. They sever access to systems that can get you ahead in life if you don’t play by their rules. Shadow bans occur frequently via the C.I.A. over a diagnosis of schizophrenia. So if you’re mentally ill, and blowing the whistle from the rooftops, it’s no wonder you’re being suppressed. They don’t want the highly intelligent to have a platform.

And those of us with conditions akin to schizophrenia are unusually sensitive to information of that nature. People can laugh at the premise of the petrodollar all they want, but its one of the mechanisms that elites utilise I order to jam up citizens of the world. And the most appalling thing about world hunger is that money can be printed if the right old white man signs the right executive order. We are living in a time when having your eyes open is a threat, and to speak out results in the lessening of your social credit score. And for all the criticisms of communist China, the so-called free world is just more underhanded about the information they suppress. My goal is to become more than a statistic, and I’ll continue to use my pen to break free.

There’s a place all of us can go to when things get chaotic, we can retreat to that rich inner world, where nothing can intrude upon our peace. Sure, it takes practice, but anything worthwhile does. Often we try to alter our surroundings in service to a more tranquil existence, when what actually works is developing mastery over our base reactions. So many people turn to alcohol and drugs to numb their unpleasant feelings. In fact, it’s probably safe to say we’ve all done it at some point or another. But that pain we’re running from and all the escapism we chase always seems to come back in some form or another. And this is because we’re too lackadaisical about the demons we house.

Everyone has skeletons in their closet, the only difference is how many. No one seems to ask themselves what they can change in order to heal. Instead, they desire a complete overhaul of their lived reality. Something that is utterly impossible. Because expecting the world to change to suit your expectations is a fool’s errand. Nothing will ever go right all the time, and that’s something we need to accept if we are to move forward. But what moving forward looks like to you is completely irrelevant to me. The stuff that works for one person doesn’t automatically work for another. We can’t ape or piggyback off someone else’s personal development. We have to do it on our own.

However it doesn’t have to be as lonely a road as you might think. For there are parts of you that are yearning to come out, only you’re too self-conscious to allow them to. Imagine a world where everyone was their authentic self. It’s difficult to imagine, isn’t it? Because us human beings shroud our identities beneath layers of mystery and deception. Lying becomes second nature to us. Unlike the animal kingdom, where there is a naturally baked in truth serum. They can’t lie. They don’t possess the capacity to hide their true feelings. But for some reason we have this quality we can’t seem to shake. Biblical scholars will trace it all back to the fall of Adam. Where it originates in actuality, however, remains an enigma.

If we were telepathic beings by nature this wouldn’t be a problem. But we aren’t, save for the few who claim clairvoyance. Even then it might be a stretch to expect ones fortune to be told by another. And this deceptive spirit we live out day by day is the cause of much disarray and strife in the world. But getting back to the respite we can all experience at will — with enough work one can bypass the pain and trauma of the present day. All it takes is the force of will. Are you prepared to go the distance? Or will you crumble at the slightest inconsequential inconvenience? Bad days happen. So do good ones. But it’s the middle ground that is the source of so much anxiety in us.

The uncertainty of not knowing when the other shoe is going to drop. And it might not even be as bad as we think it will. A catastrophe really is a matter of perspective. With enough courage we can turn even the most unpleasant of circumstances into something that results in growth. We have the ability to choose how things affect us. The secret to it all is to not lose your head. To not allow those instances that’d otherwise throw us off course to do so. It’s a choice. While you might be facing seemingly impossible odds there is always a way out. Always. You just need to find it, and act on it. And that’s where most people fail. They don’t do the work required to keep themselves hopeful.

They allow doubt to creep in, and eventually swallow them whole. Courage is not some virtue to be pontificated about — that’s the easy part — instead, it needs to be practised, and practised often. You might think that courage involves something akin to defying gravity, and no one would be right to chastise you for it. But it can be cultivated through the habits we hold. It’s far too facile to slink into the knee-jerk reaction of embodying the character of a defeatist. To mindlessly assume nothing will work out so why bother. And I myself have fallen into that hole, numerous times. The only time I started making progress in the other direction was when I began taking responsibility for myself.

You can blame everyone and everything for your shortfalls. You can point to all the examples that surround you about why you never believed you had a shot. But eventually you’ll wind up in a cloistered, solipsistic mess. And one that won’t be easy to find your way out of. I’ve seen far too many people self-destruct before my eyes in my time. It’s not sexy or cool, either. It’s shameful and cowardly. Destroying yourself deliberately might be romanticised in certain parts of the culture, but we must never fall victim to group think. It truly is despicable. Have the confidence instead to believe in your capabilities, and actively work to manifest the life you want. Garbage in, garbage out.

This isn’t a pep talk or a lecture. It’s hard nosed pragmatism without frills. You deserve better — so act like it. Live up to the image you wish to project. Have the self respect to do what’s difficult, and eschew anything that’ll result in you being weak and listless. I’m not into motivational speakers or affirmation posters, but you’re damn right I’m serious about where I want to go and how I’ll get there. Nothing can stand in my way once I set my mind to it. No one can deter me once I’m on the straight and narrow. And you owe it to yourself to pursue your dreams. Nobody can do this for you. There are however many sources of strength to draw from, and they’re all around us.

If there aren’t any guardrails put in place you’ll wander from empty pursuit to empty pursuit. If your life has no structure and it doesn’t occur to you to exercise discipline you’re setting yourself up for failure every time. There’s no deadline right now? Create one. It doesn’t matter that you’ve set it for yourself — treat it as crucially as you would a legitimate one. Do you wish to leave anything behind? Do you have a legacy in mind? Because not much will be left if you give in to pleasure and folly at every turn. When things get hard, choose to learn from the trial, and it’ll lead to tribulation. Not instantly. That’s just not how this works. Over time. It’s more a gradual climb, and it involves many cycles where you’ll doubt yourself nearly every step of the way.

I’m not an inherently positive thinker. I tend to lean toward the maudlin, really. But I’ve managed to work some of that out of my system with enough persistence. Some people call it stubbornness, but to me it’s something I choose to look at in a better light. I’m not one of those types who is closed off to others right off the bat. I don’t only spend time examining my own ideas, instead I treat each interaction I have the pleasure to experience as a lesson in human nature. I’ve made some observations that are less than profound in my time, yes. But I’ve also hit on some home truths that are difficult for most to swallow. And the only reason they’re overlooked is because they jibe with the common consensus.

To me, having carte blanch to say what I feel is paramount. But in moderation. I don’t walk around being deliberately pejorative or disrespectful of others boundaries — but I do thumb my nose at societal norms, all the while embracing taboos like a fish to water. This might be an unusual mixture of qualities for one to admit to having, but I’ve realised long ago that the quixotic nature of what I do will forever be deemed subversive. There is just too much that is unconventional about me to fit in to one place. I’ll admit I tire of the glib vacuities espoused by common folk. I yearn instead to have my intellect stimulated by those who push boundaries. And the culture deems this wildly inappropriate.

Never you mind the methods I employ to achieve what I have. At first I felt the need to share the wisdom I might have gained, but a wave of hopelessness washed over me, and I realised that no matter how hard I try to guide others in a better direction they’re still going to make their flubs. It’s only natural. Just because I’ve seen the light — and dare I say have been enlightened — doesn’t mean it’ll resonate with anyone else. That’s simply because we all have our own path to walk, and encouraging mimicry is foolish. It has been said that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, but if that were the case I’d have recognised a dupe long ago. If you’re only trying you’ll never succeed. There is no try, just do.

Last night I kept waking up every couple of hours, terrified by the nightmares I was having. They were incredibly vivid, and unsettling to boot. As with all dreams, I can’t recall precisely what they were about — because I don’t keep a dream journal or anything like that. I remember longing for the morning to come, and at one point I even turned on my bedside lamp, because I was so scared. For some reason the light was comforting enough to settle me down. Unfortunately I woke my wife by doing so, but she didn’t make a big deal about it. Now that I’m up for the day, however, I’m experiencing daytime sleepiness. All I wanted was a restful sleep. Now I’m fighting off the urge to nap.

I really prefer the process of writing when I’m well rested, but instead of giving in to sloth I feel I must write. One of the things that has been weighing on my mind of late is an upcoming move of house, and honestly, I just want it to be over. I’m pretty sure just about anyone can relate. Moves are never pleasant — unless of course the place one currently resides at is a hellhole. But the place I’m staying at in the present is lovely. It’s not that I’m downgrading either — for the new haunt will be a little more spacious — it’s just the inconvenience of packing stuff in boxes and being displaced from the studio. When you spend as much time as I do working at your craft, moving is an unwelcome disruption.

But enough of the banal minutiae of everyday life, let us instead turn our attention to matters that are a little more compelling. I’ve just finished building a self-hosted website that contains an archive of all my blog posts, and while not everything I’ve ever written under my moniker can be found on it exclusively, most of the good ones are accessible. This comes after I realised that if any of the platforms that house my content ding me for a flippant terms of service violation I’d need to back my catalogue up. And I guess if I were to be totally honest, I saw another writer I follow doing it — and so I thought, why not do it too? As writers we have a duty to preserve our work.

Now that I’ve warmed up a bit I’ll admit the drowsiness I was fighting has dissipated slightly. So, when going through my archive of past posts it occurred to me that not everything I write has been total nonsense. There are some hidden gems in between the clumsy missteps I’m wont to make. I suppose one could call this a tad self-satisfactory, and maybe seem like I’m patting myself on the back. And maybe I am — if so, who cares? It’s nice to realise that not everything you do is utter garbage, worthless, or worse, just doesn’t make sense. Because I’ve made work like that before, and put it out anyway. I noticed as I was finding my voice through my writing a lot has changed.

My interests have shifted tremendously. In short, I clearly started out as an occult writer of sorts, exploring magic, ones True Will and the Great Work. It was all very Crowleyesque. But as time went on I began branching out into more relatable subject matter, that I now believe a wider swath of folks could appreciate. Of course this isn’t quite reflected in my follower count. But not everyone can go viral, now can they? At the same time, would I even want to? I’ve gotten so comfortable being an outsider artist that any little bit of notoriety might affect me for the worse. How would I be able to call myself a pariah with a straight face, if anyone ever read me or sought out my work?

I simply couldn’t. But I don’t see any level of virality happening any time soon. And maybe it’s because I’m too human. Because I show people too far behind the curtain, avidly breaking the fourth wall. In an age where articles that seem written by artificial intelligence reign, I’m the true outlier. I don’t do listicles, and I’m not selling a workshop. We’re all familiar with the old age those who can’t do teach, right? I tend to keep to myself anyway. And while I do have some books for sale on Amazon it’s not like I actively promote them, lest I appear to be forcing them down people’s throats. I know this all works against me. I know to be a legitimate writer you need readers.

But I also know what I’m in this for, and that’s purely self expression. I’ve resigned myself to the idea that I’m not brilliant at what I do … yet. Perhaps some day that’ll change, but for right now progress is a slow road. And it has to be. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Also, when you’re not even sure why you’re building what you are, even if you reach some sort of milestone you won’t recognise it. So I say all this to say I’m flying blind. Writing because it feeds some part of my soul that yearns to have a voice. I struggle with the premise of art as commerce, and truthfully, I always have. I’ve grown less comfortable with art as a product over time, for various reasons I’ve outlined.

This doesn’t change the fact that I’d love people to read my books. Hell, I don’t even mind that I’m barely making a few shekels off them. I want my words to resonate — and that has to happen naturally, organically (and gradually) over time. I’m prepared to suffer for my creative pursuits, and if I were to be brutally honest I always have. Barring a brief moment in the sun, when everything seemed to coalesce and I was making an actual living from my work, all my other efforts have been dashed. I choose to look at it as my fifteen minutes of fame. Everyone has theirs, and mine has come and gone. One thing I know for certain is that publishing your own work is the quickest way to financial disarray.

But then again, that’s far superior to having your book edited into something hokey by a group of people obsessed with what sells over what has an impact on the culture. Because really, if we are to use that as a yardstick for success we all know that there are plenty low quality books on the market. Despite the praise they receive from the literary cabal. It’s a bit like organised crime. No, I don’t want to read ‘Atomic Habits’ by James Clear. I understand that many people do. The whole aura around the book is just off-putting. And it’s not that book specifically — although I’ve mentioned it explicitly — it’s books like that which tend to grate my gears. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but they just do.

I guess part of me doesn’t exactly go for stuff that other people tend to like. My taste is far more subversive and underground than that. And it’s a pity, because ‘Atomic Habits’ is probably a decent book, and worth a read. It’s just that it’s turned into a product that everyone seems to swear by that turns me off. If you were to walk in to my home and see the types of books I have on my coffee table you might recognise what it is I’m talking about. I enjoy rare, luxury art books that are pretty expensive and difficult to find. One of the reasons is most of their print runs are low, but another is that I’m tapped in to the underground far more than the average person. It all comes down to preference.

I’d never openly chastise a person for reading a book I don’t like. Because I believe different things appeal to different people. And my thoughts on books that have been deemed problematic in a political sense are that they shouldn’t be removed from the market. The minute we start banning books, the world is over as we know it. I see it starting. I can’t even pick up a Tin Tin album without it being shrink-wrapped due to the use of racial stereotypes. It’s a comic. And it was made at a particular point in history. While it might not be acceptable in this political climate is irrelevant, at least to me. And I know it’s easy to be the white guy that’s okay with seemingly offensive material.

But for me it goes deeper than that. There are books by authors that I detest because they don’t share my ideas. But I still give them the respect they deserve, because I want to be exposed to all kinds of writing. Even by those I vehemently disagree with. That is true liberalism in my view. Books can change minds and even hearts. I’ve always considered it important to entertain that which can alter my sometimes rigid perceptions. The intellectual honesty itself is enlightening. Think about it: who wants to read about only the things one agrees with, anyway? That’s the definition of closed-mindedness. Keep in mind this is coming from someone who just bashed a bestseller without giving it a chance. Oh, well. I’m not perfect — no one is.

In an attempt to be more intentional with my words, I’ve wound up not producing a piece for two days out of my regular publishing schedule. And while I’m trying my best to embrace this having occurred, I can’t help feeling like it’s an enormous failure on my part. I can’t remember when it was I got into the habit of writing daily, but somewhere along the line it happened. However, I’ll admit the pressure to do so can sometimes prove overwhelming. It’s all so silly though, because there really is no good reason for me to subject myself to such a gruelling self-created deadline. And maybe my writing has at times suffered for it. But I’m not quite sure I’ll ever know if it has. Or if it even matters.

My only enemy is the person I was yesterday, and I’ll defeat him. Maybe not right away, but certainly at some point. Enters my overtly confessional style, and brutal honesty seems blunt an instrument, which bloodies more than it cuts. I’ll admit something peculiar had a slight impact on my lack of output: a piece I read which claimed that those who produce work as prolifically as I do can be said to be deceptively employing the use of artificial intelligence. And I can blame life getting in the way all I want — errands, chores, social commitments, etcetera — but I’ve personally witnessed a writer who has a hard line stance against the use of artificial intelligence get accused of using it.

So perhaps part of me is deliberately slowing myself down so not as to raise red flags about something I’m not even involved in. How backward and counterproductive. The folks who write these articles on how to spot the use of shortcuts are such predictable clickbait. When did we get so lost in the weeds that we started playing gotcha instead of appreciating a piece we happened across? Look, I get it. People are doing their best to preserve the integrity of the craft, and call out bad actors. But enough is enough. How about we bring something else to the table instead of shouting “J’accuse!” at every Tom, Dick and Harry?

The truth is a lot of these people are doing their best to appeal to the algorithm, which is just as sickening as someone passing off work they didn’t do as their own. I don’t have time for it, and I never really did. I suppose I need to make peace within myself regarding my human limitations. If there is too much going on on a particular day I should grant myself permission to hit pause and not put out a sub par piece. Because a bad article is worse than not publishing at all. I’ve heard whispers that one should just put it out, no matter how many holes it might have in it, but I can’t say I agree. There’s enough content out there for the reader to lose patience with something that hasn’t got any legs, and isn’t going anywhere fast.

Should the focus not be on quality over quantity? I’m not even certain where I stand right now, and it’s a great source of anxiety. I can only measure myself against the yardstick of yesterday (or more succinctly, the day before). I suppose these are the challenges many of us go through as writers. Being unsure of ourselves, or what to leave in or take out. I think the hardest thing for me to accept is that I had this burst of creative energy for about seven weeks, and now I seem to be slowing down. And while there’s no money involved in any of it I still tend to treat it as if it’s life or death. I ask myself whether I’ll produce anything of worth all throughout the day in between day dreaming.

Then, when I actually sit down to work things begin to make sense again. It’s almost like if I’m not working on something I have no idea what to do with myself. That’s a me problem. Some of the writers I follow have a restless energy, and battle to find their niche. But I’ve never thought of my craft in any of those terms. Instead, I just write what I feel and let the chips fall where they may. Because what does it really matter what category anything fits into? To me, what matters most, is that the work gets done and done well. And of course there’s plenty of advice out there about what readers want and how to give it to them, but I don’t necessarily think that’s a wise approach.

You can appeal to a certain target market, agonise over your hook or takeaway, but in the end what it is that determines if you have anything to work with is if you’ve produced anything meaningful. I personally find most writing advice — which is so freely given today — unhelpful and confusing. The way I see it if your piece is strong it’ll find its audience automatically, and no amount of optimising your voice with tips and tricks by self-proclaimed authorities and charlatans will change that. I don’t care about scaling anything, selling anything, or hitting some evasive sweet spot. The bottom line is these people appear deceptive and unethical. They’re manufacturing a following.

They’re not building anything off of blood, sweat and tears. They’re utilising formulas that serve as psychological games — and I’m not about that kind of thing, by any stretch. The problem with those who have too many interests is that they try with all their might to pigeonhole themselves into some particular mould, and it never works. They fantasise about being a single thing — a go-to for one consolidated thing — but that thing never materialises. Why not instead just be you, use your unique voice to explore any of the things that occur to you in the moment? Oh right. Because we’re not all pansters. Writing is an art, not a science. And I wish more people realised this.

I never chastise myself over a good ramble. To me it’s the most human approach one can possibly take. And right now, artificial intelligence can’t do that. Stream of consciousness originates in the recesses of the human mind. All of our experiences lead us to what we’ll say next, but some writers prefer things to be more structured. In short, they want to know all the answers, up front — which are simply unknowable. In an age where creatives turn their art into side hustles at any chance they get we see a lot of hucksters. They tend to forget the reason why they started doing what they did in the first place. And the way I see it, if you’re not solely focused on things for the sake of self-expression you may just secretly be one of these types.

Of course my writing has undergone an evolution from when I first began publishing. I was utterly absorbed in matters of an esoteric nature. I was practising magic, and sharing my experiences about what path the dark arts had led me to. But slowly I began broadening my horizons — and it all happened naturally. It was as natural back then to explore those subjects as it is now to cover the topics I do. I’ve never tried to be anything I’m not. There’s no degree of pomposity or self-importance to my work. I admit freely when I make mistakes. I question my own subconscious motives constantly. And writing has aided me in the process of getting to know myself better.

As a person who was at one time riddled with symptoms of a pretty severe mental illness I don’t think I’m doing so bad at organising my thoughts. I embrace the mess that they can be, and let things take the natural course they do. It’s when we try force something that nothing comes. Because I’ve got some actual time on my hands today I’m able to devote my attention to this piece. I find when there is too much stuff going on around me I’m better off stepping away from the page. And while a professional writer might just have to push through those days when nothing seems to be coming, I have the privilege of standing back and determining that I just don’t have the time.

Of course I’d like to consider myself a professional writer. But I’m not making a red cent off of my output, and I’ve done that deliberately. First off, my belief is that everyone should have access to what I do — irrespective of their financial situation. And secondly, I’ve experienced how it feels to monetise ones art — and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. When something becomes an obligation I detest having to do it. And while this may be a significant personal flaw on my part, it’s just how I am. I prefer doing things I just don’t have to do. And that’s why I write — because it’s the most honest way I can communicate my thoughts to others without sacrificing my principles.

I woke up around one o’ clock in the morning last night and just couldn’t sleep, so I decided to read. I was reading this book by Ryan Holiday, called ‘Discipline Is Destiny.’ It’s a part of his Stoic virtues series, and it’s central theme is temperance — or, put more simply, self-control. In it he made mention of the late author Toni Morrison, and he was saying that her creative process involved getting up before dawn to write. And while that sounds amazing, I don’t do it. In fact, lately I’ve been writing at night. Holiday argues that the later it gets the more tainted we are by whatever we went through during the course of our day. He kind of has a point. We’re all capable of rising earlier.

But most of us don’t. Most of us wake up in a frenzy, rush out the door without breakfast — maybe coffee if we’re lucky — and start our day steeped in anxiety. The only reason I don’t write as soon as I open my eyes is because I like to spend my mornings with my wife. And honestly, that’s the most valuable time I spend on anything all day. However, reading Holiday’s book in the middle of the night got me thinking about a few things. I’m incredibly hard on myself, and with that comes a great deal of self-created pressure. Pressure I could do without if I gave in to my natural inclination to do nothing whatsoever. It’s the only way I get stuff done though. So maybe I need to find a better way.

Punishing myself does me no good. But I struggle to find a middle ground between that and apathy. So naturally, this is the way I am. Or is it? Perhaps this quirk really is a coping strategy I’ve employed to avoid facing myself. If I bury myself in work maybe I’ll discover something unknown. That’s the rationale, and while it may not be sound, I’ve always thought there was a method to my madness. Writing isn’t something that pours out of us non-stop. It takes work. It takes editing, revising, polishing and tweaking. But even in my visual art practice I’m sometimes at a loss. My dilemma continues to present itself to me in different ways lately, and I just can’t seem to solve it.

I tell myself to sit down and write, hoping that’ll lead to some clarity. And it usually does. But right now I’m at a loss as to what I should do. Is there a way to lessen the pressure I put on myself without sacrificing the quality of my work? I’ve never been one to phone it in. I give my all to any given task in front of me. But something tells me I have to make a change. To extend grace and forgiveness to myself when I do something I perceive as a failure. But is that just me getting soft? And losing my edge? I guess my question then becomes how to sustain my daily habits without eventually reaching burnout. I look at other writers and marvel at their brilliance. Then I compare.

And it’s in this comparison that I think I make the biggest mistake of all. Because I’m me. I’ll always be me. And they’ll always be them, and there’s no way I can be anything other than what I am. Or is that incorrect? Can we change our core values and habits over time? I don’t think I’ve ever tried, preferring to instead indulge myself in navel gazing. They call it autobiography, damn it. Or blogging. No matter what I do I can’t seem to escape self-referential material. And as a budding solipsist that’s all I tend to have. Maybe I shouldn’t have ever read Jean Baudrillard. Perhaps it ignited something I can’t look away from, like a rubbernecker on the highway. But that can’t be it.

No, if I’m to blame anyone it’ll have to be myself. It’s not like ideas infect and corrupt us automatically. I obviously work these things into my psyche, burrowing deeper and deeper into the layered recesses of my mind. And then they come out in ways I can’t quite control. The trouble with reading self-help when you’re up late and the existential crises are in full swing is that it makes a bigger impact on you than when you’re rushing to an airport lounge. So much of my creative work takes place in my home, and I’m not one of those types that can work in a coffee house, surrounded by strangers. I need quiet, relative solitude, and no outside interference. Errands are a clear enemy.

I was just writing in my journal earlier today, and transcribed a quote from ‘The 48 Laws of Power’ by Robert Greene. It was from Law 36: “Disdain the Things You Cannot Have.” The subtitle, “Ignoring them is the best revenge.” Thinking more deeply on it now, there must have been a reason why I chose that quote. And perhaps it’s because I’m working through these issues related to something that feels completely out of my control — my own creativity. Am I worsening it by acknowledging the problem? Am I creating a problem where one doesn’t exist? It’s not like I’ve stopped producing work. It’s just that the subject matter involves me not knowing where I’ll land.

Uncertainty scares a lot of people, myself included. But we as artists live within that uncertainty. Everything we do next might be a total disaster. Then there are the happy accidents that we proudly exhibit for all the world to see. No one seems to reveal how they got to the finished product. We’re all performing for an audience that is usually too wrapped up in their own crises to care all that much about where it is we slip up. I remember reading a quote by Salvador Dali — and I’ll paraphrase it, because the book I read it in was borrowed from the library and I have no access to it now — he said that he sublimated his mistakes. He’d take his flubs and make them appear perfect.

But owning your mistakes is no easy feat. Most of us want to crumple up a bad first draft and never look at it again. We end up, inadvertently, hiding from ourselves. All while to err is human. There’s nothing more authentic than a mistake, if you think about it. And in the era of artificial intelligence writers seem to be leaving their typos in their work in order to in some way prove they’re human. Of course I’d never do that, because I have too much respect for the craft. So rest assured, if you ever read a typo in one of my pieces, it’s an honest mistake. I can’t believe how contrived some of us have become. So obsessed with proving we’re genuine we’d go as far as putting out sub par work.

I can’t seem to own my mistakes. If I screw something up I get really frustrated, thinking about all the ways it can never be fixed. At least with the written word you can hit backspace once it’s down. In ink, on paper, it’s a different story. All hail the white out! Chances are some of the things we make that we consider utter failures others might enjoy, simply because of the sincerity of the error. There is beauty in what’s flawed. An indescribable vulnerability that can’t be captured in any other way. So I guess in a long winded fashion what I’m saying is that we should be more experimental in our approach. Not everything has to be amazing. Sometimes mediocre just fits with the moment.

It’s all about paring things down. Making them less complicated. And embracing the process along the way, as much as the finished product. There’s a reason why some of the most celebrated artists of our time draw like children. Because it’s the hardest thing to do. To be the carefree and open to exploring ones inner world is nothing short of incredible. But art is subjective. I’ve never liked the pedantic approach. Getting fussy and detail-oriented. I’m more about the bigger picture. More interested in the side roads and detours than the main show. I guess that’s why mainstream culture doesn’t appeal to me much. I’m not going to be excited about something everyone else has access to.

I like to discover diamonds in the rough. Things that are rare and unpolished. Art that doesn’t seek to impress me or knock my socks off. The thing is it’s so hard to pull that kind of stuff off. I yearn to experiment far more in my work than I do. I get caught up in consistency and world building, and it completely cuts me off from being open to receive what is free for the taking. I get into a mind state that is more logical and pragmatic than exploratory, and wind up producing mannered material. But there’s a fine line we all walk, between letting go of our expectations and holding onto them for dear life. No one can really teach you any of this either — it has to be experienced, and first hand.

Just because I’m struggling to let go of my inhibitions doesn’t mean that I won’t some day. Of course it’ll all work out in the end, despite my defeatist attitude. I have to remind myself not to force anything, or the creative act simply won’t yield results that are fruitful in my practice. Considering some of the themes I’ve explored further, it seems like I do have an element of self-control that I’ve mastered. I’m just somehow dissatisfied with where I’m at in my journey. I’m sure it’ll be temporary, however, and soon I’ll forget it ever caused me such inner turmoil. When things work we never question them — it’s only once they stop working that we lose our heads. But I refuse to lose mine.

I often wonder if it’s possible for one to exhaust their creative reservoirs. As human beings there are always going to be lulls — for we aren’t machines — or, put another way, peaks and valleys. Lately I’ve been feeling confused, and a little bit disconnected from the creative act itself. When I sit down to draw it’s not that I can’t come up with anything per se, instead, it’s like I’m outside my body and the world feels alien to me. I’ve spent a good couple hours pacing the room and staring out the window, and I guess hustle culture has got it’s hold on me, because if I’m not doing something I deem productive I automatically feel guilty. I’ve asked myself where the carefree creative has gone.

It all comes down to this, though: it’s normal. It’s normal to not be bursting at the seams with great ideas and have them work all the time. I guess I’ve been on an upward trajectory for a time and seem to have gotten used to that. But the downward spiral always comes after that. Always. And it is without a doubt something I’ve got to learn to live with — either that, or find a way around it. But how? How do you find your way around anything when you’re stuck? It’s not that I feel like an imposter, or that I tell myself fictions that I try make true. It’s more like the filter I use to transmogrify experiences into art or writing is, need I say, broken. But it’s time I get off my pity pot.

I’ve been described as unusually productive before, and I’m sure it’ll happen again. But not now. Now I’m wading through uncharted waters, and feeling the full force of the creative block. And the more I try and ignore it the worse it gets. I’m aware that all this sounds like a first world problem, but believe me when I say I reside in the third world. Perhaps the psychic pressure I put on myself is coming to a head. Maybe I need to ease up and take some kind of break. But I’m bad at that, and I’ve always been bad at it. Moving forward has been my only option for years. I’m just starting to realise that self-created deadlines can be even worse than those set by others. And way, way worse.

The truth is, I don’t have to be here. No one is clamouring for my next piece. I’m an outsider at best, or a nobody at worst. I see and feel incredible sensations that are impossible to put into words — when that’s my only job, to put things into words. Pictures on the other hand have been damaged for me. I misused my creative sensibilities, and squandered them on meaningless commercial projects for years. And it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. The way I see it, all I suspect I can do is deliberately be as underground as possible. And that’s why I have such a chip on my shoulder. Because I fear allowing mainstream tastes into my work in any way whatsoever. So I’m an escapist.

For someone with nothing in particular on his mind I seem to have a great deal to say. But that was always my problem, that I’d say too much. As I’ve aged I’ve become quieter and more reserved in social settings — partly because I’m sober, also because I’m medicated. I’ve been declawed. There’s a sense of psychic neutering that’s taken place. And I know this because I saw what the same drugs did to my uncle. He and I were always nuts. Always pushing the boundaries about what was acceptable to say. And when I think back to all those days I spent with him over Christmas holidays I now weep, because I’ll never get them back. He is a shell of the person he once was. He’s gone.

And we can blame psychiatry for that. I’m usually the first person to recommend therapy — but for some people, maybe it’s not the right approach. What if others see me in the same light? This guy that used to be fun, a little crazy, but the life of the party. And now when I show up I’m like a lampshade in the corner. Nothing provocative or profound comes out my mouth anymore by accident, instead I’ve turned inward. A million different thoughts crossing my mind and none of them seeing the light of day. The thing is I enjoy my life tremendously, but I’m not the same person by any stretch. And why this bothers me I’m not so sure. Maybe because I expect more from myself.

Perhaps it’s because I bump into people I knew a decade or more prior and they all still look the same. The all still act the same. And they’re all struggling with the same hang-ups they’ve always had. I on the other hand defeated a lot of my personal demons and I’ve got quite the story to prove it. I vacillate between pitying these types and feeling absolutely nothing about the situation in general. Why don’t some people change? Why did I grow up, and escape the belly of the beast, but they didn’t? I didn’t even realise how much I’d changed until I was around these people again. And suffice it to say, I probably won’t put myself in their environment in a hurry. It’s sensory overload.

Most of my time is spent alone behind my word processor, or at my drawing table cranking out comics. But beyond that I seem lost about my place in the world. Can I blame Catholicism for a minute? The fear of God was certainly drummed into my from an early age. One friend joked that I’d burst into flames if I set foot in a church, but there are times when I revisit my old place of worship. I guess I’m just too complex for my own good. There’s too much going on beneath the surface that can’t be explained in a rational way. Perhaps all this is a depression setting in, in which case I better buckle up for a rough ride. Once you’re diagnosed with mental illness it screws you up.

One of my brother’s advice is to get rid of all the pills. Pretty dangerous idea there. Of course I’m not going to take it. Because he has too many of his own unresolved issues to tend to. And I wouldn’t bother giving advice to someone who’ll never take it. But I don’t like giving any whatsoever in any context unless I’m forced to. Of all the things I’ve learned throughout my short life the only one that stands out to me most is that I know nothing. It’s safer to think that way, then nobody can blame you when stuff goes wrong. Advice? Me? I never gave you any! Don’t blame me. I’m incredibly fortunate in many areas of my life, but I tend to forget those things when I’m down.

At one point in my life I was steeped in the occult. Everywhere I turned in my lived environment were magical signs. Then I came to find out about magical thinking and it blew all that out the water. It seems to have been a phase. An extended episode that I got wrapped up in because I had the time on my hands to do so. Now I view most of that subject matter as hokey. A whole lot of talk, talk, talk, and very little action. I’m not saying I don’t believe in magic, or that the principles of Thelema are bunk. I just view them with a little more scepticism than when I first got into it all. And I consider that a wise move, seeing as though indulging in conspiracy theories damaged my psyche.

I slowly shifted my focus into more pragmatic areas of self development over time. Things I could apply to my real life, and not be searching like a fool for things that might not exist. I got into the psychology behind why human nature works the way it does, and this research proved fruitful. The problem is I’m so picky about what I let into my head these days that it’s difficult to find books that hit that sweet spot. And when nothing grabs me I tend to abandon it, in service to something that will. I guess that’s an economical approach to what belongs between ones ears, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Because I still remember the days when I let anything through.

It’s no way to be. Certain things don’t belong in my head. I’ve had to get ruthless about that — in order to preserve my sanity. I think one of the biggest problems we face today as a society is the flood of unchecked information into our heads, hearts, and homes. Most people are too laissez-faire about the nonsense there is floating around out there. It’s almost like that look of disappointment when you tell your elderly parents that a video is artificial intelligence. They don’t want to believe you. They feel cheated. I’m all for a relatively liberal world view, as long as it’s not excessive. And while I’d struggle to categorise myself as conservative there are some things I’m conservative about.

I’m going to make a concerted effort to not beat myself up over an off day. After all, who knows what tomorrow will bring? And without the valleys there would be no peaks. My biggest problem seems to be regulating my behaviour and the concept of moderation. I’ve never been very good at self-control. But one of the things I’ve learnt is that nothing is really in our control. The Stoics referred to this virtue as temperance — the subject of one of the books I’ve abandoned for a time — and it’s really one of the hardest of all to master: yourself. Maybe one day I’ll get there. Maybe I won’t. All I know is that I have to acknowledge my flaws in order to overcome them. And it’s hard.

When life gets chaotic my hallucinations tend to ramp up. Last night when I closed my eyes to go to sleep I saw a multi-coloured pattern that resembled a dragon’s head. I asked my wife if that kind of thing is normal, as I was considering that I was drifting into a hypnogogic state. She told me it’s not, and reminded me that there have been a lot of stressors lately that could be triggering it. I’m one of those people that gets a vivid image in my head when I listen to music. And being a cartoonist, I’m a very visually based individual. The condition that could be causing all this is schizoaffective disorder. I’m on a cocktail of psychiatric drugs that are supposed to keep these symptoms at bay.

But every now and then the paranoia surfaces, or, like I said, I hallucinate. This is why it’s very important for me to be in a quiet, low pressure environment, which luckily enough I live in. I do think I’ve trained my brain to conceive of vivid imagery, and that could be worsening the problem. After all, when you’re a visual artist, that’s your job. To create arresting images. I seem to have no shortage of these ideas, and so I use my mental illness in my creative process, attempting to take the good with the bad. Or to create something meaningful from the pain I endure. No one seems to know much about my condition beyond my psychiatrist, but of course I’ll mention it in my writing.

Lately I’ve been running a lot of errands, and having to leave the house more than usual. And unfortunately, this creates anxiety for me. Little things like that, which are merely parts of modern life tend to become challenging for a person like me. My favourite times are those days when I have absolutely nothing scheduled, and I’m able to roam free in a creative sense. I honestly don’t know how commercial illustrators and graphic designers spend all day doing stuff they hate in corporate settings. It could never be me. Because the last time I tried doing that I wanted to drive my car off a cliff on the way home. I thought to myself, “This can’t be my life. I’m wasting it.” And so I quit.

Much to the chagrin of my employer, who never bothered to sign my contract yet. So I wasn’t even legally bound to be there. Well, with the way he ranted and raved at me over the phone I realised then and there that I’d dodged one of the biggest bullets in my life. He was abusive, verbally and psychologically. He told me I’d never make it, nor would I ever be anything or get anywhere in life. And I guess that’s what he thought of me. So why agree to hire me in the first place? I suppose he thought he was giving the underdog a shot. Helping me out so to speak. Throwing me a bone. Suffice it to say I never again applied for a straight job and decided to make my own way in life.

I never wonder what my life would’ve been like if I took that job. I simply have too much going on to worry about it. Money comes, money goes, but happiness and fulfilment remain. Some of us are just not built for corporate, and that’s okay. It takes all types to keep an economy running, and a small business stimulates our broken system all the same. But getting back to my hallucinations. I once lived in this city apartment where the rent was low and the neighbours were awful. The place was a hellhole in every sense of the word. I eventually realised that I became severely paranoid and lost touch with reality because of my living environment. And I suspected my place was bugged.

I even thought there were video cameras installed in my home. Although I couldn’t see them physically I was convinced they were there, just hidden from view. I suspected my neighbours were monitoring my every waking movement. Because that’s the impression they gave me. Unfortunately this was the point that I came apart at the seams, going on to suffer a full psychotic break. Fortunately enough my family intervened, and that was when I blurted out my ultimate confession: I was hearing voices. That has got to be the most humiliating thing I ever admitted out loud to anyone, but thankfully, I had a support system, and a loving family who took me in till I recovered.

It took me a while to recalibrate, and by that I mean a couple of years. Getting on antidepressants, mood stabilisers, antipsychotics, and tranquillisers involved an adjustment period. And my poor family knew nothing about that stuff because they come from a different time. I still resent taking all those medications, but I’m simultaneously grateful for modern medicine. I take everything as prescribed and never imbibe in illicit or intoxicating substances. Which makes me feel like the odd man out in social gatherings. But truthfully, I’m happy I have an excuse not to drink. Most people drink because they can, out of habit, or because of peer pressure, no matter their age. But not me.

One thing I’ll say is life is never boring for me. I have so many things buzzing around in my head that it resembles an entertainment system. I have all these creative projects I switch between, and I guess you could call me a multidisciplinary creative. I like to keep my interests broad, and a receptive attitude to the ideas that come to me. Honestly, it’s one of the few rare pleasures in life — and no one can steal that joy away from me. I used to say waking up every day felt like Christmas morning, and I can frankly say that feeling hasn’t left me. With no one breathing down my neck I flourish creatively. Yes, it can get hard at times to make sure all my bills are paid, but they are.

I don’t think much has changed from when I was a child. I used to spend hours sitting at a table drawing, and I continue to do so to this day. The things most people stop and put away, considering them childish, I incorporate into adulthood. And that’s what frees me up to live my dreams. I sometimes ask myself why those who abandon the interests they were once highly passionate about, and mainly, I’ve concluded, it has to do with excuses. We’re encouraged at nearly every turn to put aside those things we want to do in service to what has to be done, but I feel like this is an illusion the large majority of us are falling for. Who said you can’t still goof off? Why must we get serious?

The truth is we don’t have to. Distractions and busywork occupy our time endlessly, so much so that people feel like the walls are closing in on them. We’re stifled by the messages the media send to us. We’re told to grow up and put away childish things. Well, what if I don’t want to? What if that’s the very thing that keeps me sane? No one has the right to dictate to any of us what we should or shouldn’t do with our time. I know I’m severely non-conformist in my approach, and that might frighten some of the more conservative types around. But I have to be me, because I promised myself I would. In spite of everything. Money really is an evil concept. It’s robbed us of so much.

We literally jump through flaming hoops for a number on a screen. Have you ever considered that? Is it not absurd, in every sense of the word? What difference does it make if you eat the bare essentials as opposed to filet mignon? Life is all about choices, and we need to ask ourselves what lifestyle we choose and why. My expectations are so low I’m grateful to have a roof over my head and anything at all to eat. I don’t need much, and once I stripped away the non-essentials I realised how low pressure life could really be. I’m not saying I live in abject poverty and like it, no, I have everything I need and I’m happy because I get to pursue the arts. It all comes down to priorities.

Throughout my life and all its ups and downs I’ve come to accept some of the things I can do without in service to a creative career. I don’t buy in to the commercialisation of something otherwise sacred, and I treat it with the devotion and love it deserves. And I wish more people would come to this realisation, because there are too many of us walking around getting shafted by the man. Look, I know I’m an outlier. I’m aware that my status as an outsider artist doesn’t appeal to mainstream tastes by any stretch. But I’m happy I can exist in a space the nurtures me creatively, and allows me to express those things that would otherwise turn me insane if I bottled them up.

All I’m trying to say is that we must actively avoid the fear based approach to modern existence. We need not get caught up in the lizard brain responses that are so prevalent in otherwise functional mammals. Everything we’re fed psychically drives us to a place where fright and panic are present. But there’s another way. A way that’s as simple as making a few choices and shifting our focus off lack and into abundance. No one will ever know who you are or what you’re about unless you show them. I get that this world has stymied your personal progress by way of psychic overload. But know that you possess the ability to work your way around it, with enough dedication and practise.

When was the last time you did something you love? I’m not talking hokey self-help, like lighting a candle or saying a prayer. Something you truly enjoy, in the core of your being. Just because. Not for any other reason than you having a burning desire to do it. Chances are it’s been a while. In between your responsibilities and obligations there lies a source of untapped happiness. Talking about it doesn’t count though, you have to follow through. And why, you ask? Because your life is passing you by in every waking moment. And you don’t want to miss the opportunity to express yourself fully. To be you, unfiltered, unvarnished, unadulterated, and raw. Don’t know what it is?

Find it. Find it through trial and error. Find it in the recesses of your mind, heart and soul. Something has to be yearning to come out and blossom. Your only job is to discover that thing and do it. There’s two possibilities here. One, you know what you want to do and you’re not doing it. And two, you have absolutely no idea what it is you want, and you’re searching for it every day. It doesn’t matter what career you have — this isn’t about money, and your job doesn’t define you — it’s about expressing those things that are itching to come out that you have no release for. Fortunately enough, I’ve been able to pursue my interests to the full extent. Nothing held me back.

And that’s not because I live a life of privilege, rather, it’s because I have a clear set of non-negotiables. I burned my bridges deliberately in a professional context. I stayed underground while others tried to fit square pegs in round holes. And by that I mean they softened their edges. They compromised. They allowed commerce to get in the way of their art. I’ve said this so many times and I’ll say it again: you don’t have to conform to the standards of whatever industry you’re in. All you need is persistence and a clear vision. So how can those who don’t yet know what they want out of life visualise their own version of the life they want to live? By following their deepest interests.

Those who do know what they want but are too lazy to do it are the most problematic of the two. Because they have the potential and allow it to fall to the wayside. I’ve never understood those who have a dream and refuse to make it happen. I know a few working stiffs with families that feel as if their dreams need to take a back seat. But we must be selfish with our time if we are to proceed any further. There will be times when you’re too tired. When the work calls and you don’t answer. And that’s okay. It’s okay if that’s what legacy you want to leave. I never started a family because I never wanted one. My life’s work is too important to me to split my focus. But it all depends on your grit.

How badly do you want it? And what are you willing to sacrifice to get where you want to go? If the answer is nothing then be prepared to get nothing out of it. If instead you muster up the moxie to achieve the milestones you envision it’ll be hard. I’m not promising an easy road or an easy life. When it comes to art of any kind most of us creatives have suffered at the hands of our craft. But we wouldn’t have it any other way. I can’t imagine a lack of struggle. In fact, it invigorates me all the more. Because if any of it were easy or a piece of cake what would be the point? There’s a natural flow state one gets into when they’re in the groove, and it’s undeniable. It’s the pinnacle of success.

Art for me is a series of questions and how I choose to answer them. But most people have enough problems without inviting in more. And that’s also what art is — problem solving. Many creatives employ various techniques to achieve their goal. It’s a psychological act if there ever was one. Indeed, very cerebral. I guess I just don’t fit in anywhere and I’ve invented a fictional world on paper to retreat to when the going gets tough. People may call my reality cloistered, or contrived. The truth is I don’t really care what anyone else thinks — and if I ever did, it’d interfere with my productivity in a big way. And so, you can’t care what anyone thinks. They’re nothing. No one.

If I’m away from my work for too long I become listless and depressed. I can’t sit still. And it’s not because I’m hustling for a pay cheque — it’s because I’m searching for meaning. The only way I ever find it is through the work. This might seem sad to the average person who daydreams about getting home after work and cracking open a cold one. But to me, their world is the saddest thing of all. And that’s because they’re being robbed blind by a broken system. A system set up to make us fail. A life where one is disconnected irreparably from source. I can do without the frills. I don’t need luxuries and knick-knacks. All I want is to pursue my craft and be left alone peacefully to do it.

Back when I was younger I used to split my focus between listening to music, radio, or podcasts while I drew. I don’t do that anymore. And that’s because I want to be completely immersed in the creative act, feeling the every brush stroke on the canvas. Silence is golden in a world where noise smothers out the tranquillity available to all of us. If more people took to time to appreciate the moment and not flood their psyche full of unnecessary input we’d be a more mentally healthy species. But people will read these words and keep doing what they’ve always done. I’m not in a position of authority. I’m just some random oddball writer, living in relative obscurity. No one cares.

You can try wake people up to the harsh realities of what they have to do to get to where they want to be, but almost nobody is going to heed such advice. Instead they’ll continue down the same road they’re on and later wonder why they’re miserable. If I weren’t me I wouldn’t take my advice. Who am I, really, beyond what you know of me? A peculiar, eccentric man with an equally unusual pseudonym spouting platitudes into the ether. Meaninglessness does a lot for me though. It gives me a sense of hope. Knowing I don’t have to make sense because I’m not a public official or an accountant works wonders. No artist has to make sense. A good non-sequitur has always been wise.

If you’re consumed with the question of what existence really means you’re almost always going to come up short. We have no idea why we’re here or who put us on this planet. Everything we do is a mystery to even us, because we’re hardwired to react in certain ways to certain stimuli. The religious will attach the concept of God to all meaning. The Atheists will look to science. And the people who can’t be bothered either way because they’re so beaten down by life will overlook it all entirely. I can’t tell you what the nature of creation entailed. And anyone who says they can is a liar. My only saving grace is my craft. Without it I’d be nothing. I’ve fought tooth and nail to protect it.

Lots of people have got lots of different ideas about why things are the way they are, and most of them are guessing. Confidence can be dangerous, because it has nothing to back up its claims. What amuses me to no end is the human animal and the front it projects. Everyone is pretending they have the answers and that they know what they are doing, but no one knows for sure. The only answer in the face of such meaninglessness is to find something that feeds your soul and pursue it. You don’t need to know how it works or why it is the way it is, you just need to make peace with your inner compass — that intuitive process which is so difficult to utter in human language.

The indescribable is deliberately elusive. There are things we’ll never know and the sooner we accept that fact the quicker we can find meaning in our lives. My issues with authority are glaringly obvious, and have honestly led to some gargantuan personal challenges. But I know this. I know it about myself and I simultaneously don’t need to know. Because some things are better left alone. It’s foolish to beat a dead horse. It’ll never come back to life. Whatever we turn our attention to, however, we can alter with enough tenacity. I can’t put it in any more universal terms than that. There’s a reason why the elites built the system they did. And I suspect it’s all about control.

Everywhere you look you’re being told what to wear, what to eat, and what to buy. This never ending flow of media is conditioning you to consume, and in the process, not to question anything. It’s quite simply a distraction. While I’d like to say it has no effect on me, of course it does. I’m merely another face in the crowd. Despite my myriad of protestations. The only difference is I’m trying to actively minimise the amount of damage it’s done. And you can too. Don’t sit in the cage your whole life while you possess the key. Dare to disobey the commands all around you. Make your own decisions. Own your mistakes. Craft the life you want, piece by piece. I for one believe in you.

A lot of us tend to wait for a nod of approval to go ahead and do what we want. But the thing is, none of us need permission to be something we already are. I wish with all my heart that people felt freer to do the things they enjoy. However, unfortunately, most of us put those things off in service to the things we have to do. Look, we all have responsibilities in some form or another. But to use them as an excuse to not pursue your dreams is an open invitation to a miserable life. A life that eventually feels like a nightmare. We creatives are a privileged bunch, because we’ve learned to tap in to something that’s readily available to all human beings: manifestation. And it truly is magical.

An artist brings something to fruition from their inner world. They produce work from an invisible source. But maybe what sets them apart from regular people is their tendency to be attuned to psychic frequencies. As a visual artist I have clear visions of the end product of a work before I even pick up a pencil, and while that might not be the case for every artist, it’s the closest thing to clairvoyance I can fathom. Over the years I’ve fine tuned my psychic receptors to find signals almost everywhere I look. Of course there are dead zones, but the large majority of places have an energy about them that one can pick up with their sixth sense. Think about a specific area and its qi.

There’s a particular exercise I practise. I visualise a scene, perhaps a location I’ve been to before, and I feel out the mood of the place in a psychic sense. This leads me down the path to other ideas, and before I know it I’ve got a new project on my hands. Set my inspirations aside, and most of these methods I employ create musical melodies, drawings, or pieces of writing for me. And they seemingly come from nowhere. Somewhere out there, in the ether. This is when the existence of a creator comes in. In the Christian sense, if we were made in the image of God, why would we not possess the talent to create? Of course there are many other religious factions to frame the concept.

If none of this works for you and it appears as if I’m yammering on about gobbledygook don’t be afraid. For everyone is an artist. If not in the truest sense of the word, in some way we all create something. Something that comes from us alone. It could mean baking a cake. Preparing a meal. Things we all do but don’t view through a creative lens per se. What I’ve realised over the years is that all people need to open up the floodgates is a little bit of encouragement. The least skilled person in the room, with enough confidence, can become a master of manifestation. All of us know at least one trick that gets us to generate new ideas. It can often be as simple as combining others.

What I mean by that is this: if you take an already established concept, then you proceed to find another one, something completely random (it can be anything) and then you put the two together, and you have a whole new idea. Often it’d be best to take two completely unrelated subjects and mash them into one, but similar subjects can work just as well. But getting back to my initial point, and wading out of the reeds for a second, people seem afraid to take the leap. Because they think they’ll fail. That what they come up with won’t be good enough. They have all these excuses ready to go before they even start. When most of the time, all we need to do is get out of our own heads.

While it’s not always easy to do — some days nothing will come — it’s in those failed exercises that you learn what works and what doesn’t. But quite often people become discouraged, because they want everything to come together on the first try. The most successful people in the world however know that each perceived failure they experience is a stepping stone to their final destination. And that final destination is determined by a feeling that is almost indescribable in human terms. Trying to get a handle on creativity is like trying to scotch tape waves on a beach in a straight line. Impossible. Or seemingly so. Let me tell you something, in the realm of art, nothing is impossible.

I’ve dealt with so many of my problems and freed myself from so many human limitations with a pen and paper. And I want everyone else to know they can too. But it just doesn’t make sense to some people. Now more than ever before we have automatic audiences whose attention we capture on social media platforms and the like. You don’t have to upload selfies, instead you can utilise the opportunity to share something deeper. We’re officially living in the attention economy. Likes, shares, subscribers — they’re all the rage. People care more about how many people saw their tweet than they do about their lived experience in the real world. Others are obsessed with appearances.

When it dawned on me about a decade ago that people were falling for the banana in the tailpipe as far as social media is concerned I lost respect for a lot of otherwise intelligent folks. I thought long and hard about how such smart people were engaging in their own demise. What I mean by that is the digital footprint they leave behind. Every selfie, every drunken group photo, every status update, every post was being fed into a database and these people were acting none the wiser. But of course everyone was doing it, so they felt they should too. Everyone knows the old adage, if a group of people jump off a cliff will you do it too? And that’s what they seemed like to me too — lemmings.

I know I might come off like a snob in the digital space. And not everyone can get away with plastering hand-rendered artwork all over these social channels. But why use them at all? Surely there are better things we could be doing with our time. If the explosion of high end dumb phones onto the scene doesn’t send a message I don’t know what will. People are craving their down time, and realising slowly that less time spent online is more time spent in the present moment. Can you remember the last time someone got through a conversation without reaching for their smart phone? It’s the dopamine rush they’re after. The doom scroll session. The likes. The hearts. The reposts.

Surely we respect ourselves more than that. The average attention span is surely shot by now. I’ve even picked it up in myself. But the difference is I catch it right then and there, slow down, breathe, and then I reconsider. Social media will be there when you get home from the party. Your instant messages will pile up irrespective of whether or not you’re checking your phone. I guess my main gripe is that all this stuff robs us of the creative act, replacing it with obsessive consumption of questionable media. Most people are very careful what they put in their bodies, and do so to preserve their physical health. But what about our mental health? Surely that’s just as important?

The crux of the matter is we need to be more mindful of what flashes across our screen and embeds itself in our psyche. If you stuff your head full of psychic funnel cakes it’ll get bloated and sluggish. It won’t perform properly on the wrong digital diet. But I’m not trying to shame anyone, so don’t get me wrong. I’m just trying to bring awareness to an issue that otherwise gets overlooked. People are hypnotised by their devices today. And it’s downright maddening. My prediction is that a few years from now we’re going to be seeing a lot of attention deficit problems. And it’s all because of content. The content we endlessly scroll through, tap on and interact with. That can’t be healthy.

A personal rule I have for myself — and one that keeps me going — is that I make it a habit that I must create more than I consume. But there’s nothing wrong with consumption if you’re doing it mindfully. I just get more enjoyment out of the creative act than the passive act of loafing in front of a screen. And let’s face it, advertisements are everywhere. Try watch anything online and you’ll be bombarded with a barrage of advertisements. I’m aware that there are ways around that if you’re tech savvy enough nowadays, but I’m referring to the average person. Those advertisements are assaulting our psyche. They’re conditioning us to consume more, more, more. I want no part of it.

In closing I want to encourage you, dear reader, to give yourself permission to do something you love doing. You don’t have to be good at it. It doesn’t have to turn into a side hustle if you get it right. You can simply make things for the joy of the craft. And I feel like the world would be a much happier place if we all did this more. One of the friends I’ve made recently — a fellow artist — wrote this line I can’t get out of my head. It goes, “Go make something.” Simple. Straightforward. To the point. Stop allowing your excuses to get in the way and just do it. Do it badly. Do it anyway. Eventually, with enough practise you’ll do it better. And then well. The hardest part is getting started.

You know what the great thing about a self-created deadline is? You can just ignore it, and it goes away. Now compare that to a deadline that’s been imposed on you, that you agreed to reluctantly. Most people do it out of desperation, for the money, or because they don’t want to let their clients down. But who needs clients? They’re not your friends. They’re not family. And you’re not required to kowtow to their demands. Of course I learned all of this way too late in my life, as most of us do.

Clients in the creative industry have got to be the most fickle creatures that ever walked the face of the earth. One day they like the work you produced, and the next, not so much. They keep the back-and-forth going until you want to blow your brains out. And that’s why I gave up on all that nonsense, choosing instead to truly work for myself. This isn’t braggadocio or advice for those who wish to escape the rat race but don’t know how. This is just me describing the reality of my life.

If you really think about it you don’t need to indulge other’s egos. It’s not compulsory by any stretch. All you need is the determination and grit to trust things will work out and they will. Unfortunately working with others is not my strong suit. But working alone? Bliss. No meetings. No unnecessary emails. No bending over backwards to win the approval of a stranger on a power trip. And they’re all around. People who enjoy saying jump and having you ask how high. Let me to tell you a secret.

I came up with a solution to a problem I wasn’t even aware I had. Just recently I bumped into an old friend who is stuck in the same old rut. Working for peanuts on stuff he hates doing. And I asked myself why. The reason is simple. He hasn’t yet realised that turning down the volume is an option that’s readily available to him. And I can tell anyone till I’m blue in the face my secret, but it’ll never dawn on them, until the day that it’s meant to. That’s why I never dispense advice. Even if I could.

It’s not my job to tell anyone else what they should or shouldn’t do. And what works for me probably won’t work for them, because we all have our own path to walk. Just as I can’t understand the trials and tribulations someone else has gone through because I haven’t experienced what they have yet. We’re all inexperienced in some way, but that’s just a part of life. Now imagine if we all learnt the same lesson at the same time. There would be no point in continuing our journey. None.

The way things unfold naturally are the way things are meant to happen. Interfering with that or trying to force it never works. All those lessons that keep reappearing like a ghastly visage? It’s got to be the universe trying to tell us something. Whether they be through synchronicities or challenges it really doesn’t matter. What really matters is whether we’re receptive to these signs. Now more than ever before we’re inundated with information coming at us from every direction. We’re swamped.

Most people don’t get excited by an email anymore. To them it’s nothing more than an annoyance. Our inboxes are flooded multiple times a day by stuff we’ve been meaning to unsubscribe from. And no one likes getting spammed, but that’s what it feels like. Messages from business associates, acquaintances, friends, family, and everyone in between follow us around in our pockets. From them there is no real escape. And the only solution is to do away with your smart phone altogether.

Something I wrote an article about once. That time I threw my phone in the ocean and never looked back. You want to know how that’s going? It’s glorious. I never suspected living without a device tethered to me twenty-four seven would be so freeing. But most people will look at me funny. Then they’ll try apply it to their own lives and they’ll consider it impossible. It’s the what ifs that ruin us day in and day out. I honestly think smart phones and tablets are nothing but unnecessary distractions.

But most people don’t want to live without their doom scroll sessions. They’ve built their lives around their pocket-sized device. All their friends are on social media. They’ll call me every name in the book for so much as playing with the idea of going phone free. They way I see it, just because everyone else is doing it, it doesn’t mean I have to play by the same rules. You are a free spirit underneath all the fancy wrapping. You just need to tap in to what makes you you. Think about that.

Are you what you portray online? Or is your life more miserable and dull than you make it out to be? The biggest problem we face right now is inauthenticity, in my view. People not being themselves, not being who they really are. The catfishing is where it all starts. Making oneself appear more attractive than they look in real life. But filters can only save you for so long. If someone has a pock marked face and they smother their face in make-up do I really care? I don’t.

More importantly, is it any of my business? Not really. I just feel like there’s a disconnect, or a rift, maybe even a gulf, between who we’d like to be and who we are. I’m not suggesting anyone should stop bothering with how they groom themselves, I’m just asking for a bit of honesty. Intellectual honesty. Often times the way we look in the photos we hate is the real us. But for some reason we want to run from that, and put our best foot forward. The perfect angle. The right lighting. It’s all a farce.

And here’s the thing, it’s not going to change any time soon. People are going to find more sophisticated ways of presenting who they wish they were to the world, every day. But that makes me wonder if they’re ashamed of who they really are. Honestly, the grasp toddlers have of technology frightens me. Because the internet is not for kids. Sure, there’s ways to minimise the risk of them coming across undesirable material, but you can’t protect them forever. I kept secrets in my youth.

I did stuff I wasn’t supposed to do. I was exposed to adult oriented media before I was mature enough to understand what any of it meant. And I bet that screwed me up in some way. I’m all for freedom, liberty, and rugged individualism, but I also think we need better guardrails for the sake of our youth. There are some things that even disturb adults, for instance, horror movies and the like. I guess I never thought about things from this perspective until I aged significantly. But now I see.

I’d gravitate toward anything with a parental advisory sticker like a magnet in my teens. And these things have become even more meaningless in the era of streaming services. Who’s really going to check whether you’re old enough to consume disturbing material? Actually, as frightening as it is, another part of me simply can’t sit on my high horse. As an underground cartoonist I draw morally questionable things all the time. I believe I might suffer with a condition known as coprographia.

An involuntary act of making vulgar or obscene writings or drawings. And if you saw my sketchbook you’d understand immediately. At an early age I was diagnosed with epilepsy, and went on to develop schizoaffective disorder. And all these conditions seem interrelated. It’s not like I scribble unrecognisable patterns on walls or anything, no, I’m more organised in my thought process than that. But I do blurt out obscenity under my breath involuntarily, and I can’t seem to shake that.

Now that I think of it this is all pretty vulnerable stuff I’m admitting to. And maybe the dots connect in a way that isn’t clear to me yet. Maybe you can now understand why I can’t just work a straight job. But my solution has been to seek professional help and manage my symptoms as best I can. I think that’s the most adult conclusion I’ve come to. Not to get too caught up in the minutiae. Deal with things as they come, and forget the rest. Fortunately I’m not locked away in a rubber room.

But if you really think about it isn’t that what society has become? One big rubber room? There are people walking around with undiagnosed mental illnesses pretending to be fine, and everywhere. Chances are you might pass them on the street and never know what they’re going through. That’s why it’s best to be kind in the face of the harshness of everyday life. It costs absolutely nothing and gives people hope. Don’t ever give up on your dreams, though. They’re in closer reach than you may think.

The way in which we learn not to say everything out loud is by getting burned. Because, in truth, not everything belongs outside our head. And while I’m rather a quiet person, there are times when I’ve shared too much. I think it has something to do with my gregarious nature though, because I remember being younger and assuming everyone was as conscientious as me. Of course I was in for a swift and rude awakening when I realised that is just not the case. For there are rotten eggs that walk this earth who want nothing more than to make others miserable. To irritate and annoy people.

Unfortunately enough, I tend to attract these types because I look like a soft target — and maybe I am — due to my gentle demeanour. And I say this because I’ve encountered too many outright nasty people to think otherwise. I couldn’t imagine going around and causing pain and anguish for a rush, as it just isn’t in my make-up. Living as a highly sensitive person has taught me much, however. While I won’t let the world and its ways harden me, what I will do is continue to project an innocence while not being totally naïve. This way I can take notes and then devise useful strategies.

No one really knows me aside from my wife, because they haven’t taken the time out of their self-absorption to do so. And while this used to sadden and even frustrate me, I’ve now made peace with it. After all, the more people get to know you — friend or foe — the more dirt they have to use against you in a scuffle down the line. I hate that I even have to consider this sly, deceptive tactic or employ it at all, but we all have coping mechanisms, and this is mine. One of the things that has been bugging me tremendously of late is the subtle gestures others unknowingly exhibit at times.

See, you can tell when someone is putting on a front. And you know how? Of course, by their body language — but there is something else that betrays their glib vacuities immediately, in any interaction. In the split second before someone you’re approaching realises you’re nearby they’ll often wear their most honest expression which indicates how they really feel about you. I know this may sound rich coming from a schizophrenic, but bear with me a moment and you may learn something new. The moment when an individual turns to face you, their inner feelings are exposed.

And that is precisely how they perceive you. Either with malice, joy or something in between. We as human beings can’t always protect each other from truth with bald-faced lies. Because sometimes our true feelings slip through the cracks. I’ve encountered enough hostile people, real and imagined, over the course of my life, to know a thing or two about how they tend to operate. All hallucinations and paranoia aside, us schizophrenics are often times unusually intelligent. And that’s not to say I’m tooting my own horn or anything, because I’d describe myself as more of an idiot savant, really.

A lot of people are afraid of schizophrenics, and I largely place the blame on Hollywood, for how they depict us. For I’m not violent or terribly unpredictable. In fact, I’ve designed my life in a very methodical way, in order to minimise any psychiatric regression. The way in which I do this is by sticking to a routine, taking my medication on time, and allowing some flexibility in my work schedule for when the bad days do happen. Aptitude tests always suggested I’d be most suited to writing, and I ignored that advice for years. But here I am, right where they said I’d be. So touché.

I’m not so sure I’m in bad company, however, because Friedrich Nietzsche lost his mental faculties toward the end of his life. Personally I think he was too smart for his own good, and could no longer tolerate the plasticity of the society in which he lived. And people have accused me of getting too deep too fast in conversation. They’ve also said I conduct a dialogue like an interview, and that I can’t seem to help. So I went on to do some actual interviews on my podcast because of that, and it worked out pretty well. My skill set might be scattershot, but once I focus I can achieve.

As a highly sensitive person nothing can really prepare you for the arduous and sometimes brutal events of adult life. And when you’re sheltered by loving parents it can worsen the situation that much more. They don’t think what they’re doing is wrong, and they want to protect you from the big bad world. But once reality sets in it can be quite a shock to the system. Compare this to those who had less hands-on parents and they tend to fare better, and that’s probably because they had to deal with life’s challenges at an early stage. But I’m grateful I had the former and not the latter, in truth.

I like to think of my hypersensitivity as more of a super power than a drawback, because it sets me apart from the average Joe, who has been jaded my life’s many hardships. The way I feel as if I can use this quality to my advantage is by responding kindly when someone needs an ear, or make a stranger realise that there are still good people in the world. Honestly, that’s very important to me. Because I know I perk up when I recognise someone of a similar temperament. All of a sudden life’s drudgery seems to clear for just a little while, and a respite from the acrid sourness of others occurs.

Those moments are what makes life worth living. When you realise someone cares, and considers the your feelings. Good souls recognise each other and smile knowingly. It’s almost like a synchronicity or eureka moment. Fortunately enough most of those closest to me are this way. And for those who aren’t I’m finding ways to cope with them. Most of the time I need to take an antipsychotic around social gatherings, because of the uncertainty of what might just happen. I tend to overanalyse what things mean, and I drill deeper and deeper into an issue until it’s meaningless.

Or I assign meaning to things that are arbitrary and random. I’m always looking for patterns, and with enough work they can be discovered almost anywhere. One might ask themselves why they glance at a clock when all the numbers are the same. Or wonder why a number plate with triple six or seven crosses their path. But all these little signs are often of little importance. It’s in the misinterpretation that we get lost — those of us who are so inclined. One of my pet peeves is excuses being made for a brazen offender, one who lacks social grace. Then I feel I’m being lied to.

If I had a buck for every time I was told so-and-so didn’t mean whatever it is they said the way in which I took it I’d be a wealthy man. I believe the phrase is don’t piss on me and tell me it’s raining. One of my more frequently uttered terms. But there are those who want to see the best in people, or they’re under the impression that they’re only trying to help, all while doing enough damage to worsen the already awkward or uncomfortable situation. But as any person with their head screwed on knows, unpleasantness is not always so easy to avoid. Try do that and you’ll fail, every time.

So the best way to handle these things is to prepare in advance as best you can. To detach completely, let others speak freely and express themselves however they see fit. Don’t fight it. Just nod along and appear agreeable — then when you’re away from them, think what you want. I’ve noticed a lot of people have a habit of thinking out loud. They don’t really have a very solid idea of what it is they’re getting at, but they yearn to be heard anyway. That’s how I learned not to internalise the disorganised notions they verbalise. I’m still working at it, but so far it’s effective.

Another way to deal with people who try and suck you in to their web is to simply ignore them outright. They’re frantically reaching out to you because they want something? Don’t pick up. They text? Don’t answer. They email? You guessed it. And on and on. I spent far too many years believing that everyone deserved access to me, needed my attention, so much so that I put their demands above my own. It’s no way to live. Eventually the phone will stop ringing, the texts will die down, and so will the emails. Most people get the picture, despite how urgent their issue seems.

It might not be the moral, upstanding way to handle the situation. It may not even be something you’re willing to do. But one day you’ll see the value in it — especially when you encounter a truly persistent annoyance. Usually people want something from you when they call. My grandfather always used to say if the phone doesn’t ring no one wants money. And my uncle recounted those words to me one day. I’m done being the cash cow and allowing others to ride me. I’ve drawn a clear line in the sand. Those who I hold dear will always have me. But everyone else? Not so much.

Venturing out into the real world to socialise proves problematic for an individual such as I. As a highly sensitive person it means coming into contact with all kinds of energies, good and bad. And of course I immediately glom on to the bad. I ask myself why the person in the distance keeps staring me down. Why another laughed dismissively at something I said. I wonder if I look funny, or don’t carry myself with enough confidence. The truth is I’m most comfortable at home, with my art supplies, at the drawing board. Or writing away behind my word processor. And I need to come to terms with it. Although it’s always nice to see old friends, I guess I’m just inherently anti-social.

One of the things going out always helps me appreciate is the quiet time I get when I return to my comfortable cocoon. But I also realise this is largely unsustainable, because we need a sense of community to thrive as human beings. Couple all this with the fact that I’m sober and you have a recipe for disaster. While others numb their social graces with hard liquor, I’m left standing there contemplating all the things I can’t ever seem to switch off. And there is good reason for this. I’m on psychiatric medication, so to add alcohol to such a cocktail is to toy with my brain chemicals in a way that is completely counterproductive. Most people wouldn’t care, but I take my health seriously.

When my doctor tells me to avoid alcohol and drugs, I listen. And what’s even more dangerous is that I cultivated an appetite for painkillers at various points in my life. Simply because they made me feel good. Unlike those who have various methods of escape from the drudgery of life, I have to face it head on. So no wonder I recoil into myself from time to time. I notice when I do emerge onto the scene merely to socialise people do seem to appreciate my brief appearances, however. Because absence makes the heart grow fonder. But I know deep down in my heart that I could never stomach actively being a socialite of any persuasion. And it’s not that I’m wound too tight for it, not at all.

In fact I’m relatively subdued due to the prescription drugs I’m on. I’ve never been very boisterous or confrontational, aside from the times when I was drinking, before I quit for good. I was becoming an angry drunk, snapping at others, getting into fights, and teetering on the edge of psychosis. One of the things that saddens me the most about ageing, however, is that people no longer recognise you after years between visits. We all seem to gain a little weight, maybe grow some facial hair — and for men, our hair starts to thin. And it really shouldn’t be something to get too cut up about, as it happens to all of us, but saying goodbye to your youth is never pleasant.

Part of us wants to preserve our innocence and not become jaded, but life has a definite way of beating hope out of you. Responsibilities weigh heavily on our minds, and cause us to turn inward. Though with acceptance one can move beyond all the reminiscing on times past and forge a new way ahead. We can integrate more complex parts of ourselves into our make-up, which free us from our old ideas and behaviours that might cling to who we were. I’m most interested in the future. It excites me. I don’t want to be subject to the limitations of my past, but I guess I’m just coming to terms with the natural course of human life. But what bothers me most is getting trapped in my head.

I don’t want to do it, yet I get stuck and obsess over mental hurdles. I tend to think the worst of people and assume they’re out to get me in some way. And it’s not totally inaccurate, because there are some rotten folks out there in the world who want nothing more than to cause conflict and unnecessary drama for others. And I think this is why I avoid situations in which I’d be more exposed to those types. Hence a very public social setting. And I can’t say precisely why I am this way, I just am. Perhaps it has something to do with being schizophrenic. Maybe not. Where others soar ahead without thinking twice I tend to overanalyse and second-guess my social interactions.

Right now being in front of the page is so comforting, especially since my psyche was assaulted with so much unwanted stimuli last night. I guess I need to resign myself to the fact that this is the new normal. Or my version of normal, which is highly unusual to most. Being an artist and a recluse is a double-edged sword. I spend every waking minute creating stuff, and because I have such an aversion to networking very few people ever see my work. I’ve had bad experiences with exhibitions and book launches, though, and I think that is partly what holds me back. The other thing that does so is the public’s reaction to my art. I never quite know if I’m stepping on toes.

I like to question conventional thinking in my creative projects, and that’s not for everyone. I often find people that explicitly state they’re about freedom and liberty are the most narrow minded of the bunch. For instance, I went to this social gathering last night and I was catching up with an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in years. We have stuff in common. But when I saw the nature of his work (he was handing out free zines) I was a little taken aback. The crux of the matter is there was a very obvious left-leaning bent to the work he had on display. And while I’m relatively open-minded, that type of thing isn’t exactly my cup of tea. And I say all this because I used to think that way too.

Back when I was uneducated and inexperienced. When life hadn’t quite caught me off guard and reality hadn’t yet hit me between the eyes. I respect everyone’s point of view to a degree, but obviously, if you had to ask me, there are some ideas I disagree with strongly. One thing I can’t seem to get away from in the arts is the liberalism that is so strongly associated with it. I’m not saying I want to see conservative work, rather the transgressive. Art that pushes boundaries. And in a nut shell, stuff that isn’t safe, and would probably get you cancelled. It all comes down to subjective tastes. I can respect the die-hard leftist just fine. What I won’t support is utter ignorance.

This is dangerous territory I’m wading into. But if you had a frank and honest conversation with anyone, chances are they miss previous eras that weren’t so overly politicised. Not everything was about which way a prominent figure leant. The right opinions weren’t always cool. Instead we had some real boundary breaking going on, and people were less concerned with appearing to be something they’re not. And I can’t get away from the fact that it sounds as if I’m romanticising the past. However if you throw me up against the wall I’ll admit, that’s not what I’m yearning for. I just want people to be more honest with themselves, and let cooler heads prevail. The division is palpable.

I have a particular friend of mine who has very different political views to me. And I remember his fiancé and I both chastised him for it one night. That wasn’t my finest moment, but I subsequently apologised to him and realised how small-minded I myself was being. Suffice it to say, despite him having very different ideas than my own he is a genuine fan of my work. Work that is transgressive and pushes boundaries. This somehow being couched as conservative with its edgelord nature is wrong-headed, though. Prominent figureheads in the conservative space have bastardised certain ideas to serve their own agendas. And that is something I’m wildly opposed to. Yes, even me.

The whole point of art, to me, is to make one think. To have us address our own inconsistencies and realise the absurdity that lies beneath it all. And one simply can’t do that if they’re serving the special interests of either side of the aisle. You have to actively break out of the chains imposed on you by the very ideas you hold, and forget everything you know. I’ve found too many guardrails are incredibly problematic to my creative process, so I try to foster a more improvisational environment when I’m working on some project or another. Your mind needs to be free to go where it wants. It can’t worry what so-and-so will think, or placate anybody. It has to exist on its own merit.

Eventually we all betray our own values if we push against established doctrine enough, and that’s ultimately the point when we’re liberated from the invisible limits imposed on us. I wouldn’t bother at all with art or writing if I knew what’d come from it. Half the time I’m flying blind, and I’m more than okay with that. No one can be safe. Nothing can be sacred. For the minute we compromise on our transgressive nature, in service to not offending the wrong people we become milquetoast versions of what we really could be. I’m not trying to encourage irresponsibility or unaccountability for the things that we express. Instead, we must always be on the ready to take our lumps, for art is inherently unsafe.

It was Plato who said “Opinion is really the lowest form of human knowledge. It requires no accountability, no understanding.” And he was right. Unfortunately, however, we live in an age of hot takes and reactionaries. Everyone has access to a digital soap box, and therefore critics abound. Not qualified, rational critics. Just critics. Laymen. People with nothing to offer but an opinion. And hell, even I’m guilty of it. I have things to say and I live in hope that people read them. But where does this leave the individual who has nothing else to offer but their opinion? In a sea of anonymous faces. Unremarkable and forgettable. Which is perfect for the short attention span most have today.

It also cheapens the idea of what things mean though. Who do we look to for a thorough assessment on any given issue? Influencers are nothing but pedestrian — they just happened to somehow build a following off of trends, fads, and the almighty algorithm. They’re nothing to look up to. They’re really just like you or I, but they’ve got the numbers to bolster their ego and feed their arrogance. I’m an odd duck, and I know this for certain. Nothing about me is conventional or anything other than eccentric. My tastes tend to make me seem as if I’m going against the grain deliberately. And that might be the only thing that makes me stand out. Ever feel like you’re hollering into the void?

No one wants to be pejorative for the sake of it. We have reasons for the things we do. There’s always some rationale behind our stunts and attention-seeking behaviours. And they usually make sense to us only in hindsight. Something I’ve learned over the course of seeing a psychologist is that one can be presented with all the necessary tools to improve their lot in life and they’ll ignore all of them. We have our rationalisations. It’s too hard. Or it seems just out of reach. Working on oneself is difficult at the best of times, but uncovering past traumas and expecting them not to have left a mark is just foolish. I’ll shamefully admit I haven’t implemented any of the suggestions I was given.

Going through life as if nothing is wrong, and avoiding the root cause of our problems does us all a great disservice. Then you get the types who are so anti-psychiatry that they’ll never take a pill to balance out. They see it as a weakness or a crutch. And this causes resentment in those of us who actively seek out the help we need. It makes you not want to admit to needing medication to function normally. But I’m not surprised anxiety and depression is rife in a society as screwed up as ours. Some of the time — if not most of the time — we’re surrounded by incompetence and those who do the bare minimum, just to skirt by. And this apathy is a reaction to our rigid environments.

I still have no idea how the average person makes it through the day working at a corporation where they’re nothing but a number, and considered as replaceable as the next guy. That’s really no way to live, but a lot of people think they don’t have any choice but to buckle under the incredible weight of capitalism. We can be free, of this I’m certain; because I freed myself from a self-imposed cage many moons ago. And that’s all it is: an open cage. We hold the key to the lock. We don’t even need to pick it or break out of it like a jail. But most people don’t want to take responsibility for their own lives. They prefer to outsource their financial requirements to a straight job and never have to hustle.

Sure, it’s stressful come month end, when rent is due and you don’t have anything solid going on in the career department. But that can be rectified easily too. Now more than ever before there are ways to make a passive income while you sleep. Our options almost seem infinite. It’s in taking the initiative that people fumble the ball. They don’t want to go the extra mile or risk not being compensated fairly. They don’t want to chase up clients to pay the bills. But even that is something you don’t have to deal with if you’re disciplined enough to walk your own path. I see the deadness in people’s eyes as I pass them on the street. And I know socialism isn’t the answer to this either.

Vladimir Lenin did famously say that the goal of socialism is communism. And if anyone wants to live like that they must have rocks in their head. Then we come to Joseph Stalin, who said “The death of one man is a tragedy, the death of millions is a statistic.” All I’ll say on that is birds of a feather flock together. And there are plenty of uneducated, misguided youth today who know very little about the atrocities communism is responsible for. And while this might be a notion steeped in my opinion, it’s undeniably true. Truth and opinion can coalesce at times. But I’m really not trying to convince anyone of anything. As I was just critiquing capitalism a little while ago. What are my views, then?

Freedom. Liberty. Libertarianism. Centrist politics over hard left or right. Those who cross the aisle and know how to compromise. To me that is the only real way forward. And of course there are other versions of this idea in littler parties. Unfortunately I live in a country that has trampled on its constitution more times than not in recent years. The government is under state capture and anyone who dares stand trial against the crooked politicians wind up dead before they can properly testify. If you didn’t know already, I live in a third world country. They like to call it a developing country, but honestly it’s anything but. And our leaders have the audacity to call first world nations partners.

I was so utterly ashamed and embarrassed when my president went to the White House. He made an absolute fool of himself, and tried cosying up to Donald Trump for money — and this came after he had made some terribly disrespectful remarks about him on national television. But politicians will politic, right? These days I almost always avoid the news and current affairs, locally, and that’s because nothing ever really changes. There’s always a new scandal or cover-up going on, and it isn’t exactly captivating. However, I do keep up with geopolitics far more. I like to know what’s going on in the world, and this mainly stems from the work I did in the media for a time. I made web comics.

They were always focused on the latest trends and scuttlebutt, and I contributed a weekly strip to a magazine. The pay was meagre, but the experience I gained certainly shaped me in ways it wouldn’t have if I passed up the opportunity. Funnily enough I knew a lot of people studying to be journalists in university. And I went on to essentially do their jobs — without qualifications in that particular area — and this taught me that experience is the greatest teacher of all. I remember when I first went to university and wanted to study fine art. All my mentors discouraged it completely. They maintained that I’d never get a job with a fine art degree, so I winded up in the graphic design department.

From there I passed my first year, and in my second, I went on to get wrapped up in alcohol abuse and incessant pot smoking. Needless to say I failed and had to recalibrate, finding another school that was more suited to my areas of expertise. I stumbled on one that offered multimedia. And although it was a grind, I managed to get my act together and achieve quite highly. I graduated with a three year diploma and instead of going the corporate route started my own business. Things were slow at first, but they picked up, and there were many peaks and valleys in those years. I never really thought I’d wind up being a writer after all this time, but here I am. Words are different to pictures.

I like to toggle between the visual arts and my literary pursuits. When I’m burned out on one I switch to the other. And so I bounce back-and-forth. No one ever really taught me how to write in a professional capacity, so I’d categorise myself as a maverick at best. The main thing is I enjoy the creative process of putting words together, because there’s nothing else quite like it. I seem to be able to say the things in my writing that I can’t muster the courage to say out loud. This of course creates a bit of a schism in my personality, and I sometimes forget strangers have access to my writings at any given moment. And that’d pose a problem for some, who are protective of their privacy.

As you can probably tell, that is none of my concern. I don’t believe anything is too personal, and I enjoy opening up in this way. I guess you could call it the extroverted part of who I am. The guy who ventures out of his largely reclusive ways and engages with the world. But I still value those quiet afternoons, typing away in my slippers. No person is one thing. We all have different facets to our personalities, and they come out in the most unexpected of ways. My only hope is that I leave this mortal coil having given my all. I don’t care about amassing wealth or notoriety, but I do want to touch some hearts. Fortunately I’m able to devote my time to the creative process. For without it, I’d surely be doomed.

An intellectual peer of mine just got dinged for using artificial intelligence in their writing when they clearly don’t do so. And this got me thinking, if someone completely opposed to anything remotely related to artificial intelligence can get their account suspended, we’re all in danger of it happening. While the policy against the use of it is so stringent, how did a human being slip through the cracks and get falsely accused of doing something they didn’t do? Probably because spam filters make mistakes, but that isn’t very comforting in the face of a suspended account. At all.

I see plenty of “writers” who utilise artificial intelligence as a tool every day, and it’s so obvious. But when you have machines flagging human crafted prose incorrectly it explicitly demonstrates that we’re living in some version of Bizzaro World. I’ve also seen so-called writers freely admit their involvement with chat bots, and nothing ever seems to happen to them. So where does this leave us as legitimate writers? Simply put, in the dark. Now we’re all hoping the same thing doesn’t occur to us. It’s easy to see someone else suffer at the hands of an oversight and not be too empathetic.

But when it happens to us, that’s usually the only time we sit up and pay attention. Independent bloggers aren’t subject to the same looming terms of service and arbitrary suspensions, so maybe that’s where the future lies. Perhaps we need to be less dependent on mainstream platforms so that we can say whatever we want to, and not walk on eggshells. And it’s all very sad, because the more errors like this occur the more discouraged legitimate writers will become. My prediction is there’ll be a mass exodus at some point if enough folks are subjected to such treatment. But who can say?

The truth is no one really cares all that much until this stuff happens to them. Us human beings are selfish that way. But my intention is to shine light on a great disservice that is being done to otherwise brilliant minds. We need people who share those parts of themselves that a chat bot can’t. That’s at least how I feel, anyway. I myself have toyed with the idea of going independent and writing freely on a self-hosted site. But Medium tends to pull me back in time and again. The algorithm might not work exactly as it’s designed to, but I don’t have the followers or reach on my own.

And that’s the main reason I stick around. I have tried other platforms like Substack, but I literally got no readership whatsoever there, so instead, Medium won out over it. I guess I should admit that I cross-post on X too, however — which is a much more free-wheeling platform, despite its problems — and I get more views there than I do on Medium. Not always, but most times. I guess what I’m doing right now is weighing up the pros and cons of a mainstream platform and going my writing journey alone. The thing is I love Medium, but this recent false flag has shaken my confidence.

I’d be remiss not to mention that I sometimes get mildly neurotic about whether or not I’m going to get dinged at some point. Because as much as I’ve familiarised myself with the terms of service, from time to time we all make mistakes. There’s another writer who I follow on Medium and I almost exclusively read him on the platform, as opposed to his own self-hosted site where he cross-posts; and I think that all boils down to convenience. Because it’s easier to open an app where everything is in one place, and you don’t have to manually type in a URL. Call it lazy if you will.

I suppose I’m both shocked and surprised that someone who is so anti-artificial intelligence got flagged. This results in us as writers becoming more cautious about what it is we post, and that cuts our freedom to express off at the knees. The way I deal with that particular issue is just by pressing on as if nothing has changed, and if I do get falsely accused of using a chat bot, let the chips fall where they may. And I’m no stranger to being accused of using artificial intelligence. A YouTube creator and troll couldn’t believe I wrote all my own books — because they were written in a short space of time.

This led me to write a piece in which I explained that I’ve been described by some as unusually productive. And unfortunately, that seems to raise red flags in the era of such widespread use of artificial intelligence. Honestly, if I were to mull it over at greater length, I don’t think I care too much who thinks what. I know the truth. But I also haven’t gotten dinged yet. So it’s easy for me to say. If I were to put myself in the shoes of the individual who was accused of using a chat bot to generate their content it’d probably be a whole different story. And I’d probably write a piece about it.

An angry piece. Like the ones I write when something grates my gears. Believe me, though, I’m not proud of my quixotic outbursts — although they may amuse some along the way. After all, I see myself as something of a performer. I mean, why else would I publish articles as often as I do, releasing my every thought into the public square, unfiltered? Because I want to be seen and heard, of course. Although I sometimes play with the idea of living in obscurity, the truth is far more peculiar. I’m a guy who is literally attempting to entertain an invisible crowd. I’ve always done this.

I have a friend who isn’t into the performative aspect of blogging at all. And he writes every morning, for himself. And more power to him, but I prefer playing to an audience — no matter how big or small. And this is why mainstream writing platforms appeal to me. Look, I know the day will inevitably come where the notions I put forth are wildly misunderstood and I’m relegated to some form of shadow ban, and that’s simply because it’s happened before. But until then I’ll show up and give it all my best shot. No holes barred. Remember: if you never show your work to anyone, nothing can come of it.

Come to think of it there isn’t anything I do creatively that I don’t release out into the ether, for public consumption. Sure, I have some sketchbook pages that’ll never see the light of day — but those serve the purpose of process books anyway. I revisit them down the line when I’m looking for a strong idea, and then I edit those concepts down into something linear and more effective. I think sketchbooking and journalling are a form of distilling thoughts, thoughts that otherwise would lie dormant in ones psyche, and become part of their id. And that might be what I’m trying to prevent.

Creativity is a catharsis in its purest form. A release. And without it, I’d certainly be doomed. I’ve tried stepping away from the drawing board. I’ve also been forced to at times. But I always come back. It’s what feeds my soul and enriches my mind. I don’t really know why things come out the way they do, but often times I’ve learnt to sublimate even my mistakes. That’s a paraphrase of a Salvador Dali quote, by the way. If you’re a person who has embraced the use of artificial intelligence in any form perhaps you disagree with some of my views. And that really is okay.

But all I ask is that you’re honest with yourself at the end of the day. We can say till we’re blue in the face that we don’t use chat bots, but the temptation is always there now for people. “Do I want to struggle for the next half hour with this sentence, or should I just pass it through an agent?” you may ask yourself. And unfortunately a lot of people give in. There are so many different agents out there nowadays that people can jump around and use their free credits to their heart’s content. The large majority of people don’t even need a paid account. And it really is your business what you do.

As I’ve stated before, I do use one of these agents to create the illustrations that accompany my articles. But as far as I know that’s not breaking the terms of service. What makes this all the more ironic is I’m actually an illustrator myself, so I could be hand drawing them. And if you go back to my early work on Medium you can see the drawings I made back then. What happened subsequently is that people stopped hiring me for commercial projects, with the boom of artificial intelligence. So it stole my job. I then considered making it work for me. But I still write everything I do without the use of a chat bot.

Every time I leave the house a brand new disappointment occurs. It’s like I can set a countdown timer till disaster strikes. Has the world gone crazy? Or is it just me? Everywhere I turn, people are rude, inefficient or mind numbingly apathetic. They have absolutely no pride in their work. Everyone seems miserable, and courteousness is a thing of the past. Who ever thought a quick trip to the couriers could turn into such an unpleasant experience? I’ve used a different place to ship stuff before, but I thought I’d give the actual courier itself a try. But boy, what a mistake that was.

I’m a cartoonist who self-publishes book collections of my work, and all I wanted to do was ship a couple of them. Well! You’d have thought I was excrement stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe with the way I was treated. I walk in. Nobody greets me, despite being a brand new customer, looking to spend money in their establishment. What’s up with young people today? They either have no idea how to be professional, or they’re fully aware how incompetent they are but don’t care. I think it’s the latter. But what do I know? I’m just a lowly artist, in a world full of working stiffs.

If I’d have simply been told how to go about preparing my package for delivery up front, that would’ve been fine. But instead, I was expected to do all the work for them. This is the type of thing that really gets me down. People can say I’m oversensitive, but I remember a time when people had pride in their work. That doesn’t seem to be the case any longer. And the more I look at the unemployment rate, the less I pity the people who don’t have jobs. Because you give them a shot and this is the type of behaviour they exhibit. I personally have a very strong work ethic. I have to.

It gets me thinking: is this a worldwide phenomenon? Or is it just endemic in the people I’m surrounded by? I have friends abroad who tell their own horror stories of how young people today don’t care about their work either. So maybe it’s not just a third world problem. Maybe it’s universal. I get it. Not everybody wants to work a menial, low level job. But surely if they wish to move up in the world at some point they could strive just a little to be better? My faith in humanity is dashed. This is why I’m reclusive. I’m reminded every time I venture out into society how stupid people are.

Now that I’ve returned to the comfort of my own home, slipped into my house shoes and oversized sweater nothing can touch me. I’m freed of the confining nature of others. I bask in my own company, and won’t leave until I really have to. I think the problem is other people. I don’t think it’s me. I’m always polite and respectful of others, to the point of ridiculousness. But I’m seriously considering changing my policy on that one. Here’s the thing, when I’m dealing with a stranger in the context of a business transaction I expect that interaction to be pleasant. I guess that’s too hard.

Depending on anyone other than myself is anxiety inducing. People don’t care. They’re just trying to make it through their stupid work day and are looking forward to sitting on their duff. There is no attempt whatsoever of trying to make anyone else’s day brighter with so much as a smile or a friendly greeting. And why should I have to fill out a form for a courier company? Surely that’s their job. I mean, all they have to do is throw the package in a truck and drive it to it’s destination. Why make the customer do the work? Because they couldn’t be bothered. I’m just another annoyance.

That’s how I feel, anyway. Like something to be avoided. Like the bare minimum is asking too much. I can safely say I’ve never once in my life conducted myself in the way this person I dealt with did. They made me feel like I wasn’t worthy of being served. And I’m sure if their manager knew how they were conducting themselves on the clock, that’d get them canned. So it is now my mission to do as much damage as I possibly can to the reputation of the company that did me down. I’m talking stinking public reviews and an all out boycott of their brand in perpetuity. This is war.

Now I’m happy. Because I have something to fight about. Life presents you with nemeses all the time, and once they throw the first punch, it’s on. I guess I could look at this a different way, and I think I will. This little oversight was a gift. I now have somewhere to focus my anger. I can destroy some little squirt’s day the way they spoiled mine. I’m sure management isn’t going to be very happy about this. Then I consider, how far should I take this? It’s worth it to me to get these snot nosed punks fired and make way for someone who’ll actually take their position seriously. So here we go.

You may think I’m blowing this out of proportion, but I honestly don’t think I am. Something as simple as being helpful could’ve saved these slackers a lot of misery. So now I need to determine what course of action I take first. Do I leave a stinking review on the internet, or take it further? I’m not in the mood to be directed to a sign which conveys that right of admission is reserved. So you can choose not to serve me? Based on what? I haven’t even started yet. I’m your worst nightmare. You could look at this deeper, and ask yourself what might be wrong with me. Why I’m so touchy.

Because I remember a time when things weren’t this hard. When sending off a couple books didn’t make me feel like such a fool. My ego seems to have been injured, and I’ll stop at nothing to wound those who injured it tenfold. That’s how I am. Spiteful and vindictive. These people deserve to lose their jobs. But they probably won’t, because finding someone dumb enough to fill such a position is a bridge too far. Does anyone pay attention to bad reviews? Do they heed those kinds of warnings? I know I do. Something is changing inside me. I’ve succumbed to feelings of revenge and can’t stop.

Part of me is catastrophising, and I know it. But there’s a part of me that needs something to rail at, and now I’ve got it. Misanthropy is a peculiar behaviour to say the very least, but it suits me down to the ground. Perhaps I do need to learn how to let go and allow others to take care of certain things, but I can’t help but feel like doing things for myself assures there are very few blunders. Of course I’m not perfect, and sometimes I drop the ball too. But that’s something I can live with. What I can’t, is somebody else’s mistakes. I suppose, to the courier, I’m just another number. And I am.

But surely they could treat their customers better. Surely it isn’t hard to be greeted when you walk through the door, and asked if you need any assistance. I could be disabled or something, and have trouble filling out my own form. My belief is that they should be taking care of that stuff for me. I’ve just had much better experiences elsewhere. But on those occasions I didn’t feel the need to write a whole piece rambling on about how great the experience was. It’s only negative experiences that stick out to us as human beings. Am I a narcissist, or something? Why am I so angry about this?

I think control freak might be a better term. I know I can take my business elsewhere. Allow me to put myself in those pathetic suckers shoes who work there for a minute. Would I be thrilled to deal with the public all day? Probably not. But I made a series of life choices in which I was never subject to having to take a low level job. I guess they’re doing the best they can. Perhaps one of them was disabled? No. I’m going to go with stupid, sorry. I don’t feel bad that they work at a courier. If they can’t do the job they should go elsewhere. What level of smarts are we dealing with?

My opinion is that one should strive to do the best job they possible can, because it takes more work to be difficult than it does pleasant. Maybe it’s my lack of experience in the real world that makes me so prickly and prone to feeling victimised. A lot of this I probably won’t even remember tomorrow. Because I’ll be living my dreams. Something they can’t do, because they’re stuck in a courier. What a pitiful existence, really. All I care about from here on out is pursuing my craft and mastering it. I’ll no longer stew in these toxic juices that were created outside of my own control.

I have books to write, comics to draw, and art to make. I now see that getting so angry about something so inconsequential is just silly. What do I care about that two bit dump? Those people can wallow in their mediocrity till the end of time for all I care. I’m not going to get anyone fired. Alright. I’ll admit, I did write a bad review of the place already. But I don’t have to deal with them anymore, and as long as they deliver my package I’ll never see them again. I needed to get this out of my system, though. I was mad as a snake. All I can hope for is that it provided some amusement.

So I did it. I published the dreaded piece I’ve been agonising over. Now my apology tour begins. I’ll need to ask that no one leaves. Actually, maybe it’s a good thing I captured my foul mood in a time capsule, so I can better reflect on how not to react in future. It was Baltasar Gracián who said, “Fools have only one thing that isn’t completely bad: although the wise are of no use to them, they can be of use to the wise, as negative examples.” And I’m self-aware enough to know of my foolishness. Heavy is the head that wears the jester’s hat, right? No, that’s not how it goes. Oh well.

Looking at this whole situation from the standpoint of observing my own behaviour is key. It’s what I do. I home in on the intricacies and nuances that are invisible to most. I’m able to process these things with a sense of detachment, and it all goes back to being a strategist in this thing we call life. While I’m not usually one for daily devotionals, I did pick up Robert Greene’s ‘The Daily Laws: 366 Meditations on Power, Seduction, Mastery, Strategy and Human Nature,’ and it provides some nice bite-sized chunks of information that can be applied to everyday life. I can’t recommend it enough.

What it does is takes some of the concepts he devised over the course of his career as an author so far and zooms in on them in often one page musings. I read a new page every morning when I get up and I’m in the the process of getting caffeinated. I find it sets a tone for the day ahead. And while I like reading this particular book, I have absolutely no interest in writing one myself. Which is odd, because usually when something inspires me I want to make my own version of it. When I tell you it is unlike any devotional I’ve read, I mean it. Greene has a way of simplifying complex ideas well.

However, when I look around at some of the other self-help books on the shelves of book stores I can’t help but feel underwhelmed. In the genre itself we have all the great deceivers, snake oil salesmen, hucksters and self-professed authorities. You know the ones. James Clear, Mark Mason, Brianna Wiest, et al. And maybe you like those authors. I just can’t get into them. I remember I was in discussion with a client of mine and he swore off reading ‘The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.’ So I never read it. A harsh way to judge a book, yes, but I don’t waste precious time on bad work.

The thing that turns me off most self-help is the preachiness of it all. If it feels like someone is telling me what to do rather than guiding me gently and convincing me carefully I get restless. I want to be courted as a reader, not spoken down to. No one has all the answers. But if they can make a good argument, they’ve got me. This is probably why my effort at a self-help book hasn’t sold. Either I punched in all the wrong keywords on Kindle Direct Publishing and made it undiscoverable or my version of self-help was not self-help enough. I’ll blame Greene for that one.

But I really should be blaming myself. Going back and adjusting my keywords, and marketing my book somehow. All I know is that I enjoyed writing it tremendously, and that is enough for me. I don’t get involved in stuff to sell. I follow my passions and see where they take me. Awful advice for anybody who is trying to make content that converts or scales — but I’m not giving any advice. And I simply couldn’t, because I’m not qualified enough to do so. To dispense wisdom one must touch the heart of the reader, and reveal a universal truth. And the only way to do that is through authenticity.

That’d be my strategy (if I were to even have one). To show up and be myself. To let the chips fall where they may. To give others a snapshot into my world, and hopefully bring them into it without any coercion. As writers we must cajole our subjects with interesting titbits from our lives. The things no one else can possibly recreate without venturing into the realm of outright plagiarism. Those are the aspects of ourselves that can’t be mimicked. And like sarcasm being the lowest form of wit, mimicry is the amateurs only option. They can’t be themselves, because there’s nothing there.

Here’s where I tend to agree with Ryan Holiday. He said — and I’m paraphrasing — that in order to be a great writer you need to experience life. You need to live it to the full. Otherwise you’ll have nothing to draw from or really write about. I’ve personally had a whole other career before I ever sat down and took writing seriously. And that seems to have helped. I know now what I don’t want out of this venture, and I’ve learnt some invaluable lessons about what doesn’t work creatively. Trying to turn any creative act into something commercially viable is a mistake. Art doesn’t work that way.

And certainly, you get some people who strike it lucky and are able to manifest their dreams. But that’s mainly about being in the right place at the right time. Luck or good fortune has everything to do with it. No one can foresee their project taking off and skyrocketing beyond their wildest dreams. And while it is indeed the stuff dreams are made of, it rarely happens to the common man. I remember listening to a vlog by Greene who said that in order to publish ‘The 48 Laws of Power’ he’d only go into business with anyone if they didn’t alter or soften the book in any way, or else he’d walk.

How mind-blowingly confident one has to be in their project to do such a thing. It might seem arrogant on its face, but as we all know, publishing houses edit the crap out of manuscripts until they no longer resemble what they did initially. And this is because they’re often — if not always — focused on what sells. They’re not interested in new ideas. Just rehashing whatever is hot at the moment. And that’s another reason why I don’t think I’ll ever pitch a book anywhere, preferring to self-publish and get almost no sales, and have no marketing team behind me. I’m interested most in subversion.

Counter-culture and the underground run in my blood. Putting something out that I know for a fact that I believe in is more important to me than money. The freedom that comes with being the guy with whom the buck stops is addictive. But to most people they want that official stamp of approval. They want to make New York Times bestseller. And they’ll sell their soul to get there. Let’s face it — more than half of the books on our shelves are unremarkable — barring the classics. They’ve been softened, all the good parts have been edited out, and they’re meant to appeal to the general public.

But the general public isn’t as weird and eccentric as me, so I don’t see anything of value in what gets put out. And I’ve given all kinds of bestsellers a shot. I honestly think that some people try and get in to things that other people like to seem like they relate. But when you actually pick up a book that gets rave reviews it often doesn’t resonate in the way people say it will. At least for me, anyway. Then I start wondering if there’s something wrong with me. I begin to think my interests are too niche. And that’s when I remind myself that it’s okay. Instead we should judge books by our own metric.

Not what seems cool. Not what everyone is talking about now on BookTok (and I hate sounding so elitist, and like such a snob, but hey). I’ve long since learnt I can’t help who I am or what I like. I can’t just get into most of the things that are trending. The work that speaks to me most is obscure and absurd, surreal and provocative. And just because I like those things as a reader doesn’t mean my own writing reflects it. I write how I write, and I read how I read. While the two are somewhat interrelated, I also know they’re separate entities. I can’t even define the genre I fall into. So I don’t.

The past few days I’ve been fighting a bug and my usual levels of productivity have flown out the window. I’ve been sleeping a lot. And more than most people, I’d assume, I get restless when I have to rest. Most people would take the opportunity as a welcome respite. But I want to write and draw. It feeds my soul in a way that nothing else can. I realise that I need to learn how to slow down, and resign myself to the fact that I’m not a machine. My body needs rest, and so does my mind. One thing I’ll never allow myself to be robbed of is the creative act. Come hell or high water, I’ll be here.

Do you have a strategy for your content? I bashed the term and premise “content strategist” a little while ago now, and it got me thinking in those very terms. We all have something to offer someone, and to strategise how your content will potentially land can’t be a literary cardinal sin. So I guess I’ve changed my mind. Call me a flip-flopper if you will — it’s no skin off my nose. I’ve always switched opinions like underwear. One day believing this, the next believing that. The only difference is I’m honest about it. Most people aren’t forthcoming, and rather willing to die on a hill.

I’ve been meaning to get my hands on Ryan Holiday’s ‘Growth Hacker Marketing’ and ‘Perennial Seller,’ but my local book stores and Amazon have let me down. The reason is I want to get better at marketing, because as I’ve said before I suck at it. All I want to do is gain wider readership, I don’t care if I don’t make a cent from any of this — and you can’t. The moment you do something for the express purpose of profiting from it, money is the very thing you immediately repel. It’s a universal truth, and if you don’t believe me, just try it. But that isn’t meant to discourage, it’s just an acknowledgement.

I personally never saw myself as a content strategist, but perhaps it was wrong-headed to think that way. Aren’t we all? As much as we say we want one thing we often mean another, because human beings are inherently dishonest creatures. It’s like me saying I don’t care if I make a cent — of course I want to make a couple bucks here and there — it’s what allows us to devote more time to what we’re passionate about. I do have a problem however with someone strategising whether or not something will resonate before they create it. What’s the point in that? To suck the fun out of it?

But in this day and age we’re all angling for views and clicks. It’s simply a fact of life. Social media and those who eschew their involvement in it even sneak a peek here and there. It’s almost inescapable. Everything is an app nowadays, everything has a QR code, everything is instant messaging, and people barely pick up the phone anymore and check in. You’re lucky if you get a text. I remember my departure from instant messaging clearly. It boggled people’s minds. And the bane of my existence is the voice note phenomenon. Incoherent rambling for the sake of it, really.

Here’s the thing. I don’t do a lot of market research. I don’t presume anyone has any interest in what I have to offer. And the numbers back that up. My only goal is to get whatever is on my chest off of it, and you can’t assume that’ll get eyeballs or cultivate an audience. Maybe I’m breaking the fourth wall here when I shouldn’t be. But I’m genuinely interested in how others strategise, plot and plan their next piece. To me it’s a fascinating idea because it’s something I’m unfamiliar with. This is the reason nothing I do has much of a following. I colour outside the lines, and go off the beaten path.

I’ve read enough strategy relating to human nature, why wouldn’t I want to indulge in the broadening of such a concept? Because I don’t want to use anybody. I don’t want to see readers as numbers. They’re people, for God’s sake. And numbers reek of corporate. There’s a plasticity and a insincerity to it all, and I know for a fact what it is I don’t want. The hard part is deciding what I do. Isn’t it interesting, though? This phenomena of people chasing likes, shares and subscribers, stacking them like physical possessions in order to reflect some part of their self-worth? To me it is.

My content strategy is to have somebody happen across my work and have it click. To bring them into my world as I see it and have it stir something inside of them. And maybe that’ll never happen, but a guy can dream. Content strategy sounds methodical, mathematical, and manipulative. (The alliteration just then wasn’t intentional). Who would go as far as to conduct market research as it relates to an online blogging platform? And what motivates these individuals to do such a thing? I guess we can safely assume that the number one driving force is getting compensated financially.

Look, there’s nothing wrong with getting paid for ones work. It’s what keeps the economy going. The bartering of services delivered for cold hard cash. But I just know how soul-destroying it was trying to shoehorn my creative practice into the context of a business. And it’s why I warn people off of it. I couldn’t imagine having an obligation to write. I only do it because I’m not required to. And most of the time no one reads what I write anyway. I’m not feeling sorry for myself either — I’m aware that I’m not for everybody. That’s why I’d never know who my target market or audience is.

People have paid me compliments on my writing throughout my life and that was enough to motivate me to do it more. Often when I read other people’s work though I’m struck by how far it is I still have to go to get better at this whole thing. I guess some people have just mastered the art of making what they do look effortless. If writing was an unpleasant, anxiety-inducing struggle for me and the way I write I’d never do it. I know someone who writes for themselves entirely. They don’t publish, but they keep up the daily habit. I’m not sure if they don’t have the confidence to publish.

All I know is that there is an aspect of this process which is performative, and that appeals to me deeply. Making an absolute fool of myself in public seems to be something I have a burning desire to do. To lay it all out on the table and expose myself warts and all. To start arguments, to ask questions, to, at times, call myself out for being a hypocritical douche bag. I want someone to watch as I go down in flames. I know it’s a highly unusual choice, but it’s mine to make. And there always seems to be a sense of making it up as I go along about anything I do creatively. Sure, I plot mentally.

But that’s not the same as outlining stuff and making sure you hit all the right points before you close a piece. The way I see it, that’s too formulaic for me to derive any enjoyment out of. It’s the same with my cartooning. I write and draw at the same time, improvising as I go. I guess it’s another reason why I’ve never been able to stomach a straight job. If I’ve got a list of tasks to do, and I’m being barked at by some bureaucrat I’m going to fold like a cheap suit. No one tells me what to do. But simultaneously, I’m the most demanding boss I’ve ever had. Self employment isn’t for everyone.

I met up with a friend I haven’t seen in over a decade. He’s working a corporate graphic design job. Although he seems otherwise fine there is a sadness about him. He looks dead-eyed and defeated. And I think he hates his life. Chances are there are many other people out there who’re living the same reality. Life can be brutal and especially unforgiving. I don’t envy his position, but I guess he’s resigned himself to the fact that life can’t change for the better. Not if you’re in corporate. He always has snide remarks to make about my freelance career, but look at him now! I take no joy in this.

I’m convinced the corporate environment kills people slowly. I get that for some reason they have to exist in order for the economy to keep going, but I could never put all my interests on hold for my entire life and only enjoy myself when I retire. That’s no way to live. And I guess the strategists behind content that blows up are a corporatisation of what I otherwise consider a viable art form. That’s where the problem comes in. I don’t want to read something because someone was on a deadline and they’re only doing it because they’re going to get paid. I want raw self-expression.

Turning art into a commodity is downright blasphemous to me. To take something so pure, so rich, so free, and have it narrowly confined to a box to generate a bottom line is tragic. I know there are tons of articles out there preaching the same old song, how to get your content to convert. How to scale. How to finally break the glass ceiling. But I’m not interested in any of that and I could never be. I’m here to give you myself unadulterated. No holes barred. Without filler or a filter. Hopefully when someone’s done reading a piece by me they feel like they visited an old friend. Not a huckster.

I've got this really angry piece sitting in my drafts. And I’ve been actively avoiding hitting publish on it for a while. When I say a while, I mean a while. Part of me is afraid I’ll get dinged if I go ahead and release it, so I keep vacillating between “I’m going to publish this next” and “It’ll never see the light of day.” Right now I’m writing this piece because I’ve decided I don’t want to release that piece. So I find myself in quite a peculiar predicament. Like maybe I should just throw caution to the wind, or insert some kind of disclaimer in the beginning that warns people about the mood I was in at the time. All of this speaks to a level of indecision on my part. And it’s anxiety-inducing.

But what a silly thing to get anxious about. There are real people out there with real problems, and here I am white knuckling over some seemingly controversial piece. The truth is it might not even be that pejorative at all. Perhaps I’m just catastrophising. Something I’m clearly wont to do. Another factor that comes into play is that not a lot of people stop by and read my stuff, so maybe even if I do publish it it’ll some how fly under the radar unnoticed. Then I get to thinking, isn’t this amusing? Here I am pouring my heart out almost daily and I’m worried about one article. The dreaded article. Something I made, that came from within, that I crafted with my bare hands. It’s circling the drain.

Some day I might work up enough courage to publish it, but until then I think it needs to live in a liminal state. What’s funny is I don’t usually agonise over such things like this. So there must be something there. What it is that’s making it so compelling is beyond me. What it boils down to in a way — and I feel ashamed even admitting this — is that I don’t want to lose my audience. I don’t want to hit them with something that paints me in a negative light. I mean, who needs another rant anyway? Most people come here to get away from all that, right? Not read complaints disguised as articles. Then again I’m not monetised, so why am I holding back? I might never know the answer.

One thing I know for certain is although my writing is accessible to a degree it’s not for everyone. I’m an acquired taste. Kind of like the first time you drink neat whiskey. It burns as it goes down your throat. I’m the literary equivalent of bourbon on the rocks. And the funniest part is I’m stone cold sober. Comparing ones work to alcohol or drugs is probably not a great idea, however. Because substance abuse is no laughing matter. Then I think about writers who did their best work under the influence. Stephen King, Hunter S. Thompson and Charles Bukowski come to mind immediately. That’s never been me though. I did used to smoke a ton of pot and drink like a fish, but no more.

Does the audience really want you to hold back though? I’d assume not. Self-censorship is a big problem, but it’s also understandable with the prevalence of the almighty ban hammer and looming terms of service. Honestly, writing platforms can terminate an account for anything they really want to. I sometimes think I should just go ahead and set up an independent blog. But then I remember it’d be a similar experience to Substack, where no one can find you unless they actively seek you out. This is why I prefer Medium by far. It comes with a built in audience. But there are things I’d like to say sometimes that I don’t, because I’m scared of violating the clearly laid out guidelines.

That’s a me problem though. Because I run my own forum and have a terms of service there too. I get it, rules are boring, but they’re necessary. Imagine if we lived in pure anarchy. You get those who fantasise about this utopia where anything goes, and honestly, living like that would never work. What seems like a brilliant idea in the abstract turns out not to be so practically sound. But this whole business of self-censorship is bothering me if I am to be brutally honest. What is it I’m not saying? I think what I need to do is write a list of all the outrageous topics I wish to explore and go for it, no holes barred. If I lose people maybe a good attitude is so be it. Who really knows?

The thing is I pride myself on being honest, and people can tell when you’re holding back. However, I think going about this in a more strategic fashion is best. I don’t have to reveal everything at once. I can instead unravel what it is I want to say slowly and with more nuance. Give my readers context for what it is they’re walking into. And I know, this all sounds like excuses. And maybe they are. So what? We build our lives on them after all. Most of the things we really want to do we don’t because there’s fear involved. Something in the back of our minds tells us to pump the brakes, to tread carefully. I also want to put my sensitive side on display because it’s a part of me.

One of my worst fears is coming off like a douche bag without self-awareness. And aren’t those types the worst? The folks who don’t know what they don’t know. I recently stumbled across a quote I jotted down in my sketchbook from Paracelsus. It goes, “I began to study my art by imagining that there was not a single teacher in the world capable to teach it to me, but that I had to acquire it myself.” And that’s a good description of where I’m at. I’ve never sought out mentors — not because there aren’t decent ones around, no — but because I don’t think anyone understands fully what it is I’m trying to do. I also have a bit of a problem with authority. But I’ve read that the right mentor can work magic.

If a teacher were capable of instilling confidence in me I’d integrate them into my life without question. But only I can gain the right amount of confidence through the right amount of trial and error. I’ve chosen to go the long way around. To hit my head and step in doo-doo along the way. Those are the experiences that teach me things. Although, come to think of it I did have a very effective art teacher in high school. So I tracked her down and sent her an email telling her how much I appreciated her encouragement over the time she taught me. She responded gracefully as I thought she would. And all this flies in the face of the no mentor policy. I’m a walking talking contradiction.

Is there any other way to be, though? I think those whose personalities are too congruent are clearly hiding something. No one is that together. We all have skeletons in our closet and at times come off as inconsistent. Isn’t that what makes us human? That’s why I’ve long since abandoned any idea, even remotely, that I’ll make sense. I’m an artist. I don’t need to make sense. Plus I killed my old self but the new me isn’t much better. I think the thing I’m grappling with most is a sense of placation. Something I swore I’d never do. As Osamu Dazai said, “I lived so carefully, thinking someone was watching. But the stage was empty, the audience never came.” We’re performing to an empty stage.

Everyone patronises others at some time or another in life, and we tend to want to placate the special interests of those we value. It’s when ones entire personality is that of a chameleon that they can’t be trusted. How are you supposed to interact with a mirror, anyway? It copies your every action and reflects back what you are. So insincere people are just mirrors. And that’s where I come in. I put my fist through the mirror and shatter it. I do this because I can’t stand to be mimicked — even though imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. I don’t think I care to be flattered much. I’d rather have someone give it to me straight, given they’re not outright rude. I was raised with manners.

So I expect the same from others, and when I don’t get it it can be quite devastating. Take for instance someone who has established their personality on being straightforward. You come to accept that they’re going to tell you how it is. Therefore they’re let off the hook a bit more than the person who tends to soften the blow out of politeness. And when it comes to being polite it is a form of deception, no question. People tell you what you want to hear. They assure you things are not as bad as you think they are. And it almost instils a sense of confidence in you that would otherwise be dashed if you were dealing with a brute without a filter. While I’m polite I really try and not tell lies.

And even a white lie can get out of hand. Where is the sweet spot, between respectful dialogue and those without the social grace of possessing a filter? How do we find it and implement it? One thing is for sure, the world needs both personality types. I observe human behaviour quite a lot. I’m a people watcher. And for most of my life I’ve been accused of being too sensitive. If I had a buck every time someone told me not to take something personally I’d be a wealthy man. But I don’t know any other way to be. This is me, like it or don’t. Accept it or reject it. Chances are most people are too wrapped up in their own drama and neuroses to notice what anyone else is going through. So just be you and forget the rest.

I've long since internalised the strategy of making what takes years of painstaking mastery look like a cinch. And honestly, I first came across this idea in Law 30 of ‘The 48 Laws of Power,’ where it suggests we make our accomplishments seem effortless. The subtitle of this chapter goes on to state, “You look immensely competent and powerful when you achieve your goals without breaking a sweat.” However the problem for most of us is that we do break a sweat. We spend hours upon hours a day mastering that one skill or honing our talent. So to make it look easy sounds counterproductive. But it’s only until somebody else tries their hand at it that it becomes impossible.

The definition of the Italian word sprezzatura is as follows: “Studied carelessness, especially as a characteristic quality or style of art or literature.” Now I like the sound of that. Studied carelessness. And that’s because it dovetails perfectly with a piece I wrote about a week ago in which I explore uselessness being liberating. An arguably controversial view I’ve taken recently is that art needs to be impractical in order to be considered brilliant. But that speaks to my personal taste in non-commercial work. The instant I learn something supposedly artistic was done for the express purpose of generating a profit I lose interest. And I refer to art in the broadest sense, in all it’s forms.

Writing prose is an art, stand up comedy is an art, as is painting or drawing. To me they all fall under the same umbrella. So I guess my newfound interest in the term sprezzatura is intrinsically related to my personal opinion of a sense of impracticality being necessary in the arts. Look, people design billboards and paint signs to lure in business all the time. That to me is a practical application of so-called art. But at the same time it’s not art. I remember I was once having a conversation with a client and she said her husband was an artist. As I proceeded further on into the dialogue I learnt he was in advertising. That’s not an artist, sorry. That’s what you call a sell out.

Advertising can’t be an art, as it coerces others into parting with their hard earned money. And there most certainly is a psychological bent to it, but it’s more akin to brainwashing than moving one emotionally. I mean, how can you compare Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D’ and how it stirs something inside of your soul to that slop? You can’t. And no one will ever convince me that you can. I’ve seen grown men weep to orchestral music, and I’ve done so myself. There’s no question that we’re living in a time now where real music has been replaced with the basest negativity of the human race. Sure, I’ve enjoyed Hip Hop, mainly in the nineties, but it doesn’t move me the way an orchestra can.

I’m well aware that I might come off sounding like a purist here, but it’s no skin off my nose. I’ve marvelled at Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel all my life, and I know for a fact that I could never so much as touch the tip of the iceberg of what he achieved, being a lowly cartoonist. Even if I started applying myself this late in my life I’d never get there, and for that he deserves all the credit in the world. But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? Credit. Artists plaster their names or signatures all over their work because they’re so afraid that they’re not going to be credited for it. My approach is a little more open source. I believe artists should freely borrow from each other, and reinterpret past works.

I think taking credit for something fully is foolish, simply because of my theory around where ideas originate. Everyone has access to free association, connections, and the combination of already existing concepts combined with others. Nothing is truly original. Everything has a reference point. And a real artist will admit to that. It all boils down to how we process information, and the filters said information passes through. All my life I’ve mimicked my heroes. Throughout every piece I’ve ever created there are traces of my influences. But there’s a big difference between that and plagiarism. And yes, I know Picasso supposedly said that “Good artists copy, great artists steal.”

However, while looking further into the origin of such an utterance, I can’t find any credible sources of him actually saying that. And historical quotes are frequently misattributed or fabricated entirely. We build so much lore up in our heads that lies become the truth. We want so badly to believe certain figureheads said and did certain things, but our perceptions are often clouded by our own biases. While I’m almost reticent to quote a literary giant with the now widespread false quotes, it was Leo Tolstoy who said “I am always with myself, and it is I who am my tormentor.” Think about that for a minute. This man had a troubled relationship with his wife, mainly due to how he worked.

He’d disappear for days on end, pull her close and push her away. But for a man to achieve what he did, of course he was difficult. I’m one of those creative types that requires a lot of space to be in my own head, and while I am present for my wife I sometimes feel ashamed that I’m not more available. My art has always been my idol, and I have no trouble admitting that. And even though my existence is not miserable, I do escape into my work frequently. This poses a problem when it comes to me running out of steam or being away from the studio against my will. Because I’m always moving forward, no matter what. I can be fickle though, and crumble when I don’t get to draw.

Drawing unlocks some part of my brain that needs to be stimulated. It’s like scratching an itch when I do it, and we all know how satisfying that sensation is. If I’m on any type of time constraint however that’s a sure fire way for me to wind up incapable of producing. And I think that’s because for many years I was on the clock, working as a commercial illustrator, doing things I really didn’t want to do. But the payoff was that I told myself I was fortunate to be doing something I enjoyed. Drawing. That novelty wears off after years of working through holidays, weekends and after hours, making stuff that clients don’t appreciate because they’re using the material to sell products.

I simply stopped wanting to be a part of that. And to be honest with you, the pay wasn’t all that good. I guess I could blame myself for charging too little, but it’s all in the past now, so it doesn’t really matter whose fault it was. I say all this to say we need non-commercial work. Art that is made from the heart and appeals to the heart. I recently read somewhere that it’s a fantastic time to be an illustrator. The rationale? With the rise of artificial intelligence, people are looking to hire creatives that make work with a human touch. I’m not so certain that’s the case, though. Because my phone isn’t ringing, and it hasn’t in a few years. And it’s not because I’m unavailable, I still am, for a fee.

Another law in ‘The 48 Laws of Power’ is to despise the free lunch. Everyone knows there are almost always strings attached, and while artificial intelligence is free, someone is the product. And it’s probably those who use it. This is one of the reasons I prefer to pay for things as opposed to getting them pro bono. The concept of something being free cheapens the feeling. There’s always a hidden catch. Always. One of the things that gets my goat sometimes is when somebody does something that seems altruistic, and later on you come to find out there were selfish motives behind it. It’s often easy to figure out pretty fast, but it’s when this occurs that I become disappointed in others.

I like to give of myself freely to those I love, and do things from a place of sincerity. Anyone who is incapable of doing such a thing immediately goes on my shit list. Life is too short to entertain self-absorbed people. Even though most of us are by default. We’ve got to work hard to rid ourselves of such an ugly trait, and it’s easier said than done. But at the end of the day it’s not hard to show up and offer whatever you can to someone who so desperately needs it. The level of selfishness we observe in the common man today is astounding to say the very least. And I think there are multiple reasons why people are that way. Social media encourages self-absorption and a me first attitude.

That’s one of the reasons I steer clear of it, and devote my time to richer life experiences. Because honestly, looking at life through the narrow lens of what people want you to see is dangerous. It gives others a false impression of what your life is really like. It makes you look like your life is easy and you never have low points. That’s another reason why I think making what is difficult appear effortless might not be the best way forward. Because it’s inherently dishonest. And I don’t like dishonest. I want the truth, plain and straight. Without the frills. I’m not scared to say that being an artist is not all roses. Sometimes you stare at the page for a good while before anything comes. Other times what you produce is unusable. And it all depends whether it survives a ruthless edit.

When it comes to positivity and affirmation, I’m probably one of the least likely candidates to dispense any advice remotely related its benefits. But that won’t stop me from doing it anyway. Although my nihilism gets in the way most times, I do also possess a sense of hope. And maybe that’s difficult to reconcile given the circumstances, however, it remains true. I picked this phrase up from another equally self-destructive individual, and I now realise it was possibly said with some irony. To be of good cheer, though, can in very few instances be counterproductive. Unless of course we wade into the realm of toxic positivity, in which case delusional thinking seeps through.

In the face of challenges, if we approach things from a hopeful perspective, that hope may indeed get dashed. But it’s in our perseverance that we shine. I’m not saying any given obstacle can be met with ecstasy, no, certainly not. Rather, it’s in turning what otherwise could be a drawback into a silver lining. But how does one go about doing so, you may ask? With attitude. Out of all the things we can’t control in life our attitude is the thing we can. We determine how we respond to situations that arise. Not the other way around. A lot of people may feel like there’s no choice, but there really always is. With all the setbacks that have occurred in my life I’ve learnt the power of manifestation.

Because when you’ve got nothing else but how you see the world, the world becomes your oyster. This isn’t some flash in the pan upbeat kick I’m on — despite my living with a mood disorder — instead, it’s a universally relatable truth. I spent way too many years with a voice in my head telling me I was nothing, that everyone hated me and I was going to die to form a defeatist position. I simply had to rise above the noise, and with the help of the right mental health professionals I was able to. The black pill is a dangerous outlook and only leads one way: down. And nobody crafts a downward spiral deliberately unless they’re seriously disturbed. A modern term for this is doomer.

To some people the sky is always falling, and a conspiracy against them lurks around every corner. I know sometimes I lean that direction myself, but it does one a great disservice. I’ve actively had to cut certain people out of my life for espousing such nonsense, like the world is coming to an end soon. And it’s always apparently just around the corner — followed by evasiveness on the timeline. I know at least one person who has stated numerous times that the messiah is coming this month, this week, or tomorrow. And you know what? It never happens. That’s not to say it won’t. I think the end days will come, and we’ll witness the final battle. But I can’t fathom a human putting an ETA on it.

At the end of the day, what do we really know? A human being cannot know the mind of God or how He works, and to try do so is just foolish. Whoever our creator may be He is bigger than us in every conceivable way. All seeing, all knowing. Omniscient. Everywhere at once and nowhere at all. Don’t even bother trying to wrap your head around that one, because it’ll never happen. But getting back to my main point, when has a kind smile ever cost you anything? Good deeds may never go unpunished, but if you do something for someone from an altruistic place, that’s on them. I’ve always been criticised for being too soft. Too sensitive. And people have taken advantage of it.

But I usually find that having such a rare quality opens doors. Relative strangers find me easy to relate to. People can talk to me about the stuff they don’t usually get the chance to speak to anyone else about. I’m understanding, open-minded and tolerant to almost everyone I encounter. And I don’t know, it may be a gift, but how can any of it ever be considered a bad thing? There are enough grumps with bitterness in their hearts on this planet. I say we all need a little bit of acceptance. And it’s not hard to do. It’s actually more difficult to be miserable. You’ve got to go pretty far out of your way to do it. It’s kind of like being offended — it takes work. And then we come to all the excuses.

There are those who feel like being pleasant is something they have to force. That life owes them something. Victims in perpetuity. Everything is a personal affront. A flat tyre is the end of the world. No, it’s just a flat tyre. You can fix it and move on. You don’t have to let it ruin the rest of your waking hours. Things happen. People cut you off in traffic. They treat you like they think a stranger should be treated — with suspicion. It’s a sad state of affairs when we question other’s motives when they offer a kind gesture or pay it forward. We seem to look for the catch. Is it a trap? What does that person want from me? Chances are, nothing. There are still decent people in the world.

They may be hard to find. It may feel as if they’re a thing of the past. But it’s in acknowledging the little moments that we discover most people are genuinely burdened with more than meets the eye. There are silent battles going on around us all the time, and they certainly affect our collective demeanour. But I get it, some people are just miserable, and telling them to be of good cheer is like attempting to convince a predator in the animal kingdom not to pursue its prey. In some cases, removing yourself entirely from their lives is sound. You have to do it for yourself, to protect your sanity. Let me shift our focus now into what we can do about our lot in life, if it is indeed dreary.

You don’t have to put on a brave face and act like everything is right all the time. No one is telling you to be Polyanna. But you can look life dead in the eye and laugh. Laugh at the absurdity of a bad situation. Shrug at the things that are not in your power to change. You can only do what you can do. Sometimes we shoulder responsibilities that are not ours. And it’s in these instances that we need to learn to be more hands-off. Fortunately other people’s struggles aren’t your cross to carry. I know a particular person who has certainly never had it easy, yet he continues to spread love and let go of the things he can’t change. And while he might not have his health, he has his dignity.

It’s a gift we give to ourselves, setting free the unnecessary burdens and baggage we carry. And the truth is most of our pain is self-inflicted when we really think about it. But you may battle to overcome even the smallest of snags. You might have a tendency to catastrophise. That can all change, however, with the right attitude and approach. Some things just aren’t worth getting upset about. You decide what’s worth your time, nobody else dictates that. The old saying that we all have the same twenty-four hours in a day applies here. What are you doing with yours? And how can it be better spent? Certainly not on rumination and endless pity parties. Chances are you have it better than most.

There are people living in abject poverty, to whom a slice of bread is equivalent to a bar of gold. But you don’t have that problem. In fact, you throw out half a loaf at a time because it goes mouldy. When I was just a kid my mother taped a photo of a starving African child with flies on his face onto the refrigerator. Now that might have also had something to do with my father’s eating disorder, but the point remains, it got me thinking twice about whether or not I was really hungry. Sure it was disturbing to see that kind of thing up close, but it taught me a valuable lesson. Appreciate what you have. You were born into privilege. You can snack if you want, but do you really need to?

Some might disagree with the route my mother took and call it some kind of trauma inducing incident. I’d say it helped put things in perspective. When I grew up, things were different. Getting a beating with the belt when you misbehaved was commonplace. Having your mouth slapped when you said something out of line to one of your parents was normal. And I’m not so sure the modern way people are raising their children is. In order to learn we need to face consequences for our bad behaviour. When discipline goes out the window so do a whole other set of virtues. But it’s up to others how they wish to rear their offspring. Since I’m not a parent it really isn’t much of a concern.

I do think it’s having a negative affect on society, though. You may not agree with corporal punishment, and that’s fine. But guardrails exist for a reason, despite most people treating them like a snore. I choose to be happy. I make a conscious effort to spread joy wherever I go. I never want to be the person who enters the room and people put their guard up, immediately. My aura is open — to the bad actor and the good Samaritan alike. Out of all my ramblings this is one I never thought I’d explore. Me. The eternal pessimist, with nihilism perspiring from his pores. It just goes to show you people can change, and for the better. I lived in the dark too long. And I’m ready to step into the light.

While I’ve got a lot on my mind, it’s sometimes a struggle to get it out of my head and onto the page. To manifest the literary vision I have. As I’ve stated before, I have these concepts that dance before my eyes, enticing me to realise them. This has occurred to me throughout my life, and I think it has a little something to do with working in the visual arts. As an illustrator, one must be able to draw from their head, often without reference — and that encourages us to engage our amygdala.

The place in the brain that is responsible for experiencing emotions. And what is more steeped in emotion than memory? The truth is, everyone has access to these sources, but some of us refuse to believe it. When I hit a wall or I’m going through a creative lull, I try not allow those things to deter me. Instead I see it as just another piece of the puzzle, something to be used to my benefit. There’s nothing more anxiety-inducing to a writer than the blank page. Few things mock or deride us more.

But every clean slate is an invitation to plumb the depths of our psyche, and discover what it is we really know. So much of who we are as people is hidden in our subconscious, and the outward image we project often has little to do with our true nature. I know it may be hard to believe, but I’ve noticed that the most seemingly hands-off types are secretly control freaks, and vice versa. Those who appear happy are sad, and the consciously composed are angry as all get out inside.

This is why we can never fully trust what people tell us. Now, I’m not encouraging severe distrust in any and all circumstances, I’m just saying that lying and deception is a uniquely human trait. Your dog or cat is incapable of lying to you — they show you an innocence and naïveté unmatched by the human animal (for want of a better phrase). And I think it’s why our pets creep into our hearts and we form such strong bonds with them. Because they can’t hurt us emotionally. They’re always happy to see us.

One of the things that drains me more than anything else is the front people put up in social settings. They’ll tell you everything is fine, when inside they’re falling apart, and battling to hold it together. They’ll agree to do something they don’t want to do instead of being honest about it. Then they’ll behave passive-aggressively, and do whatever they committed to with a bad grace. And for all those times when we encounter a brutally honest individual, we often categorise them as rude.

But nothing could be further from the truth. Wouldn’t you rather have someone be forthcoming about their intentions rather than conceal them behind cryptic, antisocial tells? I certainly would. Not everyone is like me though, and that’s a cold hard realisation I’ve come to over time. It’s a peculiar phenomenon, this hiding behind false social graces for invisible brownie points. And this is not to say I haven’t encountered outright rude people, because I have. However that’s very different.

Being rude is a blatant disregard for others sensibilities. Deliberately making remarks one should rather avoid, at risk of becoming hurtful. We need less tone deaf, pompous, socially inept types who exhibit a superiority complex despite feeling deeply inferior. But the problem doesn’t go away on its own. Someone has to speak up and confront these bad-mannered ticking time bombs. When I encounter somebody who has this undesirable trait I tend to want to break the news as delicately as possible.

And I do that out of compassion for them possibly not knowing how offensive they’re being. Perhaps they were raised in an environment where they weren’t taught how to treat others respectfully, and when you inevitably spill the beans on their behaviour and it’s reflected back on them they’re frequently shocked and surprised. That’s my experience anyway. But some people can’t help it. They believe their own hype and buy in to this idea that everything they do is remarkable.

Simply put, none of us really are. We may have good ideas but it’s in the execution of them where we often fail — out of laziness, apathy, or pure ignorance. The biggest breakthroughs in history have largely been flukes, and it’s only after they occur that the person responsible for them mythologises their path. They’ll tell you they always knew it’d work. They’ll invent fictions that stretch far and wide, and call it autobiography. And it all comes back to our inherent dishonesty.

Everyone likes the story of the underdog finally getting to the top. The rags to riches narrative. It makes them believe that if they just try hard enough they’ll be able to achieve excellence too. But I know too many people who simply outwork everyone else and still don’t move the needle. Luck unfortunately plays a tremendous part in any of us getting out big break. And truthfully? If you’re waiting for your big break don’t hold your breath. People will tell you your time will come, but no one knows that for sure.

I like to pretend that I’ve reached the pinnacle of my success, and I often imagine everything I have is something I’m fortunate to experience possessing. Whether it be my God given talents or my ability to extend compassion to others in spite of their hateful, mean-spiritedness. Love can never be wrong. It’s always a good reaction to any set of circumstances we face. And I’m not talking about toxic positivity and manifestation magic, no, instead what I refer to is a flat out choice to spread peace.

As a pacifist, while I’m diametrically opposed to war on foreign grounds, I recognise that there are instances in life which come to feel like a battlefield. Those instead are the instances in which I feel callousness is deserved and retribution is right and just. You can only turn the other cheek for so long until you become a pushover. And I don’t think Jesus even advocated for that in the accounts written of Him. Revenge is, at times, a perfectly rational response to someone trying to ruin you.

I understand there are those who’ll disagree with me. But think about this for a moment. Say you’re in a position where your life is being made hell by an aggressor. They could be a bully, a professional colleague, a competitor, or even your boss. Sometimes making an example of them teaches others what they can expect from you if you’re crossed. Vengeance is something that is discouraged in common parlance, but only you can determine if it feels right and fits well or doesn’t.

The truth is, if we lived in a world where nobody baited anyone else into conflict would we even appreciate the times when we encounter the placid and peace-loving? It’s like bad days — you can’t have good days if you don’t have bad days sometimes. Everything appears to be a duality in this life. I’m not entirely sure why that is, but it’s the nature of our existence. Good versus evil, the brightness of day and the darkness of night. Obviously whoever is responsible for creation is sending us a message.

I might not know what that message is entirely, but with enough intuitive exploration of my own motives I might some day learn. The thing is, none of this can be forced or memorised as we do facts for a test. We have to live our lives and gain experience as we do so. That is how we find meaning and discover our purpose. Unfortunately we never seem to learn lessons through conduits, which is why sages and philosophers are not the best way to gain insight into the nature of life.

“Some day I’ll be able to let go of my resentments and bottled up frustrations and be free,” we tell ourselves. “But not today. Today I’ll continue on as I always have, and hope for a different result.” That result never comes. It’s only by actively changing our behaviour that we yield other outcomes. The grass always seems greener on the other side. Someone else will always seem to have it better than us. If only we knew that there’s someone out there longing for our life would we comprehend how good we really have it.

Clarity of mind is when you see your goal in the distance and make a beeline for it. Fear of the unknown is when you dissolved like an OTC effervescent, drowning in the tears of your uncertainty. Stability is standing in front of a gulf, unmoved by its vastness, and walking back to the vehicle you came in, to leave. Depression is a whirlpool of seemingly endless drain circling, while gasping for air, and instead swallowing unequal amounts of water. These words are from my diary.

I wrote them a very long time ago, and I’m not sure what my circumstances were at the time. Thinking back on certain periods of my life I either wince or smirk. Of course there is a lot of alternative reactions in between, but they’re too numerous to list. Nor do I feel they’re all that compelling to read. I’ve kept journals, made diary entries and utilised sketchbooks my entire life. And I’m saddened to think how many I was either forced to throw them in the trash or give them away.

People responded to the darkness in these books in various ways, but the most common one was that of fascination. I don’t like to bog anyone down with my complaints, but sometimes they slip through the cracks, unnoticed by even me. As I sit behind my word processor this morning I have this innate urge to share my deepest, darkest secrets, but some part of me holds back. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to have to slap a disclaimer on the preamble of my piece. Perhaps it’s just cowardice.

But if no one asked for it it’s not necessary to plumb those depths. I control what gets released to the public, not the other way around. Still I can’t help but bring a sense of authenticity to the table by discussing that which is usually avoided by most. No one ever put a gun to my head and instructed me to document my thoughts, it was always done of my own volition. I think back to Baltasar Gracián, the Jesuit priest and Baroque prose writer, and I’m struck by his inclination to pithy aphorisms.

I realise I could never so much as scratch the surface of what he achieved with ‘The Art of Worldly Wisdom,’ now translated into English by various scholars. But I have to realise that there will never be another me either, and in some cases I might inspire a reader or two. It’s not hubris talking, or arrogance, rather, there has to be someone out there my universal truths resonate with. And if there isn’t, I’m quite happy to be a fool who at least tried. I think the fool is at times wiser than the sage.

Because he’s not obsessed with whether or not he’ll look stupid. His job is to be silly, carefree and make others laugh. And there’s a great deal of truth in humour. Perhaps more so than stone faced philosophy, or the new age. I was always a joker until life humbled me. At some point it happens to all of us — and there’s very little by way of escape. I sometimes think an escape hatch would encourage us all to abandon our challenges and take the easy road. Change is associated with growth.

Without it we’d all be stuck in a bigger rut than we ever have before, and although it’s foisted upon us without warning most times, it ushers in shiny new experiences we’d otherwise never have. I try and learn from the curveballs life throws at me, but making lemonade out of the lemons you’re given can often times sour you prematurely. As with most things they’re easier said than done. So that leaves us all at a myriad of loose ends. And it’s what we do with them that matters. We must never neglect our duties.

Untangling the many webs others weave is an arduous task, yes, but it can also be a welcome challenge in the context of the strategist. We’re all strategists, every single one of us, conniving, plotting and scheming our way through this stark existence we’re faced with. I don’t make a habit of admitting defeat, but sometimes it’s just absolutely unavoidable. And those are the times when I take comfort in not knowing everything there is to know. We must know one thing, that we know nothing.

I guess what I’m getting at in a long winded way is something even I’m unsure of. But uncertainty became one of my closest confidants a while ago now. So I live within it, I embody it, and I integrate it into my daily life. I’m prepared to be unprepared. I must take what comes, and not induce anxiety by my own doing. Depression on the other hand is utterly demonstrative, but luckily I haven’t had a brush with it for many moons. And I owe that to sound advice and invaluable guidance.

Not everyone has been as fortunate as I to have an aid at their beck and call. Some suffer in silence, and others pull innocent bystanders into their sufferance, because misery loves company. But I don’t think it’s right to subject the world to ones pain. There are channels through which we can transmogrify or galvanise our excruciation, transforming it into something less ugly. We have words, we have pictures. We have an endless supply of mediums to use, exhibiting our unique colour palette.

Some of us live in monochrome, others in a kaleidoscope or rainbow. It all depends on what we internalise or incorporate into our collective psyche. The zeitgeist might not be of great comfort, but it instead serves as a yardstick for our progress. No one wants to be measured or graded on anything other than a curve — because that’s when things get skewed. I’ve made it my business to show compassion in the face of hostility, because it’s hardwired into me to react in such a way.

I don’t care how much we’re encouraged to pursue the most banal avenues, for all they seem to produce is mediocrity. And mediocrity is the sworn enemy of otherwise brilliant men. The dunces that surround us at every turn will always steer us into what seems practical and pragmatic, but often such rigid guardrails cripple our very ability to achieve excellence. But maybe we weren’t put here to do so. Maybe we’re meant to enjoy the ride, in which case, most hedonists are ahead of the curve.

Isms in my opinion create an inner conflict that is not easily remedied by traditional methods. And such inner conflict breeds resentment and bitterness, so foul it is palpable to even strangers passing by. You can always determine who is most suppressed by the way in which they suppress others. They feel as if they’re going to be held back they should extend the same energy toward others, despite how desperately they’d rather resolve their own deep seated problems.

When you do encounter a control freak, realise they’ve been subjected to control by authority figures in their own lives at some time in the past, distant or near. And they’re only continuing the cycle of abuse because it’s all they’ve ever known. This is why compassion is key. Show most people a bit of it and watch their defences lower in real time. Others may not recognise your kindness for what it is but that isn’t the point. The only way we’ll ever create a better world is if we start from a place of love.

People will poo poo your efforts till the cows come home. They’ll place every obstacle they can in the way of your progress and those of your associates. But what they can’t do is steal your personal dignity — that must be freely acquiesced. You have choices and options that extend far beyond the bounds of traditional thought. A lot of what you were taught by mainstream institutions was psychological conditioning designed by evil men. They want you to feel like your path is narrow.

Instead, with enough perseverance, it will widen automatically. To flounce the laws of engagement that are so heavily established is to unlock the cage you’ve been relegated to since time immemorial. No one needs to understand why you bring love to the hateful. Nothing teaches others the way of virtue better than actions instead of words. And while words are a great comfort to many, they’re not always a good stand in for the show and tell associated with rising above. You should never be a doormat, but you can be a guiding light.

The wind is blowing so hard outside that the trees are creaking, and I’m comfortably tucked away inside in my cosy little temperature controlled bubble. It’s times like these when I breathe a sigh of relief and appreciate everything I have. In a world where basic human rights are overlooked in service to capital we need to be grateful. Because you can have all your creature comforts today and tomorrow the shoe could be on the other foot. Unfortunately, these are the things most of us don’t give a second thought to. You turn the tap and water comes out. You flip a switch and the light comes on.

It seems as if once our immediate needs are met we tend to look the other way, when people face hardship. Our hearts harden because we think it simply can’t happen to us. In my life I’ve lived through some trying times, and in some instances had brushes with homelessness. And it didn’t necessarily create trauma that I know of, it only showed me how lucky I really was to have access to all the modern conveniences I now do. But a lot of people don’t see it that way. They’re concerned only with what they can get out of life, not what they can do for others. And it’s a common problem.

I was browsing the magazine stand in the grocery store the other day and I spotted one of my favourite ones, ‘The Economist.’ It was only till I gave the price a cursory glance that I did a double take. The were selling it for two-hundred bucks. Just a few weeks prior I’d bought an issue without checking how much it cost, and I wondered why the checkout was so high. Now I know. I’m sorry, but I must not be their target audience, because that’s a bit steep to say the very least. I guess to corporate movers and shakers that’s a drop in the bucket. But to me, an artist, it’s just unacceptable.

This got me thinking about the state of the world right now. If a pamphlet crammed with ads goes for such a high price we must be living a new low. Everybody can tell how few items we walk away with and how much those necessities cost us. But to the one percent it obviously doesn’t move their needle. After all, if you’ve got more money that God you certainly aren’t counting coppers. We live in such a backward and bizarre age, and despite what Trump says, are we living in a soft depression? I say soft because it doesn’t seem full blown — at least just yet. So who is really hurting?

The middle class, maybe. Those with lower income, surely. Now, I don’t often discuss money, but I can’t help noticing how the little guy is getting shafted. And to be clear, I’m one of the little guys. Those of us who pursue art in any form go without most luxuries because of how hard a pay cheque is to come by doing something you enjoy. Some of us have slept on hardwood floors in the winter, gone without meals, and even risked looking foolish when a bill arrives in any shape or form. But this is the sacrifice we make when we set out to do what we want to instead of what we really should do.

All art is impractical. None of it seems necessary to the average man. But to those of us who’ve been bitten by the bug, it’s impossible to abandon the idea that we might live another day in the creative space. The true artist doesn’t do what they do for the accolades or the praise, they do it because they can’t bear to live any other way. If you ask any artist why they do what they do you might be surprised by the fact that they battle to articulate it. It’s a compulsion. They yearn to express those innermost thoughts, and they don’t seem too bothered about what they have to do to get there.

I always ask myself what I want to see in the world, then I go ahead and make it. Often I fail to execute my grand ideas in a coherent fashion, but I keep showing up and trying every day. And for those elitist types who get paid handsomely for their work, they almost seem to become disconnected from their origin story. The minute an artist is established and respected by mainstream institutions I become suspicious. Not because they don’t deserve to be where they are — it just gets me thinking, how much did you acquiesce along the way? And then I follow the money.

Do the people who make it big get there by breaking boundaries and exploring taboos? No, of course they don’t. Instead, they make safe art. They compromise. Their vision is less important to them than material wealth. And this is when they become hollow caricatures of themselves. It’s hard to believe even they can take themselves seriously in the context of who funds their lifestyle. It might sound like I’m bitter, and I’ve been existing in the vacuum of the underground too long, but to me both the audience and financial compensation comes last. Art doesn’t fit where you shoe horn it in.

It takes up space. It starts arguments. It ruins relationships. I’m not talking about controversy for its own sake, no, instead, my personal tastes dictate that art must have something to say about the world. And it’s in saying that how much critical acclaim one gets or doesn’t. There’s no coincidence that mainstream artists are celebrated by idiots. That’s precisely who that slop is for. The second something becomes popular, to me, it loses its edge. I’m an avid collector of rare books and hard to find art. If I cashed in said collection I’d be a wealthy man — but the art itself means more to me than that.

I just find it low rent how everybody seems to be swept up in hustle culture now. If somebody enjoys doing something for its own sake some idiot is bound to come along and encourage that individual to capitalise on it. And that’s when things lose their heart. The reason you enjoy it is because there’s no obligation attached to it, and the minute customers flock around your efforts you owe them something. And there goes the fun. Poof! Out the window. Just like that. Your bubble is popped and it’s time you pack it in. I mean, who wants another job anyway? Isn’t one enough? I guess not in this economy.

Look, I’m aware that not everyone sees things the way I do, and that’s fine. But I can only speak on what I know and how I feel. That’s the only context in which I can be authoritative. To know what I’m saying, to say what I believe. If you’re struggling to have your side hustle take off why not make peace with the fact that it might never do so? If everything hinges on how much you’re compensated for what you do you’ll start doing what you do for the wrong reasons. And only you know what those are. But in the broader scheme of things, there’s a lot of truth behind my theory if you think about it.

We need more spaces in which people can be themselves and show themselves. To share those parts of our lives that might make a difference. Not everything has to have a payoff beyond that. I went through many years of running a business and the commodity I was selling was my art. I walked away from it all because it turned it into a grind. I’m only trying to caution those who are willing to heed my advice that it’s not worth it. We all have dreams. We want them realised. But social media magnifies peoples high notes and never shows us a reel of their lows. Understand that you’re being conditioned.

I’d love to live in a world where things were different, but they’re not. And the quicker we come to terms with that fact the better off we’ll be. Maybe you already agree with me, and you do what you do for yourself. Perhaps I’m preaching to the converted. I just know I wasted years of my life trying to manifest something that would never work out, no matter how hard I tried. And it wasn’t because I failed at it, it’s because that’s just not how art works. Commerce is the antithesis of the arts, and it always has been. People do things they hate doing for money. And they’re not proud of it. Let’s not confuse the two.

The silver lining is that with a little luck and enough perseverance one can defy the odds, not compromise even a little bit and still become a giant in their field. It’s about the love of the craft. As long as that comes first I believe you’re on the right track. You might disagree with me, and maybe you haven’t come to the realisations yet that I have. That’s alright. But I can’t tell you it’ll all work out in the end — because in life it rarely does. Charles Bukowski said to “Find what you love and let it kill you.” And the arts will break your heart if you misunderstand them. Do what you do from an authentic place, and forget the rest.

I recently read a piece by a highly prolific writer I follow, and he said he might stop writing altogether at some point. Honestly, my heart sank a little. But I get it — just because one is massively obsessed with writing and writing frequently doesn’t mean the well will never dry up. Are ideas finite? This is the current question on my mind. We all go through phases in life, and seasonal affective disorder (ironically enough, its acronym being SAD) can strike on the turn of a dime. But I’m fortunate enough to not have harsh winters where I live. Instead the summers here are brutal.

Unlike animals, we as human beings have this itch to find meaning and purpose in our lives. And to be quite honest I think it’s the very thing that creates depression. When we begin feeling a lack of significance around the events of everyday existence we struggle to pinpoint what’s causing it. Often times the solution is to reconnect with those aspects of our personality that yearn to be expressed creatively. But how much can one person say until they’re just spinning their wheels? Conjuring topics of interest from within is no small feat. We’re drawing from some mystical source.

While this might make me sound rather kooky, I think ideas originate outside of ourselves, and it’s up to us to pluck them from the ether at the right moment. As is normal, sometimes that reception is weaker than others, and that’s where we run in to what are commonly referred to as creative blocks. So why am I so shocked that someone who subjects themselves to a rigorous creative practice might at some point step away from the drawing board? Because I feel so strongly that — for me — it’d be unacceptable. I won’t give myself permission to give up. And I guess that’s what I really see it as.

Giving up is a part of being human. And giving in can sometimes be helpful. Whether it’s an overindulgence in that Haagen Dazs or playing truant from another day of meaningless grind. I think we owe it to ourselves to have a treat once in a while — as long as it’s not a long term thing. Alexander Woollcott once said, “Everything I love is either illegal, immoral or fattening.” Sound familiar? As much as we try hide it, we all need a self-care day here and there. Let those dishes pile up! Skip the housework this week! It’ll all be there when you come back. It really isn’t bad advice.

After all, we’re not machines. We’re living, breathing biological entities with needs — and one of the most crucial is play. Some may not view it as important, but when you really think about it, it’s what makes life worth living. What are memories made of? Those times we sat in our cubicle and met a deadline, no matter how arduous, or those times we goofed off? The answer is simple. I’m asking you to give yourself permission to do something for you. Something unproductive and impractical — which is the backbone of the arts. We often don’t pursue what we really want out of fear.

Fear of failure. Fear of looking like we don’t know what we’re doing. But the fool is the happiest man of all. You know why? Because he rejoices in his folly. He doesn’t second guess the idiocy he engages in. And we need to be more like that fool. Not all the time, just when it counts. One of the ugliest traits I’ve ever witnessed in others is their condescension toward those who are willing to have things not work out. If you’re one hundred percent certain about anything in your life, chances are you’re living in a rigid fashion, one guided by the possible perceptions of others. We all do it.

“What will they think of me if I do this instead of that?” Our fear of embarrassing ourselves or our family is the thing that holds us back most. What if, instead, you threw caution to the wind and put your own desires first? Is that such a crazy notion? I guess I’m encouraging a sense of selfishness, which is required to master any craft. It’s not when we do what we do for a salary that counts, it’s what we do to express ourselves that matters. I’ve always had a hard time holding a straight job. Until one day I gave up entirely. And ever since I’ve followed my heart I’ve never been happier.

There is of course no shame in providing for yourself or your family — please don’t get me wrong — but there has to be more to this life than the bare minimum. When I learn that others spend their downtime mindlessly consuming Netflix or playing video games I recoil in horror. And that’s only because I utilise mine to actively create. I think there is a sense of listlessness that sets in in those who hold corporate positions. They’re too exhausted at the end of the day, from all their responsibilities, to bother with something like art. And that’s their right. I just live in a different world.

If I’m not able to spend my time on creative projects I wind up suicidal. I know that sounds extreme (and it is) but it’s also true. There is some innate quality that exists within me that yearns to come out in some way. Whether it is of use to anybody else or moves them in some way is not my concern. I do it for me. But one huge benefit is being able to share that work with an audience. It’s something I’m grateful for, and it means far more to me than money: connecting with my intellectual peers. If we’ve crossed paths in the hallways and complimented each others work, you know who you are.

Right now it’s midday and my only task comprises of penning this piece. There are absolutely zero other obligations on my plate. However, I will be drawing today at some point. I’ve just got to figure out what. Most people long for the kind of lifestyle I lead, and it’s something I’m hyper aware of. My aim is not to rub my privilege in others faces — no, to the contrary — I want you to know that with enough chutzpah you can do it too. I’ve written about a lot of these ideas in a particular book I published, and it’s geared toward the manifestation of a creative career without compromise.

And compromise is a common misconception, because if you’re bold enough to go your own way and believe strongly enough in your own ideas they can actually open doors that would otherwise be shut. Ever since I was a little boy I’d encourage my friends to draw with me. Often, in the beginning, they’d say they had no creative ability. But with enough convincing, they eventually came around, and produced work that was undeniably theirs. I didn’t do anything magical, I just instilled in them this idea that they could do what they thought they couldn’t. Soon it was infectious.

That’s another reason why I think ideas are like signals we pick up from elsewhere. It’s fine tuning the station in your brain to a particular frequency that allows them to flow into you effortlessly. I often hear people say they can barely draw a stick figure. But we all drew when we were kids — the only difference is that some of us stopped. Writing is of course a different muscle to more visually based art, but a similar concept could apply. Why it took me so long to actually sit down behind a word processor and bang something out had a lot to do with uncertainty on my part. I thought I couldn’t.

And it’s in that doubt which a large majority of us live. What saddens me more than anything is all the people that die never having lived their dreams. We’re at a place in society where the system suppresses creativity by way of financial obligation, and it’s only when that system collapses that many will be freed. I’m not anti capital or anything like that, but there has to be another way to do this. Why does art feel like a luxury or a silly pastime? Why is it not granted the level of importance it serves? A lot of it has to do with the schools we all went to. Parrot back what you learn and shut up.

That’s been the attitude. And that’s where I think it all went wrong. You can’t brow beat information into newly developing brains and expect them to come out on the other side thinking laterally. We’ve been taught to memorise banal facts and figures, all because some day it’ll help us. But I never once learnt anything in school that did me any favours when I reached the summit of the real world. I pity my teachers now. What they had to deal with in me as a student must’ve been discouraging. I even once had a teacher tell me I’ll be the reason he quits. But maybe he was miserable anyway, and just looking for someone else to blame.

If you really think about it, nothing that occurs to us has any meaning outside of how we contextualise it. And everything we go through can be reduced to random happenstance. It is us as human beings who assign significance to these events. The reason I say this is because I’ve thought long and hard about my purpose in this life, and whether or not I leave anything behind even matters. Of course it doesn’t, in the grand scheme of things. Although the concept is freeing in one way, this philosophy can also be considered nihilistic, and I’ll never dispute that. I’d be a fool to.

But it’s the one of the reasons I wake up in the morning and pursue anything at all. Because it just doesn’t matter. If you’re confused by my seemingly illogical rationale, allow me to explain further. As creatives, there is no doubt we want to move others with our work. However deciding how we go about that depends on a variety of factors. Are you doing what you do for yourself or for a prize? Recognition, credit, influence, wealth. They all fall under a similar — if not the same — umbrella. And if you’re attempting to make work that interests you, does that make your endeavour more honourable?

The only reason my pen name is plastered all over my work is because I’ve connected the two. What I’m doing still possesses a sort of anonymity, however. I sometimes think I should abandon the mythos surrounding this nom de plume altogether, and publish somewhere more obscure or arcane, in order to walk the walk. But there is a part of me that wants some kind of attention, clearly, or I wouldn’t put my business out on front street. For those who might happen across my work and think it too personal I have this to say: nothing is too personal. Except my actual name.

I’m not Gérard de Nerval, who claimed that he pursued an image and nothing more. Nor can what I’m after be bought. Emily Dickinson once wrote in a letter that she was out with lanterns, looking for herself. That seems more like it. As much as we don’t want to attach others to our legacy, at the end of the day, we only know who we are in relation to others. It’s what makes life real, and hyperreality so vivid and garish. As much as I toil over every utterance through my pen on the page, I’m aware it’ll wind up in the landfills of time. That gives me licence to a clean slate, every time.

The empty space on the page mocks most and entices few. Only those of us who are crazy enough to try have the audacity to do so, with the added risk of potential failure every time. I’m not clocking in, nor am I phoning it in. If I had absolutely nothing more to say I’d up and disappear. The problem is I have too much to say, and one piece is never enough. I see people struggling. I know they try to hide it. They hope no one realises that their heart isn’t in their craft anymore. But it’s a translucent excuse dancing on a brightly lit stage, perspiring under the hot flood lights. It’s a knowing I have.

I once let slip the fact that I’m clairvoyant, and what followed were others who tried to verify my claim — but it doesn’t work that way. Try and force any medium to perform on the spot and chances are their abilities won’t shine through. The little breadcrumb I threw out wasn’t exactly a decoy as much as it was a diversion. A test, to see how far their collective curiosities were piqued. Just because I can see events unfold before they do doesn’t mean I’m special. If you really want to know, anyone can do it. Straining such a psychosocial muscle however only results in abject failure.

That which is done effortlessly is that which yields the most fruitful result. Think about anything you’re naturally gifted at. When you bore down into the reasons why or how or when you begin to relinquish control of your capabilities. It is that which we’re talented at alone that makes us who we really are. It’s an intrinsic part of us, impossible to separate from our identity. No matter how hard we try. As for the origin or cause of such factors you’d have to sit down with a geneticist. All I know is that I know nothing, as Plato borrowed from Socrates. It is most wise to own ones ignorance.

The minute you become an authority in your own head, delusion starts to crown. Obviously there are highly trained specialists in their respective fields, and they know their way around the native jargon. But to be open to being wrong is a mark of deep wisdom. When I receive my visions they often appear as apparitions. If I’m setting out to craft a particular scene from scratch I see it before it is executed fully, and it’s up to me to copy that vision as accurately as I possibly can. Then there are moments when you can’t produce an exact replica of the mental facsimile that floats in the ether.

Those who cannot relate to the murky visage of a practitioner of the arts mimicking his own mental workings will throw their hands up and abandon the premise altogether. And that’s fine. Not everyone has to understand. It’s okay. We all have different gifts, some more deeply buried than others. I’ve always had an idea of where I want to go, more or less, and then improvised the rest on the fly. That might not work for you. And maybe I don’t understand the ways you get to where you are. As I’m stating for the third time now, it’ll all work out in the end. I don’t want to be him or her — I’m already me.

Living in the shadows of the greats that came before us must be a miserable existence to say the very least. To stand on the shoulders of giants only makes one feel like a midget. The crux of the issue is that we forge ahead, follow our own star, and not get too caught up in what the person in the next lane over is doing. But I’ve met so many people who want to be other people. They’ll go so far as to borrow their image from their idols, and put the undeserving on pedestals that are easily knocked over. What you’re in fact seeing are the best of plagiarised works. Hard to believe, but true.

So where are you willing to draw the line? And how much respect are you willing to dole out to yourself, in order to save your skin? Let it never occur on your watch that someone starts copying your imitations. This is the reality of the world we’re living in now, as Jean Baudrillard said. We’re inundated with symbols at every turn, archetypes that float through our subconscious, and thoughts that would otherwise be alien. The world is made up of a kind of shorthand that makes it difficult to determine what is actually in front of us or isn’t. And soon we’ll be so overwhelmed we’ll dissipate entirely.

Do we as human beings realise the cost of this much information being at our fingertips? In a world where psychosis is steadily rising, do we not see the probable cause? The images we reach for through the screen simply can’t be possessed. They’re figments of our imagination, and the cloud is ready to burst. I shudder to think what will happen when a worldwide power grid collapse occurs. The dopamine hits having run so dry that riots break out on every street corner known to man? We’re headed one way and it doesn’t appear positive. But that could be my negative bias speaking.

Don’t mind me, I’m just keeping it business as usual in the apocalypse. And business is never personal. At least they say it’s not. The bitter heir apparent of this god forsaken planet rules all in the underworld, and we’re surrounded on all sides by his imps. Only, they’re wearing disguises. They appear as normal as you or I. The only difference between us and our reflections is that they’re unemotional mirages. They aren’t sentient. Does it not make you question all the things that seem one way but are another? Because that’s what it does to me. Maybe I’m just too conscious of the process.

But if no one documents the events that unfold behind the curtain, backstage, how will we ever reach the illumination we so desperately desire? You have to know what goes on in the dressing room to realise how the play even functions. Taking apart reality never felt so urgent. We’re speeding through space at a pace so unimaginably fast that it’s relatively incomprehensible. Nothing is static. And the fourth dimension contains forms of life we could never fathom in our wildest dreams. They’re all around us, right now, but no matter how hard you try you’ll never see them.

I keep running in the molasses of everyday life, sinking slowly into the sands of time. Whenever I eventually do thaw out I’ll be so disoriented that I’ll probably only encounter the trauma subconsciously. That’s the thing though, no one prepares you for this stuff. They’ll say I’m a loon, lock me away for a while, then release me with a paper trail that’ll follow me till the end of days. I’ll never stop ringing the alarm however — because it’s too important to them to keep you in the dark. They don’t like me, and they never have. I can see things most people shouldn’t, and that poses an existential threat.

To me, there is great power in creating with no end goal in mind. And that’s because the minute something feels like it has a specific purpose, or there is any inkling of obligation attached to it, it loses its potency. And while I know this is a highly personal preference, it speaks to my taste in art. There is a quote attributed to William Kentridge which goes, “I am only an artist, my job is to make drawings not to make sense.” I find this idea incredibly freeing, even liberating — because if everything has to fit in a box, that leaves no room for experimentation or innovation. No one wants to be a carbon copy of what came before, but that’s what they’ll become if nothing is transgressive.

In my view, the only road to truly original thought is to disregard everything that precedes us, and to plough ahead with nothing but our subconscious as a reference point. If you think about the work that draws you in, does it not have a primitive or childlike quality to it? The more we grow up, the more guidelines we’re subjected to. We attend schools and universities that put guardrails in place, and these elements beat the creativity out of us — almost without us even realising it. And of course I’m aware that being trained in ones specific field of expertise can be valuable in the long run, but I don’t think we’re ever taught how to tap in to our native creativity as human beings. It just isn’t done.

When I sit down to make a drawing or write a piece, I don’t rack my brain in an attempt to do anything groundbreaking. I instead make space in my schedule to do nothing at all, and from there my mind begins to wander. From there it starts making connections when faced with the boredom and lack of stimulation I’m experiencing, and soon I’m engaging in a sort of play time, like all of us used to do as children. I won’t say this method is foolproof, for sometimes you come away with something utterly useless and terrible. But for me that’s the point. If it isn’t useless I haven’t succeeded. And if it’s terrible and can’t be used anywhere — for anything — is that so bad?

Today we’re inundated with the pressure to share content with the world. Almost every app or form of social media is optimised for sharing things about ourselves. And while there are certainly those who avoid using such avenues, the large majority of people engage with this idea in some way. Some have come to think that these sites are designed to build a dossier on us — and I mean, they might not be far off — these platforms call the information they store of us profiles. In simple English, that’s profiling. But maybe I’m getting into the weeds. Half the people who use this stuff don’t care that their information is being stored. It takes a literal schizophrenic (like me) to point it out.

And so my concerns are of course disregarded. Being mentally ill isn’t even a double edged sword, it’s like one long blade with no handle. One thing I do think has led me to original ideas is the whole premise of how I see the world. Very few people are as idiosyncratic as someone with skewed perceptions — but of course, a sense of thinking one is being tracked or monitored is an inherently negative thought — and so, one who suffers under the weight of those symptoms gets in their own way. This results in a lot of those perceptions going unexpressed, and rather being felt and experienced as real. This hellish reality is, upon further reflection, a curse rather than a blessing.

In any case, there is a book by James Webb Young entitled, ‘A Technique for Producing Ideas,’ in which what is proposed is taking two older concepts nobody thought to put together, and developing a third. And this got me thinking about some of my own methods of generating creative works. I’m pretty sure I’ve employed that idea myself, as have others. But there is enormous untapped potential in the human mind, all it really takes is dipping into it deeply enough. Free association is another technique artists use — which can also be said to be a plucking of other already established ideas from the collective unconscious and remixing them. But not in all cases.

Every so often there comes a time when a visionary appears, pulling off something no one has ever encountered before, and it spurs on a generation of imitators. And I don’t think everyone even so much as realises they’re doing it. As human beings we’re so focused on what already exists that it’s only natural we’d engage in this practice. But copycats only get away with stealing for so long. I know there’s a book by Austin Kleon called ‘Steal Like an Artist,’ but in most cases that’s frowned upon. There’s even a quote by Picasso to back up this claim, “Good artists copy, great artists steal.” And my first inclination is to think he was being ironic when he said that, because plagiarism is straight up wrong.

Out of all my many years of devoting my life and time to the creative act I too have been guilty of stealing. In fact, I remember when I first got into university, and I took graphic design. I was under the impression that in order to be a designer one had to be able to draw. But I came to find out that more than half of the people in my class couldn’t. Then we were taught to use reference imagery, and I honestly feel like that damaged my practice. Before then I’d draw out of my head entirely. But established thought from an institution that churns out strait-laced bores robbed me of the beauty of my craft, up until that point. From then on, I started leaning heavily on reference, and things changed.

Not for the better, either. So many of the techniques I’d developed on my own became brow beaten out of me. But it was only until my second year in to the whole series of classes that I utterly failed. I couldn’t design, because I wasn’t meant to be a designer. I was instead an illustrator — something I’d always been — but now I’d been infected by mainstream, corporate edicts. So I left the graphic design department, and went to another university that allowed me to actually dabble in the things I was stronger at. In multimedia, although I didn’t understand it at the time, I learnt all kinds of nifty tricks. And because I’d always had a broader range of interests than graphic designers alone, it worked.

People who draw out of their heads as opposed to those who utilise reference are a very different breed. Ones life experiences shape what you’re able to put down on paper. Your ideas have to come from within. Unfortunately, the industry is oversaturated now, thanks to the internet, and a lot of the best stuff is hidden beneath a pile of rubbish. So I’ve made it my personal mission to seek out those things that appeal to me most, and curate my follow lists with a painstaking and ruthless approach. Then you get some artists who refuse to follow what anyone else is doing for fear that they might adopt someone else’s style, or interpolate their ideas. And that makes a lot of sense, to me, at least.

I’ve often thought about doing that myself, but I can’t bring myself to do it. After all, I’m a patron of the arts as much as I am an artist myself — and there’s too much great work out there to turn a blind eye to it. If that means that some of my influences will be obvious to others, so be it, I’ve made peace with that. I don’t believe anyone can truly exist in a vacuum. Lest it become an echo chamber. There are numerous individuals however who’ll freely offer poorly thought out advice. They seem to think that posturing as an authority on any given subject grants them licence to guide the poor saps who fall for their ploy. And not all of us can help being sucked in to a well run scam like that.

I think the main thing we need to do as creatives is trust our inner voice more. To not look to others for the answers, thinking that they have the magic ticket. Success can be defined in many ways, and it is up to each one of us to determine what it means to us. If you’re trying hard and failing miserably I’d advise giving in to the idea that you aren’t defined by whatever labels have been slapped on you. Because labels are dangerous, and they’ve only ever gotten in the way of my progress. The thing I like to remind myself is that I’m not actually an artist or a writer — or anything, really — I’m just a person who happens to draw and write. That way all pressure is alleviated, and I can create without expectations.

Living with schizoaffective disorder is confusing at times, because all the people that supposedly care about you become enemies in some vast conspiracy you perceive in your mind. In simpler terms, a very common symptom of the condition is paranoia. Thinking people are out to get you. And it’s the smallest, most seemingly inconsequential things others say that spur on thoughts which lead you down a hellish labyrinth, maze or rabbit hole. I used to think being hypersensitive meant there was something wrong with me — well, there is — but there’s a reason for it and this illness is it.

People don’t listen when I talk. They usually drift off, tune me out or cut me off. So it’s only natural that I’d turn to writing to express myself. I like this form of communication — no one can interrupt me or upset my train of thought, and I’m free to go on as long as I want. And I’ve read a whole lot of books about how to be an effective communicator. Nothing seems to help. Either self-absorption has reached an all time high in the zeitgeist or I’m just boring. And if I am, I refuse to admit that to myself. I think social media has destroyed the average attention span. And it doesn’t help that I get way to deep way too fast.

The conclusion I’ve drawn is no one wants deep. No one wants to face the hard questions. And although my intelligence quotient is above average, I can’t seem to connect with others in a meaningful way. That’s why most of my hobbies and pastimes remain relatively solitary pursuits. I’ll admit I don’t like going out in public, because I zone out and get weird. And if I’m around other people too long even visiting them my anxiety spikes. But the thing is, all this makes me sound like an extreme introvert, crippled by shyness, and socially inept. And that really isn’t the case, at all.

I recently had a visit with my psychiatrist, and I explained to her the problems I was having. So she gave me extra antipsychotics to take as needed. Yesterday, when I had to attend a party, I popped one, and although it made me quiet, I wasn’t a nervous wreck. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks: I need a pill to socialise. How sad is that? For other people, it just seems like a public gathering is what it is, and they don’t need medication to help them through it. Then I got to thinking, anxiety is a widespread problem in this day and age, but not everyone suffers from it. So why do I have to?

No matter how much cognitive behavioural therapy I do I can’t seem to shake these symptoms. I’m not managing them better, in fact I’m getting worse. And that might be because my therapist just isn’t good at what she does. On the other hand, I could have a treatment resistant condition. I really don’t want to blame my doctor, though. I’d like to take responsibility for my part in things. And admittedly, I barely ever follow the advice I’m given by her — simply because it’s hard. I know good advice when I hear it, but not all the advice I get appears sound. So maybe it’s time to move on.

For most people, social engagement is exciting, and doesn’t fill them with dread. And it’s not that it does every time for me, it’s mainly when I have this suspicion that I’m going to encounter unpredictability that I start to recoil into myself. You see, some people don’t think before they talk. They just say whatever it is they want to say off the cuff without worrying how it’ll affect anyone else — and then there’s the people that do it deliberately. They want to get a rise, or they think that they can talk to specific individuals however they choose, because they underestimate their intelligence.

And usually I keep to myself and let people like that get away with it. I know. It’d probably be better if I put them in their place — but I’m just not like that. I’m a happy go lucky, peace loving person who is conscious of other people’s feelings. And I can’t understand why other people aren’t. It truly boggles my mind how certain people conduct themselves. I take it as a personal affront because that’s sure how it feels. And often times I’m told not to take stuff personally. But that’s almost impossible when you’re a hypersensitive person plagued with paranoid thoughts. See my dilemma?

The only person understanding enough to help me through any of this is my wife. She validates my feelings and talks to me with a sense of compassion I encounter nowhere else. And of course that’s the role one’s spouse takes. Honestly, she’s the only person who doesn’t make me feel like I’m going crazy, because my own family is so toxic they make me sick. And it’s not that they mean it. They do mean well. They just never knew how to deal with mental illness and had this attitude that one just soldiers on in life despite whatever setbacks they face. But some are too hard. Some take assistance.

I can safely say that when my family took me in — before I ever met my wife and we started building a life together — they worsened my condition tremendously. I wanted to do myself in several times, because I felt like there was no escaping my own intrusive thoughts. I had a rope, and I was ready to go. But I decided that the woman who’d eventually become my wife meant enough to me to stick things out. When I moved out of my parents home, my mental health I gradually improved. I was finally around someone who understood me — and I understood her. That’s priceless.

But I’ve never gotten used to taking a pill to cope. I still beat myself up about it tremendously. And that’s because I was raised to think psychiatry was nonsense. We were a religious family growing up, and the Catholic church was supposed to make all our problems go away. It’s another reason I don’t attend a place of worship of any kind to this day — because, to me, it never helped. My Mom and Dad still went through a divorce. And when my Mom left, her and us kids felt even more alienated from the church. And that didn’t seem to shake her faith, but it certainly shook mine. Yup.

When dealing with difficult people I often like to give them the illusion of control. To sit back and watch how far they think they can push me. And if they push me far enough they get a pretty nasty surprise. Because I can stand up for myself. I can push back. I just don’t do it all the time, or on the first occasion it’s appropriate. That’s because I practice grace. I forgive people for their infractions, even if they don’t know it, and are engaged in a power play. Compassion overrides everything else, I’ve found. It’s not that I’m a pushover. I just don’t see the point of arguing. Most of the time it’s pointless.

I say that because the more one tries to convince another of something, the more some of them dig their heels in. And if I let what others do slide around me, they’ll quickly learn they can’t do the same thing to most other people. Jesus told us to turn the other cheek. I was raised a Christian, and although I wouldn’t consider myself a full blown one, I still practice that principle. At the end of the day, if someone really wants to fight, and you don’t give them one, they’re left looking utterly foolish. And it’s not that that’s my express intention, it’s just, when one embarrasses themselves they feel the full force of their actions.

In a way this principle is also derived from Sun Tzu’s pocket sized ‘Art of War.’ It’s winning the war without even fighting. Let your opponents run themselves ragged trying to defeat you, and in the end, they’ll exhaust themselves to such an extent that you won’t even need to lift a finger. I think another part of people who say knee-jerk, vitriolic things is immaturity. And I’m simply above that. I’m not about to jump in the mud and wrestle with a pig — so why would I bother doing so with you? Look, my rational mind knows not everyone is an opponent or an enemy in the literal sense.

But when you live with schizoaffective disorder, daily life feels like an unbearable push and pull. You’re constantly on alert for new threats. It feels like people are targeting and monitoring you. And for others who live with this condition they’ll immediately know what I mean. For those that don’t, I wouldn’t expect pity. Being around someone with a severe mental illness is not easy. I have to think about it from the opposite end of things too. But I think the one thing we can all do I try to be a little more kind to each other. It costs us nothing, and it’s easy to do. I’m not holding my breath, hoping anything will change soon though.

I'm always afraid that if I stray too far from a regular writing routine I’m going to forget how to do it, but I don’t think that’s how it works. I mean, I haven’t ridden a bicycle in quite a few years, but I’m pretty sure that if I got on one now I’d pick it right back up. But there’s all these hidden rules around the act of writing — most of which seem fabricated. We all have our rituals, but when does a ritual become a hollow act? Probably when you’re implementing instructions given by fools who don’t know what they’re talking about but pretend they do. And there’s plenty of them to go around.

The only thing that’s going to make you a better writer is writing. Not courses, not workshops, and not writing circles. You either have it or you don’t. I think a great comparison is luck. You win some, you lose some. And sometimes you write a killer piece, other times you just miss the mark entirely. We’ve all been there, you know exactly what I’m talking about. But pushing through the bad work and coming out on the other side with something polished in indescribably satisfying. One minute no amount of words you type seem to fit together, then all of a sudden, they do. It’s a eureka moment.

I’ve been through enough creative blocks in my life to realise they’re a normal part of the act itself. And there was a long time that I wouldn’t admit that to myself, for fear that I’d lose control. So I convinced myself if I just worked harder, eventually something would materialise. And it resulted in weak work. There are authors who describe the process of writing as pleasurable, and others who say it’s incredibly taxing. But both are true. I think it also depends on your demeanour. Are you willing to slog through hours of work and wind up with nothing? Or will you just throw in the towel?

Even I throw in the towel sometimes. I use the quiet moments where nothing is coming to reflect on my life, and that gives me new material to cover in my work. Without those lulls, I wouldn’t have that respite. But maybe all this is gobbledegook to you. Perhaps you’re a rare case in which nothing winds up on the cutting room floor. Instead, your first draft is your last, and you couldn’t be bothered to edit because you know your work is strong enough to stand on its own without too much deliberating, going back over it, and polishing. In which case I’d say you’re a diamond in the rough.

Although Ernest Hemingway said “The first draft of anything is shit,” that might not be the case for everyone. After all, a brilliant man can see something one way and others believe entirely different. Especially since that was indeed him expressing his opinion. And opinions are not right or wrong — they’re perceptions. If you have a way of approaching your writing that works for you, that’s all that really matters. I wouldn’t pay too much mind to the guardrails put in place by influential figures, because at the end of the day, they still put their pants on one leg at a time. I hope that settles you.

Often I wonder how much great heat of the moment stuff gets done away with in a thorough edit. It scares me to think about what might slip through the cracks. All those forgotten manuscripts thrown in the bin, because someone instilled this idea in us that first drafts are rubbish. Why don’t you test it, then? Perhaps you have a good, solid first draft sitting around. And you’re struggling to edit it into something you think will be stronger. Why not publish it and see where it takes you? Your readers might completely ignore it, and move on to something else, or you might be pleasantly surprised.

This is me testing Hemingway’s theory. I’m not trying to prove a literary giant wrong, it’s just that things were different back when he was around. We’re in a whole new century, and what resonates with people might be different. Now more than ever before people are looking for raw work that screams it was made with human hands. And so imperfections are encouraged. Hemingway didn’t have to deal with artificial intelligence. Back then people wrote what people wrote. They couldn’t prompt a chat bot to do it for them and then pass it off as their own. But what about ghost writers?

I’m always sceptical of the premise of ghost writing. I don’t even buy books that are written by more than one author. The minute I see two names on one book — a big name, and a smaller one — I assume the real author got shafted. The thing is, when I read I like it to feel like a one on one experience. Not me overhearing a dialogue. That’s eavesdropping, and a convoluted voice. I guess you could say I’m picky, but as one of my readers said we can’t afford not to be picky in this current era. There are so many different things coming at us at once, turning down the volume is necessary.

Most of the things I’m discussing here are amateurish observations at best. Ever since I was a child I wrote books and drew pictures. Does that give me any authority to speak on the arts? I guess not. After all, I’m just an outsider artist. But I’m comfortable being there. I don’t want to be a part of anything that smacks of the mainstream, thanks. The nature of what I do is too subversive for that to occur. In fact, I was bitten by the bug of the underground at an early age. I was exposed to art I shouldn’t have been, and I’m grateful for it. You see, it shaped me in a way that mainstream tastes couldn’t.

When I make mention of the underground, I met some of the most obscure artists in my country. And back then we weren’t plagued by this politically correct mind virus. People were freer to express themselves. Sure, fascism was in its gestation period, but I didn’t know about any of that in my mid teens. I just thought you could do anything you wanted with your art and still make a living doing so. But I found out the hard way that rarely happens. The more milquetoast, safe and boring any given career is, the better ones earnings. It’s an incredibly infrequent occurrence for real art to pay the bills.

That never stopped me from diving headfirst into a career that had little prospects, however. Because once I get it in my head that I’ll achieve something, nine times out of ten I do. But oh, I juggled a bunch of different art-related jobs till I burned myself out. Often at three o’ clock in the morning I was still churning out comics. And I’d sit down in the morning at nine o’ clock despite how little sleep I got the night before. This all resulted in a major psychotic break down the line, but it was something that had to happen, in order for me to realise I needed to pump the brakes on stuff.

These days I’m more forgiving with myself, and failure is just another part of life. It’s not that I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll lose in all instances, rather, I’m not deterred by minor setbacks. That perspective only comes with age, I’m afraid. You can tell a young person till you’re blue in the face all the mistakes you made and it’ll go in one ear and out the other. We all have to hit our own version of rock bottom to realise who we are, and then rise triumphant like a phoenix from the ashes. I of course have friends and associates in the arts. And lot of them struggle financially. It’s a thing.

Whenever I lose my patience, and think to myself, “Am I wasting my life?” I’m reminded of something. I think back to when I was a little boy with my pencil crayons and felt tipped pens, sitting at that table, drawing. And all of a sudden I soften up. Because that kid still lives inside me. And you can’t really be mad at a kid. When I asked my Dad what my job description would be one day he said the word cartoonist. And that’s what I consider myself at the end of the day when all is said and done. It doesn’t matter that it’s not the main source of my income. The only thing that matters is that I still do it.

Recently I’ve been experiencing the same joy that carried me through difficult periods of my life with drawing. I wake up excited to create new artwork. And even if it’s something I have to slot in around my other responsibilities, I do it. No questions asked, no lies told. It’s what cocoons me in a safe little bubble that at any moment some mean spirited individual could otherwise pop. I’ve let go of all expectations in relation to my art. I just want to draw, so that’s what I do. It doesn’t have to serve a purpose outside of that. It just is. And no one can ever take that joy away from me. I suggest you find your thing too, and do it.

So many people treat writing like a business, when it’s actually a luxury to share your work with others. Back in the day getting published meant jumping through a series of flaming hoops, while today the amount of platforms available to maverick writers is astounding. Now I get that writing is a career a lot of people are serious about — and without professional writers there’d be no books — but I can’t help but feel we’re incredibly fortunate to have the ability to befriend our intellectual peers. We’re lucky to connect with each other, cheer one another on, or even to challenge each other.

And when have the numbers ever really mattered, anyway? Racking up subscribers alone shouldn’t be priority one, in my opinion. Readers who count what we do as meaningful should matter more. I’m blessed enough to have other ways of making money, so I don’t have to worry myself with book sales — and I can tell you quite categorically, I’d never sell a course. The reason this is on my mind is because there are hucksters among us, and in plain sight. Is it possible that a writer can be good at marketing? Certainly. But the best ones I’ve ever encountered are focused on the creative process.

Something just makes me suspicious of a money grubbing individual. If someone works at their craft, puts their work out there, and provides a way for you to tip them for their efforts, that’s great. But if I as a reader detect even so much as an inkling that someone is trying to persuade me to part with my hard earned money — when they themselves probably don’t even know what they’re doing — I clam up. The thing is we’d all love to make a liveable wage from something we enjoy and devote our precious time to, but things often just don’t work that way out there in the real world.

Work of any kind is usually a grind, it’s not fun, and the more miserable it makes you, chances are the more money you’re paid to do it. I was recently corresponding with a fellow cartoonist about the state of the industry — or lack thereof — and how soul crushing pouring ones heart into their art is when you see no return on investment off it. I felt it incumbent upon me to encourage him to pursue his craft for the joy of it instead of trying to turn a profit. He agreed. And really, it makes me sad that such talent goes to waste when we doubt ourselves and our life mission. It’s something to avoid.

I’m in no way shape or form saying that people shouldn’t make money off the sweat of their toil, no. Instead I’m attempting to frame what we as creatives do in a way that makes sense. Writing and self-publishing, to me, at this point, is an expensive hobby. And why? Because it costs me my most precious resource of all: time. The way I see it, removing the financial expectations from ones art — and I refer to art in the broader sense — is a necessary evil. A good friend of mine told me a long time ago that one will never make money in comics, and although I didn’t want to believe it at the time, he was right.

But I’m enjoying myself more than I ever have since that reality dawned on me. I was like, “Oh. None of this means anything, there’s no rules or obligation to do it for any reason?” and that instantly made it fun. And I think that’s what we need. People having fun on the page. Saying screw it and doing exactly what it is you want to do, and not letting anything stop you. The truth is, ninety-nine percent of us writers will never make it big. Publishers are looking for something very specific, and they’re a business. They just don’t seem to take chances on any old material. They want to sell, sell, sell.

Although it makes sense, because that’s what businesses do, art isn’t business. Art is self-expression. It comes from within. It yearns to get out, like an itch we have to scratch. So I want to propose something. Perhaps you’re disappointed that your work isn’t being read. Maybe your business plan is failing, as far as being a professional writer is concerned. What if you removed all that baggage you’re carrying and just did what you wanted to do? If you happen to strike it lucky, and someone gravitates toward what you’re offering them, brilliant. But chances are they won’t. So do it for the love.

I know it’s not a pleasant conclusion to draw. I suspect you may feel like all you need is a little more time — a couple of months — and you’ll start seeing progress. But what if that progress never comes? What I’m most interested in as a reader is whether or not I can tell that the author is having a blast or not. People complicate this process all the time, and everyone has bills to pay, but there are much easier ways to make money than by being a writer. When I got to the root of the issue, realising that I haven’t failed, I’m just looking at stuff from the incorrect perspective, I was freed.

Freed from the expectations I placed on myself and others. Freed from the shackles of self-created pressure. Freed from this idea that nothing I do is ever good enough. Because none of that nonsense is true. People get published all the time, others don’t. And it’s okay. It might just be a personality flaw, that if I have this idea that I’m required to do something I’ll just never do it. But if I know I should be doing something else, all of a sudden my work becomes much more appealing. Non-commercial work is just as important — if not more important — than commercial work is.

Take a look at some of the biggest achievers in the arts and you’ll find that the door was slammed in their faces too many times to count. No one believed in them. And then one day, out of the blue, someone bit, and they became a hot commodity. Then the problem becomes saying yes to the right person, and no where appropriate. Suddenly you’re calling the shots, and you can pick and choose from a myriad of options. That happens to people who aren’t pushing so hard for it. I’ve noticed, one way to repel anything you desire is to desire it too strongly. Whereas doing your own thing is key.

I’m not a success story, so I’m in no position to give advice. Have I been published? Yes. Did it change much? No. You usually find that behind all the smoke and mirrors of perceived success it really is all empty. It’s like people who want to be filthy rich, but live in utter poverty. They get a taste of the good life and come into some money eventually and they find themselves in greater debt because of it. Money can’t make you happy. It can make your life easier, sure, but that hollowness you feel in your heart? That void? It can’t be filled with material possessions. It takes more than that.

All I’m doing is proposing a new way of looking at things. And that’s because I want to see more people writing what they want to write, as opposed to writing what they think people want to read. I know in my visual art career ever since I started making work that interests me that’s what resonated with my audience. I stopped pandering even a little bit, and haven’t looked back since. Being a visual artist as well as a writer gives one respite from engaging in the same creative process all the time. When writing isn’t appealing to me, drawing does, and vice versa. I like to pass the hot potato.

It’s not so much a juggling act as it is a multidisciplinary practice. I can dip in to striking visual imagery when I’m feeling as if words might fail to express what it is I’m trying to do. And other times, when I don’t feel like getting my hands dirty with ink and paint, I can tidy up the studio and sit behind my word processor. Something that’s been happening to me recently is that I’ve had a lot of unavoidable interruptions, and seeing as though I couldn’t do anything about them, I let things ride for a time. I did my best to sit back and not create, because I couldn’t. And it’s rejuvenated me.

Sometimes events happen a specific way in our lives that force us to take a break. We then end up looking in the mirror, and questioning our purpose. While breaks have always been healthy and I know it, it’s not an area I’m particularly fond of. If I’m not doing something productive I feel like I’m wasting my life. But that’s when life inserts definite full stops. To caution you to slow down and take a breath. I’m not saying everything happens for a reason — I don’t know that to be true — all I’m saying is that we sublimate our experiences by how we interpret them. And once I altered my perceptions, everything else changed too.

It was a blissful afternoon away from the studio, but I’d brought my laptop with me in case I had the urge to write. And I wanted to, I really did. But in complete solitude — aside from me looking after two of the most adorable dachshunds — I instead chose to let the time pass, putter around and have a nap. This got me thinking whether I need to be in my studio to do what I do. It slowly dawned on me that I’m not one of those writers who can go to a busy café, order a cup of coffee and tune out — or better yet relish — the noise.

And I don’t think I do it because I probably can’t. I guess you could say I desperately need my peace and quiet. In times of utter turmoil and strife I freeze. I don’t feed off of discomfort. If the temperature is wrong or I’m in a bad mood I fold entirely. Perhaps I’m just fickle. Maybe everything needs to be in its place for me to function creatively. All I know is I haven’t always been like this. In university I used to draw anywhere I could find a table, or even a hard surface. I’d sketch from real life, observing my surroundings, and capturing them in my little black books. But that time is over.

As I sit here in my slippers after what I consider to be a taxing day, everything feels right in the world. I finally have enough clarity to create. But the problem is, to a normal person, my day could never have been categorised as taxing. So I had to leave the house. Big deal. This is why I know there’s something gravely wrong with me. I could’ve enjoyed my time with those dogs, and getting some shut eye, but instead I longed for it all to come to a close — so I could be safe in my pleasurable cocoon of ideas. Something stopped me from doing anything productive today. What?

Demons of course tempt us with the seductive art of sloth. Evil spirits lurk around every corner, waiting to sabotage our efforts. You could say, well, Azzerae, it’s not like you’re on a deadline or anything, so what’s the big deal? I want to add as much to my body of work as I can while I’m still able, because one day I’ll be old and frail, riddled with arthritis or some other horrid malady and I’ll know I wasted the opportunities that presented themselves. I guess you could say that I’m kind of beating myself up here for not writing. Something most writers can probably relate to all too well.

But I wonder in that moment if I had anything worthwhile to say? How would this piece be different if it was written in the light of day, kept company by a pair of sweet little furry creatures? Instead, I now tap away on my keyboard under the moonlight — which I cannot see, the curtains are of course drawn — and sleep is the last thing on my mind. I slept this afternoon! I have no need to sleep right now. But still, the clock is ticking, and every minute I spend avoiding my life’s work is a minute closer to death. Call it morbid if you must but you can’t argue with the truth, now can you?

I often say I’m the luckiest man in the world, because my wife gives me space to pursue the things I most enjoy. I do the same for her, but she doesn’t seem to require much time to brood and contemplate matters such as I. There’s something very cognitive going on with me, and perhaps that has a bit to do with this illness I’ve had the misfortune of being diagnosed with: schizoaffective disorder. On bad days, my paranoia ramps up. I misinterpret the slightest subtle cues for others targeting me explicitly. I think people are conspiring against me behind my back. That they hate me.

And it doesn’t help that some of my former friends actually did do that. Have you ever been friends with someone for so long and then all of a sudden one day some bad egg starts appearing everywhere they go? I don’t mean to get territorial, but I watched someone steal my friend from me before my very eyes. Truth be told I actually think that this person has the hots for him, and funnily enough, they might be an item on the down low. I won’t get into the weeds here but the individual in question seems severely confused about their identity. That’s putting it mildly. After all I’m not mean.

I might sometimes get brave behind my keyboard, but for the most part I’m somewhat even keeled. I almost believed that as I wrote it. No I’m not. I’m a person who suffers bouts of psychosis and hallucination, doing my best to live with it all. And it’s pretty isolating because no one can relate to that kind of thing. I sometimes think people feel sorry for me, and humour me out of pity. I can’t seem to understand why anybody would care about anything I have to say. As you can tell, that doesn’t deter me from expressing myself anyway. I often throw caution to the wind and see where things take me.

But very few people deserve to be ostracised because they’re different. We all have our quirks and they make up parts of our personality. As much as I hope others are understanding regarding my idiosyncrasies I still behave judgementally from time to time. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s there. In fact, I think some people are not discerning enough, and wind up surrounded by creeps because of it. Sometimes you have to say no. Sometimes you do need to dismiss arrogance to its face. Because if you don’t, who will? As usual I have a particular individual in mind when I say that.

What I’ve realised however is you can’t force friendships. You can’t force somebody to return back to the person you once knew. Because people change, and in turn, people grow apart. If the season for particular associations has ended those are just the facts. Deal with them accordingly or forget it altogether. No one can look at me and say I’m a worse person than when I was younger. I’ve made incredible progress, progress that is only crippled by the mental illness that was foisted upon me. And that can never make me a bad person. I seem bothered by this business of friend stealing though.

Which is silly because people are not property. I’ve come to realise however that not everyone listens to or observes others in the same way. Some people are simply too self-absorbed to pay much attention to what anyone else has to say. If they’re not talking over someone they’re blatantly ignoring what they said. And I never want to be one of those people. And fortunately enough, I don’t think I am. Another thing I tire of is professional victims. It could be said that I’m a victim of my psychiatric condition, but I see it a different way. I want to learn about it and move on with my life.

The professional victims I speak of are those who take a tragedy and exploit it for sympathy from others. Yes, we know you had something awful happen to you — but to build a whole new identity around that? I find it sick. Everyone has tragedies happen to them. Some worse than others. As Barack Obama’s Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel famously said, “Never let a good crisis go to waste.” How pathetic. Professional victims want to compare notes, and tell you how much worse they have it than you do. They suckle every last drop of opportunity out of the teat of personal tragedy, and I dislike them intensely for it.

There are many things you or I could use as a crutch, and we don’t, because we’re adults and we understand that life doesn’t work that way. When I encounter a person I can’t get through to, I give them three chances in which I overlook their ignorance. Strike three is where I draw the line. They’ve got to go, and I have too much respect for myself to stick around. That’s when I sever all contact and ghost them altogether. All of a sudden my phone rings off the hook and anywhere they can possibly contact me they do. But then you get the types that don’t even realise what they’ve done.

In the case of the latter, nothing can be fixed. In my younger years, I know that I overextended myself and gave everyone unlimited chances to screw me. I was told by some I’m too soft. That’s what you get for being in tune with your feelings, though. Something a lot of men aren’t. It’s unusual to me how many people walk around disconnected from their emotions. Nowadays we’re called hypersensitive people, and I’ll proudly wear that badge. With enough work one can transform their challenges into powerful works of art and literature. I only hope the same can be said for me.

The more time one has to think, to deliberate, the more ones mind attacks itself. While this may not be the case for everyone, it’s not like the majority of people have the time to let their mind wander where it wants. They’re busy earning that pay cheque. But for the modern day thinker, who consciously lowers the noise caused by social media and let’s lapse their real obligations, the mind is a terrible thing to taste. You might wonder what there is to be so miserable about. Well, I’m sure you don’t have a couple hours for me to go down the list, so I’ll just make it concise and succinct.

No, I’m not going to tell you what there is to be miserable about — because I’m sure you have enough of your own reasons. What I’m really saying is, if there is no other stimulation afoot, your brain will create its own. You’ll remember embarrassing moments in your life and come up with all the greatest retorts on the spot. You’ll wonder if you’re wasting your life doing whatever it is you do, and the good news is everyone feels that way sometimes. They question the meaning of life, why things happen the way they do, and what can be done about it. This is why writing is dangerous.

You sit down and overanalyse scenarios in your head. You pick them apart. And all the while you think what you’re doing is cathartic. It certainly may be for some, but for others it’s a nightmare. The torture we artists put ourselves through for the joy of the craft is something we tell ourselves has to be worth it. But examining anything too thoroughly makes it seem meaningless in the end. I was never one for positive affirmation or self help, up until I discovered the good stuff. And being kind to oneself doesn’t have to be corny. It’s all a matter of perspective, and what you choose to do.

You can look at your life and recount all of your mistakes. You can agonise over the small stuff. Or you can change the course of your life with a series of bold steps. What those steps comprise of is totally up to the flavour of your life. What you’re all about. And it took me a long time to realise that no one is going to do anything for me. I have to actively dig myself out of whatever hole I get into. I more often than not get caught up in the minutiae. I get lost in the weeds. I think myself into a stupor. It’s only very infrequently that I finally break through the chains of self-doubt and do much.

I do think it’s important to take stock of ones inner turmoil, though. To question the very nature of your own beliefs, so as not to become a walking vacuum or echo chamber. But controversy inevitably arises when someone says what they actually think. It may not always be wise to throw ones opinion in the ring — but if not why not? Sometimes the best thing you can do is go against the grain. Invariably others will come out of the woodwork and thank you for it. They’ll marvel at how you’re able to say what others wouldn’t dare to. The laws of engagement are strange indeed.

And they’re always changing. Even the most seasoned strategist eventually slips up. They miss the mark. Because life doesn’t always work the way you want it to. No, instead, it usually works against you. The small obstacles we face in daily life can be made mountains out of, when they’re actually molehills. And the less room you give yourself to screw up the more you will. Philosophically, I need a lot of room to breathe. My mind is rarely ever restful. Thoughts gnaw at the insides of my head like rats at cheese. If I’m not doing something productive I’m beating myself up over why.

This is a side effect of the era we exist in. One of capitalism and consumerism. You either provide a product or you’re the target audience of someone else’s. The baton gets passed from person to person. And sometimes you’re that person. The way I escape allowing this shallow world from swallowing me whole is to produce more than I consume. But some days I fall short of that. Still, I refuse to fill my head with what we could term slop. The kids today call it content. But it’s not a word I use frequently. Maybe in some other life I might, but I’m not counting on that by any stretch.

I’m just pleased that I’m under no obligation to produce, nor am I under anyone’s thumb. And if you truly love doing something that’ll shine through. I’m often left in awe when I encounter someone who isn’t the master of their own destiny. You mean life knocked you down and you let it? Stand back up. Fight tooth and nail for your freedoms. Don’t just lie down and take it. That’s the problem with the majority of people, they fall for this veil of faux security. They think clocking in and clocking out makes them good little citizens, when all they’re doing is serving their enemies.

The enemy is the state. The enemy is taxes. And they’ll only pry my last red cent from my dead fingers, when I can no longer fight against fascism. As far as I’m concerned all politicians are parasites — yes, both sides of the aisle. They say one thing then do another. We’ve been sold lie upon lie until we’re punch drunk and too weak to fight back. We’re backed into corners, told to offer up our private coffers for public use — all under the guise that they’re public servants. Well they’re not. They’re vampiric at best. Anarchy is never allowed to exist for long, because it’s real freedom.

We seem to want to see empty suits reading from teleprompters. We can’t get away from thinking the next guy in office will be the answer to our problems. And like Lucy pulling the football out from under Charlie Brown, every time a coconut, we’re fooled. The way I see it we only have ourselves to blame. We could put an end to all this stuff. If the masses rose up and demanded change from within we’d be free. Slavery still exists. And it’s intricately linked to your wages. I call it being on a short leash. As long as so-and-so gets their little bonus once a year that’s seems to be enough.

But it’s not enough for me. I’d rather have nothing that was acquired through ill gotten gain. Everything I own, I know I got honestly. Without sacrificing my soul or my time. You may wonder where this secret source of income originates. What’s the secret? I never stop trying. I manifest whatever I want through sheer will and effort. And you can too. We’ve been sold a bill of goods. You no longer need a traditional job. There’s plenty ways to make money with an internet connection. That’s why it boggles my mind that people still seem to choose the alternative: being a bootlicker.

I’ll never march in lockstep. I’ll forever remain a pariah. Outside of society is where I want to be. And so I removed myself from its clutches long ago. It always astounds me when otherwise intelligent people accept a life of mediocrity. A life of submission. A life of wilful acquiescence. That can’t be me, and it never has been. I’m not saying I escaped the rat race unscathed. I’m saying I came within milliseconds of it going the other way. Right now, if things had gone differently, I’d be writing this from a cubicle in my lunch hour. But instead I’m in my house shoes comfortably at home.

But most people don’t want to face up to the reality of their lives. They tell themselves that some day things will change. They put their dreams off in service to other things. I know there are no half measures. I know how difficult freeing oneself from the herd really is. Because there was a time when I almost got caught up in it. The last time a company offered me a corporate job I lasted a day. Then I quit. It was because I couldn’t imagine my life continuing on that trajectory. I wanted to drive my car off the side of a cliff, into the ocean. And so I never went back. I left them in the lurch.

Amusingly enough, the guy who hired me lost his cool on the phone, after I told him I wasn’t coming back. I didn’t have to give him that courtesy. He told me I’d never be anything in this world, in a rage. He seemed to think I was willing to be paid peanuts and start from the bottom like a good little boy. But he had no idea who he was dealing with, clearly. I went on to pursue work in avenues I enjoyed. I still haven’t had a regular job in my entire life. And honestly, I don’t think I could do it. It takes a certain type of person to tow the company line, and that’s just not me. I’m too independent.

If I had stuck around there my life would’ve been very different now. I’d probably have had my mind poisoned, and would’ve eventually accepted that’s the way things were. One thing I know is the world needs people like that. They’re just not going to get it out of me. And the reason I say they’re needed is because they keep the economy going. I’m not stupid enough to believe that pure unbridled anarchy is the answer. I may feel like it is at times. But I’ll instead let everyone else dash off to their little jobs and do their menial little tasks. I’ll be right here, bringing my dreams to life.

I don’t get off on being pejorative. I never want to hurt anyone’s feelings with my work. But at the same time, I promised myself long ago I’ll always say what’s on my mind. Often times, inadvertently, you offend people’s sensibilities if you’re brutally honest on a particular issue. But that’s the one thing artificial intelligence can’t do, is take a hard-line opinion on anything whatsoever. In fact, it’s responses have a sense of ennui if there ever was one. Ambivalence and nuance get lost. It may not be honourable to say the stuff no one will out loud, but it’s a hill I’m willing to die on.

Wincing after sticking your neck out and get called on it is spineless. Any writer worth their salt should welcome respectful debate with open arms. After all, we do all this to connect with our readers, don’t we? And what’s the worst that could happen? Someone unsubscribes and refuses to ever return. Is that so bad? In an age where people approach subjects with a sense of neutrality, taking a side is rare and therefore valuable. But what good are our opinions alone, anyway? I mean, everyone has them. You’d have to be pretty arrogant to think taking a specific stance means much.

But I’ve been fighting with my inclinations long before I ever picked up a pen or sat behind a word processor. I examine things from so many different angles it becomes exhausting. There are also times when I haven’t quite thought through something enough and put it out there anyway. One day I might hold an opinion that I myself disagree with the next. And I don’t find that too peculiar. But then you get those who will never back down on their stance whatsoever, and hold it till the end of time. I can’t relate to such people. I never have. Opinions only seem to matter if you’re a public figure.

And that’s because the average man on the street doesn’t capture thousands of people’s attention. He just goes about his business and does what he has to do. But there’s this phenomenon that occurs in which celebrities and others in the public eye grandstand. They say things to evoke a reaction of some kind and to make others think they’re something they’re not. This is why I pay very little attention to what actors or actresses say. They have too much to lose by speaking the truth. And after all, they pretend for a living, so there’s nothing authentic about that. How can you trust it?

You can’t. They say stuff they think sounds good. They want to appear tolerant and accepting of all people. And it pays to look that way, which is the only reason they do it. The reason I just express whatever it is I want to is because I know very few people are watching. And if someone confronts me on something it obviously must be important enough for them to do so. That is why I remain receptive in the face of criticism. I don’t only expect that others will nod along and agree with me. And that’s what real tolerance looks like. Being present when people come to you with concern.

We can either choose to listen to their side of the story or tune it out altogether, but that’s something only a coward would do. I’m not saying that every stranger under the sun deserves to be interacted with right off the bat, all I’m saying is sometimes there’s value in a reader engaging you with something you’d otherwise not want to hear. Because that’s how we get better. That’s how we come to articulate ourselves more skilfully. When you have to explain what you meant after you wrote what you wrote you’ve probably failed as a writer. We can’t try clean up our missteps later.

Well, we could, but that’s just backpedalling, and it’s a bad look. I’m not spouting off the rules of engagement however, I’m just giving you my take on how I perceive things. My observations may be totally wrong, and I’m open to that. Something you may be hard pressed to find elsewhere — someone willing to look stupid in pursuit of the truth. Because if we’re not honest with ourselves, who are we performing for, really? What benefit does one derive in being a manipulative windbag? I guess you could couch it as fiction, and get off scot-free. But I’ll choose honesty every single time.

I’ve seen all the virtue signallers pull the wool over other’s eyes. I recognise the snakes in the grass every time. Often liars think they’re so good that they’ll never get caught. Well I know they eventually will. And when that day comes my integrity will still be in tact. Because I didn’t feign being someone I wasn’t. I didn’t say the popular thing to win the approval of strangers. I went my own way and made my own path and no one can take that from me. There’s an unusual thing that occurs when you’re in the presence of a liar. They get so used to making it up as they go along that eventually they slip up.

That’s when they forget their web of deceit is crumbling. And they’ll do anything they can to salvage whatever confidence you had in them. They become desperate, and might admit to one fib in the heat of the moment. What they forget is it’s like a domino effect. Once you knock over one misdeed the rest follow, almost immediately. I can’t hang with liars, and I never could. Once I catch on to someone being a scumbag in one area I start to question a whole lot more. I was raised in a household where lying was the worst thing you could do. So I guess you could say it’s instilled in me to react this way.

For years I blamed bad people’s actions on basic human nature. I overlooked what they did and told myself that they’re merely taking the easy way out. And that’s how I got bitten and lost a couple friendships. When the issue compounded I could no longer look the other way, and so I cut ties. This of course came as a rude surprise to some of my former friends. They thought they’d get away with their shenanigans in perpetuity. And when they didn’t, I looked like the bad guy. You could say not addressing them about it directly was a mistake. But once I figure people out there’s no going back.

I carefully analyse people and their actions over a period of years. And I let them get way with stuff all the while. I see how far they think they can push me, and then I abruptly stop engaging. It looks like I drift away and hide, but nothing could be further from the truth. It’s simple self-preservation. After enough infractions one would be an idiot not to disengage. I’ve suffered emotional abuse from these types, and they all seemed to think I’d stick around regardless. When I don’t, I’m the problem. I look like the hypersensitive type. Which I kind of am anyway. But it all goes much deeper than that.

Keeping people around that have done you dirty is never a good idea. If you’re in a position where someone is undermining you slyly I caution you to take stock of the situation and consider walking away. They can be small, incremental remarks designed to wear you down. Subtle disrespect of your time. And anything else in between. You deserve the very best. You deserve to be treated with respect and not gaslit in any instance whatsoever. This situation is not something people talk about often, but I feel it’s important to observe and take action over. Friendship is a two way street.

If you find yourself in a position where you’re doing all the heavy lifting then by all means speak up for yourself. But instead of fighting to keep someone toxic in your life and demanding that they stop with their passive aggression, let them go. You’ll find better people out there in the world. Not everyone is a scumbag, it’s just the people that are that ruin it for the rest of us. Because I have a low self esteem I sometimes accept less than I deserve. It’s something I’ve been working on quietly for the past few years. Knowing that I’m actually worth more threatens the people who’ve done me wrong.

Because they don’t like it when you find your voice. When you start sticking up for yourself. When you say, hey, wait a minute, I don’t deserve this. Some people are too far gone, and too set in their ways to change. It is up to you to do what you know is right. And walking away is sometimes very hard, but it’ll be the wake up call that a bully might need. Maybe for a second they might reconsider how they treat others. Maybe you’ll command more respect. But nothing will ever change if you don’t take the necessary steps to eradicate toxicity from your life. Peace is priceless, and not everything has to be a war.

You read someone’s article. It resonates with you. You decide to leave a thoughtful comment…and nothing.

They don’t thank you. They don’t even acknowledge your existence.

You spend the next couple days wondering if you should delete your comment. All while the ingrate keeps posting new work.

What, do they think they’re too good to respond?

I know when I choose to leave a comment on someone’s article some part of it moved me enough to want to reach out.

Let’s face it — this behaviour is just plain rude. Do they owe me anything, though? No. But hey, it’d be nice if they left a clap on the reply I took the time to write.

But no, nothing. And then someone else replies to their piece, and they’re there, Johnny on the spot. I start wondering if it’s something I’ve done. Is there something wrong with me?

Maybe they think I’m fishing for followers or something. But chances are they aren’t thinking about me at all. They’re probably too busy writing their next article. Or dealing with real life.

Not everyone feels everything as deeply as you do, Azzerae.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. It’s a form of rejection. But I guess that’s just the way some people are. They believe their own hype. They’re too busy rubbing their success in everyone’s face.

To those who ignore their readers comments: do you remember when you started your writing journey? When you had one follower, and had no idea if anyone would read your work?

Chances are you’ve forgotten. And your arrogance is showing in a big way.

I never came here to watch my numbers climb. I came here to connect with genuine people and exchange sincere, thoughtful dialogue.

Yes, I write largely for my own amusement. But if someone takes the time to write me a little note of any kind, you best believe I’ll respond and respond kindly.

Everyone has stuff going on in their lives. And I get that ones writing time is limited for a lot of writers. Because most of us have jobs. But for goodness sake, you act like responding in any way whatsoever is such a lowly act.

What’s funny is a lot of these types are incredibly opinionated individuals, often spouting off platitudes about how the little guy gets screwed, and that they’re non-judgemental, open-minded and want to live in a better world.

But they have absolutely no consideration for the novice who’s still making his way in the world.

The reason I’m writing this is because it hurts. It hurts to come across such a brilliant mind, to bare your heart and soul, to be vulnerable, only to be ignored.

And the solution is not to close up and avoid leaving feedback anymore. Because I know that some people still have the decency to take the time to respond. The others, well let’s just say they might have built a following, but particular readers will remember how they made them feel.

If you think this piece is emo and unnecessary I respect your opinion too.

I just don’t want to live in a world where authors ignore their audience. I’m not saying that we need to pander or perform for the sake of longevity, all I’m saying is a little acknowledgement goes a long way.

I guess you could say I’m offended, because I expected more. Perhaps these egotistical writers just aren’t considering the consequences of their actions, because they believe they’re too big to fail.

I wasn’t even planning on addressing this particular issue in the public square, but a short while ago it occurred to me how much of a mark being ignored leaves.

It’s just incredibly disappointing. Especially when you read everything a particular writer puts out, excitedly anticipate their new work, and consistently keep up with what they have to say.

But the silence is deafening. It stings. It gives a clear message, and that message is: I don’t care about my readers.

I get that most of us are doing our own thing, and primarily writing for ourselves, but the solipsism is rife on this one.

How wrapped up in yourself do you have to be? How self-important, to completely blank those who enjoy your work? I just don’t get it.

I’m grateful when anyone reads my work. I’m excited when I get a notification that someone has left a comment. If I grow an audience will that excitement go away?

I just think it comes down to personal preferences. You can’t make someone care. If they’re a windbag, they’re a windbag, and all full of hot air.

Remember this — you can be a terrific writer, have a fantastic grasp on the English language, but without the necessary social graces you’ll never have meaningful connections with your readers.

And maybe you don’t care. Maybe you’re here to copy-paste your newest piece onto the platform and you’re not interested in the feedback you get.

I just think that’s weird. Rant over.

I hardly write at night anymore, but I must strike while the iron is hot. The crickets are out in full swing, my wife is breathing gently as she sleeps. All the busyness of the day has come to a close. My faculties are sharper in the evening air. I am a night owl, and I always have been. Clouds linger about the moon, stars shine crisp and pointed. This is the time the spirits come out to play, and I sense their collective presence among me. Nobody ever asked for my opinions, yet I freely pass them off to the ether, hoping for nothing and no one to find me playing on the page. For I’m not as impressive as I’d hoped, nor as remarkable as I’d like. I’m myself and that’s enough, at least for me. Who else matters? And do they really exist outside of my head? How am I to know whether anything is real, or if this is all one long, vivid dream? The Great Work awaits as I play hooky with these words. Some people do crossword puzzles, others play chess. I write and might as well hide it, for nobody else is there. I’m so alone in this vast Universe, alone enough to invent companions and conjure diabolic entities, all for company and crosstalk. Who do I think I am, anyway? No one special. Just the only person left in a world filled to the brim with deceivers and those of little faith.

Do we know where we come from, or did we dream it all? It’s just the medication wearing off, Azzerae. Go to sleep and take your sleeping pill. But I finally feel alive, and have all my faculties. I’m no longer a zombified, apathetic husk. I can feel and see and think. Maybe I should go off these goddamned drugs. But I can’t. Although they are my cage, I’ve grown accustomed to them. They’re my training wheels. How would I ever function without them again? It’s times like these I live for, when I finally feel something. I guess I’m built backwards or something. Most people are comatose until their second cup of coffee. Why should I be any different? There’s a drug to pick me up, one to bring me down, and another to keep me even keeled. Which one is doing what? Never mind that. There’s bigger matters to tend to. Like my magnum opus. I’m addicted to pouring my heart out to strangers. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the rush it gives me. Even if no one is listening — actually, that’s even better. Don’t engage with me, you might instil in my physical vessel a lethal fright! Everyone is too absorbed in their own stuff anyway, they don’t have time for this. I mean, what is it, anyway? I’m chiselling away at the Great Work, piece by piece, and when it’s finally revealed, then I can die.

Let’s not pretend any of us know why we do what we do. Assigning meaning to inherently purposeless tasks. When the Great Work calls, you answer. Are you present? Is anyone hearing me? I know I can hear my own words echoing in my head. I finally feel as if the cotton wool has been removed from the inside of my skull. I can think! I can write without white-knuckling my way through every sentence. I pity the fool who never settles on a life goal. In an ever-changing environment, where mobile devices rule the day, humans come last. What was once humanity centric is now every man for himself. Don’t steal a glance at me while I’m engrossed in my doom scroll session. Let me escape into my screen uninterrupted — you know it feels so good. Mid-sentence, I took a shower and swallowed my cocktail of night time psych meds. It is now mid-morning and the kinetic energy of everyday life has returned. I feel like I’m in a vice grip. I have to be out and about today doing errands and nothing makes me more miserable than that. I just want to write, god damn it! So I’m squeezing this in a half hour before I must vacate my living quarters. Something I need to be held up at gunpoint to do. Ever since my psychiatrist lowered the dose of my mood stabiliser I’ve become extremely prolific. Could this be mania? Perhaps I’ll never know.

Let’s not pretend here. I couldn’t see the change that came. I was too wrapped up in my writing to realise it had taken over all my other interests. I’ve been a cartoonist for more than two decades, but I hardly ever draw anymore. Maybe that should’ve been a sign of some kind. I’ve been told by someone I love and respect that this writing thing is turning obsessive. Because when I’m not writing I’m thinking about writing. When I swear to myself I’ll take a break and step away from the page it doesn’t happen. I wrote a full length book and promised myself I’d ease up on the writing once it’d been published. I didn’t. In fact, I became even more engrossed in my thoughts and wanting to get them down. I’ve never had an addictive personality where substances are concerned, but creative expression has always taken priority over everything else in my life. It’s cost me relationships before, because I put it first, over everything else. But the more disconnected I become from others, a danger of less lived experiences crops up. What are you going to draw from, Azzerae, if you have no real life events unfolding? Especially since your work is largely autobiographical? These are the questions I ask myself at three o’ clock in the morning, when I wake up filled with ideas buzzing around in my head. I’ve never kept a note book next to my bed stand, should I start?

Anyone who knows me in real life knows that I’m working toward something gargantuan. If my ideas don’t scare me I know I’m on the wrong track. It’s not so much that I want to achieve something grand for accolades or recognition — rather, it’s in the work I do that I derive such meaning — so keep your book deals and royalty cheques, thanks. I’m not a traditional writer, therefore I don’t have an agent or a publisher. I do everything myself, so perhaps you could call me a control freak. Or fiercely independent. Please, you go ahead and decide which. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever fall out of love with the written word. I mean, I doubt I will, but my creativity has many facets and moving parts. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself without the arts. I’d be truly lost. My interests often stretch beyond the limited world view I hold, out of intellectual altruism. Although I’ve toyed with a pseudonymous presence online, I often credit it with stretching my capabilities to that of fiction. And who’s to say we can’t engage in self-mythology? I’d say it’s relatively harmless to do so. Look, I’m not certain why it is that I can’t just be myself. Perhaps it has something to do with childhood trauma and subsequent mental illness. If we define ourselves by our work, what happens when we can’t execute it well anymore? Everyone runs out of steam at a stage.

What matters is what we do with our work, not how many units we sell while we’re still drawing breath. Do you think some of the greatest artists of the past century knew they’d go on to be celebrated? They inspire us now, but at the time they were derided and lived in obscurity. This is how I suspect I’m on the right track. Eschew any and all naysayers and take the credit you receive with a pinch of salt. Otherwise one risks arrogance, and in a big way. This is why I’m never proud of anything I’ve ever managed to accomplish. I know if I start buying into it it’ll change me. As unpleasant as the hunger is, we must experience it in order to create. A full stomach and a financial cushion is overrated. Where do you think the term “starving artist” originated? It’s an ascetic existence, one in which indulgence and hedonism are the greatest of pitfalls. I wouldn’t want to live in a world where everything was handed to me on a golden platter. It’s not that I’ve accepted my lot in life, rather, I’ve chosen to sublimate it through the Great Work. Everything I do is devoted to this pursuit. And happy accidents are part of the process. So when any wildly successful person tries to tell you that they knew where they were going, and where they’d end up, be wary. Often they revise their humble beginnings and retell their story, peppering in fictions. For there’s no blueprint or secret to it all. We have to find our own way, because our story is unique to us. Just don’t lie to yourself.

I was recently suspected of — and harshly criticised for — supposedly using artificial intelligence to aid me in my writing. The hater in question just can’t seem to believe that a human being who devotes enough time, patience and discipline to their craft could write four books in less than a year. I started getting serious about my writing journey late last year, and ever since, have worked at it.

Now my books might not be that amazing or even earth shattering, but I want to make it abundantly clear that I don’t utilise artificial intelligence in my creative process — aside from the illustrations which accompany it. Those are quite clearly generated with artificial intelligence, so this made me think. When you use artificial intelligence for one thing people assume you use it for everything.

As I’ve stated before, for a large part of my life I worked as an illustrator, and if you go back to my earlier writings you can see that I used to hand render artwork for each piece I wrote. The reason I stopped doing that was twofold. First, it takes a lot of time. And second, artificial intelligence has eradicated the need for work made by human hands in my industry. Allow me to explain further.

Ever since the widespread use of artificial intelligence, less and less clients were reaching out for commissions. So it made what I used to do obsolete. Instead of getting bitter and depressed about that I shifted my attention elsewhere — to my writing career. And although I still do draw, I don’t create artwork myself for each piece. So I guess you could say I’ve embraced artificial intelligence.

Given that I am complicit in this practice, I have no real moral ground to be outraged at those who are under the impression that I’m using it in my writing. I think that’s a mature and realistic conclusion to draw. But when I tell you that I work quickly I’m telling the truth. I was always valued for my efficiency as an illustrator, and it made my business thrive. And so I also write fast.

But this goes a little deeper. The individual who accused me of using artificial intelligence in my work is a well-known troll on social media. He calls himself a creator, and uploads videos on YouTube — very rarely will he live stream. His hatred for artificial intelligence is palpable. And I get it. But I suspect there’s no way I can prove that I write everything myself, so it’s pointless to try.

Most people whose jobs have been eradicated by artificial intelligence would probably never go near it, or in rare cases would adopt an attitude of if you can’t beat them, join them. However I don’t see myself as being either of those cases. Instead, my sole focus is what I write, and while a pretty picture might pique a reader’s interest, ones actual writing is what draws them to a particular piece.

I don’t usually feel the need to prove myself to relative strangers, and I know my decision to use artificial intelligence in the place of hand rendered artwork will create mixed feelings. But I’d like to think people are smart enough to know when artificial intelligence is being used or isn’t. There I go giving people the benefit of the doubt, but I’m being as honest and forthright as I possibly can be.

Maybe it raises red flags, that the book projects I embark on take me quicker to write than most people. But when I tell you I wrestle with every word and give it my all it’s almost an understatement. I think this critique that’s been lobbed at me also helps bring attention to the elephant in the room, which as you can tell, I’m quite happy to address. But I’d like to know something.

What is the difference between asking a chatbot — with your own, original references — to bring your idea to a visual conclusion, and sourcing stock photos online to repurpose for your own ends? The way I see it, feeding information to artificial intelligence to create an entirely new image that’s never been created before involves some creativity. I’m not just picking and choosing some photo.

I understand this piece is going to make me some enemies, and I’ll be accused of justifying the use of artificial intelligence (which I most certainly am not). But whatever happened to coming up with your own ideas? Is the common consensus that choosing existing artwork from an online archive somehow superior to that? Because, like I said, it’s a person repurposing someone else’s work for their own use.

It doesn’t matter that it’s royalty free. It’s simply reusing photos or artwork that have been found elsewhere. At least I’m feeding, directing, guiding and refining the images I create with artificial intelligence. I’m not just showing up without ideas and telling it to generate them for me. No. I do all the heavy lifting. I’d just rather not hand draw artwork for a daily blog post that might not even get read.

The whole idea of picking existing artwork from an archive just doesn’t appeal to me. I want to be involved in the creative process. I want to show up with a strong concept in mind and direct the chatbot to make me exactly what I envisioned — and that’s what I do. Look, I’m not trying to change anybody’s mind about anything, and I certainly see the downsides to artificial intelligence.

It’s making people dumber, lazier, and giving them the impression that they are responsible for the end product. But where the situation gets sticky is ownership and copyrights. I’m aware that I can’t copyright the images I create with artificial intelligence. But I’m okay with that. I’m still a cartoonist at the end of the day, and hand draw all my own work on paper. I just don’t do that for my articles.

I’ve been described as unusually productive by others. Most of my clients were impressed by how fast I worked. I just wanted a clear separation from that part of my life and my writing. Hoping people will understand is foolish. People have preconceived ideas about artificial intelligence and their minds will never be changed. But I refuse to be made to feel like I’m doing something wrong.

I’m using a tool that’s available to me, as anyone else can and does. There are those who’ll fall on either side of the issue — they’ll hate it or they’ll accept it — my only hope is that I’ve instilled enough trust in my readers over the course of the time they’ve been actively reading my work. Artificial intelligence can’t fake the type of anecdotes I recount, and if it can, I’m unaware of that.

I write autobiographical accounts of my life all the time, and I’m honest to a fault. Even so much as broaching the subject I have, it’s bound to lead to drama. I welcome it. I’m not afraid of confrontation, and I’m well aware that I’m not violating the terms of service. My writing remains one hundred percent organic and human centric. I’m not shilling for artificial intelligence as there’s nothing in it for me.

It was high time I brought attention to my thought process on all this, and for it, I thank the die hard hater that exists somewhere out there online. If you’ve ever wondered about my stance on this whole idea now you have it. But I want you to remember something. I embrace other’s opinions, as well as respect them, all the time. I assess things from a big picture perspective. If I’m discarded for being candid, oh well.

You might not want to agree with me. You might vehemently disagree with me. But you can’t say that I avoided the tough discussion. It wasn’t particularly easy to address it with grace and the level of maturity I have, and for that I hope you’ll see the humanity shine through in my message. I understand people’s hatred for artificial intelligence. I’ve heard all the reasons why they hate it.

But on the flip side of that coin there’s something to be said for this quest for truly original work. I might seem tasteless for embracing what is commonly referred to as slop nowadays. It makes others suspicious, I get that. But when I tell you that I was replaced by a machine I’m telling the truth. My only response to that was, well, let’s have this machine start working for me now. Nothing more, nothing less.

There is this line that stays with me, by Pietro Aretino. It goes, “Even when I’m railed at I get my quota of renown.” And what it means to me is that even when I’m in the thick of public criticism, I own the attention in the room, so I win. After all, there is no such thing as bad publicity, right? Because my legal name isn’t public knowledge to most, you probably don’t know all the controversies I’ve weathered. I mean, you could most certainly type my pseudonym into a search engine and find gems, but for the full picture, you’d have to really know who I am, through and through.

Not that I don’t spill my guts under my moniker — if you’ve read me long enough you’ve probably come to learn a few things about me that maybe you wish you hadn’t. Where I’m going with all this is to say everyone is a critic. And by extension, everyone is an artist until the rent is due. When you’ve ruffled enough feathers in your time on this earth you may come to understand how public outcry feels. As an artist I’ve always dabbled in transgressive work. Work that made some people think, others laugh, and of course, people want to cancel me. Before cancelling anyone was a thing.

All this results in me having to take the utmost caution about who gets their hands on my work. You have all kinds of activists that are waiting in the wings to take issue with a piece, call you out, or air you out to dry. But for everything my art form has cost me, I still plug away at it, day in and day out. But that makes it sound like a drag. Actually, it’s the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. But what could you have possibly done that caused so much outrage, you may ask? Pilloried politicians, gutted sacred cows, and even drawn criticism from my own family. But as artists we have a duty.

Safe art that doesn’t hurt feelings has never been my preference. Among my favourite writers is Salman Rushdie — and that might tell you a little something about the directions I’ve taken in the course of my career, being influenced by the author of ‘The Satanic Verses.’ It’s not that I have a problem with organised religion, rather, I feel like nothing should be above critique. When you do what I’ve done over the years you draw scrutiny upon yourself and your enemies try and dredge up past ills. Ills that may be true or may just be invented out of whole cloth. But you’ve got to roll with the punches.

If you’re confused about the nature of my work, I’m not just a writer. In fact, as introspective and opinionated as I can be, I tend to avoid the use of profanity in my writing. So what else am I? A cartoonist. And it is in that field which I exercise most of my politically incorrect muscles. Because to me there is no other way for an individual of my ilk to be. There can be no half measures. I’ve debated with myself publicly about whether or not I should leave that part of my life behind me, but I’m starting to realise those ideas in that medium will always itch to come out. Despite the poor pay.

I’ve been the target of doxxing multiple times in my life, all because I entertained controversial ideas. And it’s another reason I’m reticent to do away with my pseudonym. Some might call it cowardly, while I call it common sense. There is something freeing about not having your name attached to what you do creatively, and I wish I’d learned this sooner. But getting back to the critics who came down on me harshly, and even dug into my personal life. That’s when I feel they lose their credibility. When they get personal. You can say anything you want about my work, but why pick on that?

I suppose, as an artist, one struggles to separate themselves from their art. But I know of many instances in which audiences could discern between creative expression and real life. I just think it is low hanging fruit to target someone personally. And you might wonder what these skeletons in my closet may be at this point. Amusingly enough, I live a pretty banal existence. I’m reclusive. I keep to myself. I’m exceedingly polite and conscientious. There is really nothing to dredge up on me when it comes to that side of things. So that’s why when a critic pretends to know me I’m stumped.

A lot of people have mixed feelings on the premise of political correctness. They don’t want to be seen as having said or done anything that would lead anyone else to believe that they don’t support progressive causes. They want to be seen as forward thinking, and on the cutting edge of current affairs. They pirouette ever so carefully between any given set of issues. They say all the right things, they outwardly support all the right causes — but inside they believe in a very different way. This intellectual dishonesty to me is frightening. Why have we become so toothless and tame?

And don’t get me wrong, I’m not batting for the other side of the team. My politics may not be what you think they are. Drawing inferences is a dangerous game, so be careful. I feel like both sides of the aisle have their flaws. I do believe in finding a middle ground. But that is not the way things seem to work. People will fight tooth and nail to be seen as on the right side of history. All jokes aside, being heard or seen saying the wrong thing today will get you in a pickle you won’t soon come back from. I say all this to say no one is above criticism. But there is criticism and then there are personal attacks.

Nobody has the right to judge. Judge not lest you be judged. Unless of course you’re dealing with a war criminal or someone who disregards basic human rights. Then I can see them getting hanged in an international capacity. For all the things I’ve expressed in my work over the years the greatest feeling in the world, the reason I even did it, was because there was a rush that came along with it. That feeling of being on the brink of what you probably shouldn’t put out there. That’s when it was all so fun. The blowback you expect. The threats to your person you look dead in the eye and laugh at.

There is something much deeper going on when we express our ideas and they draw controversy. It is the virtue signallers wet dream, an individual such as I. They get to point at you and say you’re the problem. But the problem really lives within them. Imagine sitting around and waiting for the world to offend you. Imagine engaging in public outcry because you’d rather everyone marched in lockstep. That is dangerous right there. Expecting people to all agree on the common good — when that common good is deliberately one sided. I’ve said before that I enjoy work that challenges me.

I like to examine my feelings when I’m met with something that jars me awake. And I get that not everyone is like this. They don’t all want to have their values questioned. But if art is not resistance to the current leadership, then what good is it really? I think we all need to realise we’re a lot more similar than we are different. That not everything is deadly serious. That it is okay for the jester to make a mockery of the king. It’s Jester’s Privilege. The right of a jester to speak and mock freely without fear of punishment, allowing them to critique authority under the guise of humour.

That is what I believe cartoonists are in this day and age. Modern jesters. No one gets mad at the joker in a game of cards. All they see is an opportunity for a flush. So why should real life be any different? I’m not saying there should be no repercussions for legitimate libel or slander. No. What I mean instead is that we should take things in the spirit in which they’re given. Satire might hurt because it touches on the truth. But no one deserves to go the the gallows for it. I read this quote a while ago which wasn’t attributed to anybody specific, and I hope you’ll forgive me for paraphrasing.

The absurdity of the modern left has made satire impossible. Now replace the mention of the left with something else entirely. Because this is not a partisan issue. If I were to revise it, it’d go something like this: The absurdity of the modern day has made satire impossible. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t; but my larger point speaks to how absurd life has become, and how satirising it seems a herculean task. I’ll always give our leaders a good ribbing. I’ll never kowtow to what is supposedly off limits. And if I ever start doing that, please, remove my Jester’s Privilege immediately.

I need to get out of my head. It’s crowded in here. All I hear is vitriol, doubt and lack. And the worst part is none of it seems unfounded. I’m just not the person I’d like to be, but getting off my duff and doing something about it feels so impossible. Instead, dread looms over me, whether I turn left or right. It’s like the centre of my energy is split. However I take comfort in the fact that this might not just be a me problem. I’m sure everyone suffers nagging thoughts in the same vain. They might be better at hiding them, though. I recently had a chat with someone who feels like they’re an imposter.

Which is surprising, because I thought he seemed well-adjusted enough to not have those problems. We can hide our insecurities for a while, yes, but eventually we risk them swallowing us whole. I’ve come to realise that the best way to shut that noise off is to do something. Anything. And I’m not talking about distracting ourselves from the negative bias. I’m talking about relieving it entirely, by forging ahead, not letting anything deter us. After all, we’re in this together. Even the most successful figures of our time have moments of uncertainty and indecision. It’s part of being human.

But we idolise and mythologise those who give us the impression that they’ve got everything figured out. We think there is some hidden secret or magic bullet to overcoming our stressors. No. It’s how we manage them that matters. Just yesterday I was able to function somewhat normally, and this came after a particularly bad patch. A hole I’d dug myself into due to various life factors. See, I’m great when a day passes relatively uneventful. Where I begin to struggle is if I have any obligations outside of my creative pursuits whatsoever. This is why I’ve never worked a straight job.

My mind demands too much from me. Constant stimulation and uninterrupted chunks of deep, meaningful work. And I’m sure everyone feels like they’re wasting their lives at some point, hoping they can some day do what they love. But let me tell you, being faced with that reality is sometimes overwhelming. You see, not everything is enjoyable all the time. Sometimes wrestling with your demons manifests in the middle of an otherwise productive afternoon. Then you’re frozen, and start telling yourself all kinds of untruths. The old I’m not good enough spiel. I’ll never achieve anything remarkable.

Why am I even doing this? I’m not a real artist because I’m doing it all wrong. It’s all rubbish. It’s not true. It’s the devil on your shoulder whispering in your ear that you’re just an awful human being. And while there are those who enact atrocities on humankind, chances are you’re not one of them. I think a lack of perspective can generate deep feelings of inadequacy. Looking at things from the standpoint of the bigger picture is key, but it’s easier said than done. And when you’re making incremental steps each day it often doesn’t feel like it amounts to much. But that’s why I practise.

I air my thoughts out daily because in the long run they add up to something larger than life. My vision feels bigger than me once I stand back and look at what I’ve actually accomplished. Then I get to thinking I’m not so bad at all this, and it gets easier. Whoever you are and whatever you’re doing has to be enough. And this is coming from someone who hates his own work. There is no validity to the claims that evil voice makes in your head. Look at it as filler. Your inner enemy beefing with your authentic self. We’ve all been given gifts, it just takes longer for some to find them.

And your gift might not seem extraordinary. It might seem inconsequential. You might think that what you’re capable of just doesn’t match up to where you want to be. But here’s the thing, most wealthy people got where they are because of good fortune. Because they were at the right place at the right time. Perhaps you haven’t found your right place or right time yet. And that’s okay. We all live on different timelines, and things occur when they’re ready to blossom. If we constantly compare ourselves to others we’ll always feel like we’re behind. Social media is toxic in this way.

Those of us who are on it see the high points in other’s lives. They’re not showing us their failures. It’s all projection. What can I do to rub in people’s faces how great my life is? Check in with any one of them in real life and you’ll hear a different story altogether. Look, some people have charmed lives. I even have a pretty damn good one. But it’s that negative voice in the back of my brain that cripples me more often than not. It’s a liar. It’s telling me all the things I should be ashamed of. But it’s up to me whether I listen to it or not. You’d be surprised how many of us are walking around undiagnosed.

So for all the events people highlight in public, that make them look like they’re having the time of their lives, there also lives doubt in their low moments. No one can be happy all the time. That’s just a front, an unrealistic expectation. It’s when you have every reason to be happy and you can’t that results in the kind of situation I’m going through. So what is my problem, anyway? Why can’t I celebrate my small wins, and see that I’m flourishing more than flailing? There are deep seated issues at play. Traumas from the past that come back to bite us. Traumas caused by those closest to us.

And it’s not so much that the pain was deliberately inflicted. Rather, things happen inadvertently. While our parents might have thought they were doing what was best for us in our youth, they still occasionally missed the mark. Once I moved out of my parents house a lot of my traumas dissipated. I mean, they still left an indelible mark, but I was able to start assessing and undoing some of the damage they caused. And it hurts to even think that they could’ve inflicted such trauma. Because I’ll always love them for being as supportive and encouraging as they were growing up.

I think this is a big problem younger people are having today. Being that the economy is in the state that it is, a lot of people can’t move out of their childhood homes. And therefore they wind up with little privacy, unable to start their lives properly. It’s a huge blow to ones ego, this failure to launch. The advice I always give to those who are still living under their parent’s roof is to get out of there as soon as they possibly can. Yes, it’ll be hard. But it’ll be even harder if you never go your own way. Living independently teaches you the value of money. It forces you to grow up and work for the things you want in life.

It’s also embarrassing for people to share residence with their family at a certain age. And it creates a very unhealthy dynamic. My grandfather always used to say you pay dearly for your independence, and oh how right he was. Nothing comes easy in this life. And I suppose that’s why us writers like to get lost in fictional worlds. Even writing non-fiction can be cathartic, if done right. I haven’t focused on fiction in a long time because I find it puts too opaque a mask on otherwise autobiographical anecdotes. I respect those who can write fiction well, it’s just not my favourite genre.

You’d be surprised at some of the things that can create trauma. It’s not always the things you’d think that do it. It can be an unhealthy attachment to ones family that results in your being held back. It can be corporal punishment. It can be unemployment, and depending on others for your basic necessities. I have this fear that washes over me from time to time. It’s me being scared that I might go back to bankruptcy. Being broke. Not having enough money to afford my living expenses. It’s a trauma that was created in my childhood, one of poverty. That’s why I never judge anyone in that way.

The shoe has been on the other foot. I once couldn’t afford the luxury of time. And despite being encouraged to write by my peers, life got in the way. When I’m sitting behind this word processor and sharing my story with the world, time stops. I’m freed from the overthinking and drudgery of regular life. I finally get to discover what it is I think about certain things. Because if I didn’t write any of it down, I wouldn’t have an understanding of where I stood on particular issues. As Dodie Smith once said, “Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.” Spot on.

I'm done allowing cowardice to rule me. Courage is determined not by how many times you fall, but whether or not you get back up. Before these lofty ideas flashed across my psyche I crashed late this afternoon, only to emerge from slumber in the early evening. With the stars now shining shyly through the crisp, moonlit air, my mental acuity returns. I always look so forward to the mild winters, but this one has been particularly harsh. And I never thought I’d wish for the sun to once again return, but here I am doing so. Summer has swallowed me whole some years, but I anticipate that this upcoming season I’ll welcome it with open arms. But back to my initial thoughts above.

Going as far as to call oneself anything but brave could only come from my pen. From the tortured artist suffering another bout of neurosis, I now back away from the claim. I know I’m not any of those things. But the reality of the matter is I feel like I am in particular moments. And we all do. The only difference is I’m the first to say it out loud. Being tangled in a web of doubt is something I’ve become accustomed to. And I know it’s up to me to free myself from such an oubliette. The fact that I’m as self-aware as I appear to be is no coincidence. Most people are afraid to confront those aspects of themselves, and especially wouldn’t do so in public. And so that is what makes me brave.

Season changes do however affect many of us in tangible ways. There is no way around it. There is no doubt about it. We are tethered to the moon and stars much more than we might believe. These natural cycles are things we’re attuned to, and when you look at it that way your moods are not just random occurrences. Most people will scoff at astrology or the tarot, but they’re helpful tools in regard to fortune telling and forecasting possible events. That’s why me beating myself up over a little bit of fear here or there is absurd. After all, I’m just a regular human being, I’m not one of Nietzsche’s Overmen — far from it. Then again, that is the ideal. But ideals are theoretical at best.

Do I transcend conventional morality, create my own values, and fully affirm life? Perhaps. I can’t seem to help but live in the abstract. Intellectual violence aside, who is ringing the alarm? When you’re called to do so will you have the cojones, or will you let the town burn? I have many friends and acquaintances who I’d be ashamed to tell my secrets to. But here I am, under my pseudonym spilling my heart out to my dear readers, who could be considered strangers, for the most part. I want to bring them in to my story, however, and there is no other way to do that than by being honest. No one asked for this, but I’m giving it to the world anyway. There is no paywall pricy enough.

We as writers give of ourselves so freely, with the burning desire to tell a story. We let leak all of those things we’d be reticent to share in a glib conversation. We’re after something more and looking everywhere we can to discover it. I can’t tell if it was the late nap that snapped me into gear and evoked this train of thought, or if I’m just … off. Who really knows? Will I ever really know? And how much are we willing to let others feed into the salacious claims made about us in our absence? I spend ninety-nine percent of my time giving freely to the universe, asking little in return. Surely that’d make the average person yearn for deeper engagement. But to me, it’s a terrifying thought.

I wince at those moments when I know I’ve overexposed my heart. Yet I continue to engage in said behaviour, no holes barred. What a peculiar series of choices led me to such a place. And how do I make sense of it? Am I worsening my lot in life by sharing these ideas? Surely not. There has to be value in them, at the very least. I struggle now to separate my nom de plume from my legal identity. And it’s not because I’ve unduly exposed myself. It’s that the separation is becoming too thin. The world as I know it has become skewed. Once subject to natural laws, it is now like the Ouroboros, eating its tail. Maybe I should just pack it in and disappear unceremoniously, as I’ve done before.

But something keeps bringing me back, calling me like a Siren upon the treacherous waters. “Free yourself from this personal hell, Azzerae!” it beckons. A blind man could see my bind. The deaf can hear my plight. Just a few days ago, I penned a letter of encouragement to an associate. I suspected they might be struggling with a crisis of faith, having given up on their dream. I expect no response, and none came. It’s still early days, however, and these things have a way of working themselves out. I can’t bear to watch someone suffer as I do. I must do something. Anything. And so I did. I’m not certain if what I engaged in come off like a pep talk, but I’d hope it didn’t. Who can really say?

I’d hope if I were in a similar position someone would help me up. Remind me to not be discouraged by this cruel, unforgiving world. But there are those who feel like doing such a thing might be going to far or getting too familiar. That’s a risk I’m willing to take right now. Because after all is said and done I know I did the right thing. I saw someone in pain and lent a hand. Maybe I didn’t save anyone from drowning, as they determine whether they really want to or not. And it’s hard for some people to admit defeat. To face failure and see it for what it is. I don’t consider anyone who tried such a thing, however. There is the right place at the right time, and the inopportune.

It used to bother me when I wouldn’t hear back from someone I struck up correspondence with. It’d drive me absolutely mad, getting blanked. But I’ve come to accept that it is commonplace in the world today. One of the things I can’t abide is the hollowness of heart some people possess. Everyone now seems to be a strategist of some sort — admitting it however is the problem. We all plot and scheme. We all have an angle. But to define oneself as such has got to be one of the most tone deaf things I’ve ever witnessed. People call themselves content creators now. Not artists. Not writers. Content creators. To me that just seems to cheapen the entire creative endeavour altogether.

Then comes one of my least favourite terms: content strategist. What in God’s name is that, anyway? If I didn’t know any better that’d be letting people see too far behind the curtain. Like I said, we all have an angle — despite our protestations — we want people to buy in to our work and celebrate us for it. But a content strategist sounds like a professional manipulator. To me it says that none of your interactions are genuine, or backed by sound human decency. It tells me you’re in this to hoodwink someone into believing something, or worse. The lack of self-awareness is astounding to me. But perhaps they think they’re being an open book. It just feels like being a professional liar.

I’ve fallen for my fair share of clickbait over the years, and sometimes I do it willingly. I just think these buzzwords are empty of real meaning. People say stuff because it sounds good. It sounds polished. They think it sounds professional. But I’ve got news for you, none of this stuff matters as much as we think it does. We might make a few shekels here or there from our efforts. That doesn’t mean we’re making an honest living. I personally think we need to demonetise each and every individual that’s benefitting from being a huckster. Art is noble, not a transaction. Creativity is beautiful, let’s not make it ugly. These people are living high on the hog by producing sub par slop.

It’s not because I’m bitter. I haven’t monetised my work because I want to keep it accessible. In a world where everything is turning into a subscription service, I’d rather be the idiot who does it for the joy of the craft. This is not so much a moral stance as it is a heightening of the bar. Let’s cull the profiteers in their cushy little citadels. Us mere mortals, us peons, are down here scrounging for scraps. The incentive to create can’t be for material gain, because it turns shallow. I know all too well what it feels like to go to bed hungry. I don’t live a charmed life. There are far too many people coasting by on the backs of others. As far as I’m concerned, their message has been compromised.

They live in another world, one that doesn’t adhere to the same laws mine operates under. And no, they don’t deserve to profit from the fruits of their labour — because it’s hokey. It needs to be on shakier ground. Nothing should be guaranteed. What is the barrier of entry? What about the good of the commons? Open source is more honourable than is the alternative. I’m not saying any of this from a place of resentment, either. So don’t get me wrong. I just want to go back to a time when things made real sense. They don’t anymore. Everyone is in it for themselves now — selfish, self-aggrandising, and living in a land of milk and honey. But once you reach the top, it’s all downhill.

Committing oneself to doing something every day can be taxing in the long run, even if it is something you enjoy. Most mental health professionals will tell you to pace yourself, and avoid running yourself ragged — but none of us ever really listen to such advice. The world goes on, whether you’re ready for it or not. That thing you’ve been putting off? You yearn to complete it and quieten the nagging thoughts. And if we happen to choose inaction, we inevitably feel like failures.

One of the only remedies available to us is to just dive in head first and do what needs to be done, regardless of whether we feel it is the right time or not. For we can sit around, waiting for inspiration to strike, and there are always a thousand excuses as to why we can’t get started. While I adore the creative process and most of what comes with it, there are certainly aspects that cripple me along the way. Most of the time it is this voice in the back of my head calling me an imposter.

But of course I’m no imposter! I work too hard at my craft to even consider such a thing. Here’s the thing though, self-doubt is a natural part of the journey. Because if we were always one hundred percent certain of who we were or what we were doing, we wouldn’t have those moments of small victory. We wouldn’t have to overcome in order to achieve. What makes all of this so hard, and such a careful balancing act, is that there is unpredictability. My greatest fear of all is running out of steam.

I put too much pressure on myself at times, then others, I completely check out and stare at the ceiling for hours. I’ve never been good at pursuing a balance. I’m either in high gear or completely still. But I live within those bounds and I just let them happen the way they do. And maybe in a sense that is a sort of balance. Then again, maybe not. I know people with far more potential than they put to use, and it always saddens me. They’re circling the drain at the hands of substance abuse.

Part of me could just be thankful I don’t have those problems, and move on. But my compassion gets the best of me, and I see through the cool exterior or stoic front. I know people are struggling out there and I want to do something about it. I want to encourage them and lend an ear. But they’re too caught up in their problems to realise that there are any. My often times hands-off approach tends to make me appear as if I don’t care. But I also realise people go through cycles, as do I.

If we’re honest with ourselves we all stand in our own way from time to time. It’s breaking out of that pattern that is most challenging, and really, it’s silly because it’s a self-created problem. Most would lack empathy for those who orchestrate their own demise, but I see something deeper going on. It’s not so much that we want to fail, quite the contrary. It’s that opting out of an attempt to better oneself is just easier. Sure, it creates even more problems down the road, but that’s the can we kick.

I’d be lying if I told you no one has ever seen me struggling and offered a hand. Because they have. It’s a peculiar state of affairs, though, as sometimes those who come to ones aid appear as if they’re being unduly critical. We get defensive. We put up our shields. We don’t want to accept the help others are willing to give. Throughout the course of my life I’ve frequently taken less than I deserved. And I’m exceedingly fearful and cowardly in particular areas. Those who know me wouldn’t say so.

Then comes the question, what am I so afraid of, anyway? I always feel like I’m going to be caught doing something I shouldn’t, by someone in a position more powerful than my own. I take conscientiousness to a whole new level, so much so that it works against me. I appear furtive, and I look as if I’m trying to hide something or cover my tracks of wrongdoing, when nothing could be further from the truth. This is why I avoid being put in a position where I have to deal with others.

Because I know me. I know my limitations. I damn near define myself by them. If I were to try list any of the positive qualities I possess, I tend to focus on the lack thereof. I don’t want to be seen as egotistical — for arrogance is a most unpleasant trait. We all exhibit it from time to time, yes. But I go so far out of my way to preserve a level of humility that it seems feigned. It’s anything but, although others don’t see it that way. I guess I’m just too concerned about what others think of me.

Right now I’m white knuckling my way through this piece, hoping I don’t mention something that might come back to bite me. I’m utterly devastated at the past few days and what I’ve been through. Suffice it to say, things haven’t been easy. I’ve been met with all types of challenges that I never expected. I didn’t see them coming. It’s all centred around fear. Despite knowing bad days pass, in the moment it doesn’t feel like it’s ever going to end. I thought I’d prepared myself for uncertainty.

And how wrong I was. See, you can read all the books you want, and arm yourself with all the knowledge in the world, but at the end of the day what saves you is your attitude. If I weren’t so cowardly, I’d have met my obstacles with grace and poise. But I chose instead to hang my head in shame, to let anxiety overcome me entirely, and to live in fear. And I’ve heard it all before. Sometimes a bad day is just a bad day. A bad day isn’t a bad life. But in the moment it’s suffocating.

Most people would try dissuade me from categorising myself as a coward. But they don’t know the truth. They’ll say we all have low moments, and how we respond to them is what matters. But I responded horribly. I cracked under pressure. I realised how poorly I’m prepared for chaos. It’s one thing to spout off literary platitudes about how much I invite challenges, but it’s a whole other thing to live that way. Perhaps I’m realising my intellectual pursuits are just that — a solipsistic mess.

If I can’t live up to the values I espouse, what good am I to anyone? Those who talk the talk are legion. Those who walk the walk are a rarity. Maybe I’m setting the bar too high for myself though, because none of us are perfect. I tend to immortalise in my mind some of the greatest writers of our time. I almost see them as superhuman, when they’re anything but. I forget that just because they might be great storytellers that doesn’t necessarily make them invincible. What an absurd thought.

I know I’m in no position to give advice, unless of course it’s about something I know through and through. But that’s very little. That’s why my aim is to avoid ever coming off as preachy or instructive. I’m sure that if you go back to some of my earlier writings you can find rather a few absolutes. Back then I seemed to be more sure of myself, not questioning the thoughts that occurred to me. I had a sense of confidence in myself that I don’t have now. It was just pure inexperience.

But there’s something about that bombastic certainty that I wish I still possessed. I might have been wrong about some things but I was able to convince myself they were important. I was learning how to articulate my thoughts in a coherent fashion. In truth, I had no idea what I was doing and I didn’t even care. And as certain as I feel about what I’m experiencing now, maybe it’s just as invalid. As you can tell, the inside of my head is a battleground of ideas, with near constant warring factions.

It’s not so much that I want to escape, however. It’s more like I’m a prisoner in my own mind, despite possessing the keys to the cell. And for the brief moments that my thoughts relent, I finally feel whole again. But it’s getting to that place that is almost impossible. It doesn’t happen if I try force it. It unfurls naturally, and at the most random intervals. No one ever told me my biggest enemy would be my own mind. Nothing could’ve prepared me for that reality. It’s something you live.

As much as I feel alone in my plight, I acknowledge that my message might resonate with others. That they’re very possibly going through this stuff as well. That we all struggle to get out of our own way and be proactive. The question then shifts from when it’ll all end to one of this too shall pass. A phrase I repeated to myself over and over again during the past couple days. And what’s ironic is it did pass. I’m safely on the other side of an otherwise unpleasant experience. So why can’t I let it go?

Are you above a good PR stunt? How far are you willing to go to get someone to click on — and read — your article? Because I couldn’t be bothered. You see, I’ve had my fair share of flame wars, back-and-forth, controversy and the odd outright trashing of public figures to last me a life time. One could say I invite trouble at every turn, but that’s not necessarily true. I can be minding my own business and some altercation or another seems to manifest, ultimately finding me. Now, my detractors might couch it a different way, but that’s merely because they’ve got hatred coursing through their veins.

It’s probably a good thing I’m not on social media, either, because could you imagine the blowback an individual of my persuasion might encounter? You might see the pleasant side of me, but I can quite safely say that I do ruffle feathers with my presence alone, in certain contexts. Perhaps this creates mystery and a sense of intrigue, but for me it’s just another day in the life of a provocateur. Nothing and no one can prepare you for this stuff. You have to learn it on the fly. There are difficult people all around us, constantly trying to exert dominance over things that are out of their control.

We know these as the micromanagers, the people who want everything to fit cohesively into a neat little box. But life doesn’t work that way — it’s messy, traumatic at times, and even downright absurd. More than half of the events that unfold around us are chaotic and unplanned. And as for finding meaning in any of it, good luck. That’s more often than not a dead end. But we as human beings are hardwired to detect patterns in everything. In our arrogance we diarise dates that we expect to be cordoned off for particular meetings and appointments. But who knows if tomorrow will ever come?

As I always say, I’m allergic to clocks and calendars. They’ve done nothing but ramp up my anxieties and bouts of depression over the years. So I avoid them. I work instead with my circadian rhythm, and it determines whatever it is I’m capable of doing on any given day. I’m fortunate enough to not have to push through the unpleasantness of a set structure. I rest when my body tells me to, and pursue the things that are most important to me while the mood strikes. And while this might sound like a terribly privileged position to be in, sometimes it can be even more gruelling than a concrete schedule.

Here’s the thing. I like to be open to changes in my mood or natural inclinations. I believe creativity only happens when you stop pushing so hard and allow nature to take its course. This results in a loose collection of tasks I deem important getting completed when they’re ready to be tackled. The true artist can’t give you a solid ETA on a project — and anyone who can is just a sell out. It means they hold material wealth above all else, even to the detriment of their work. No one can blow through personal problems and get things done unless they’re a sociopath. And that’s what living under capitalist rule encourages in us.

I can’t for the life of me adhere to anyone else’s guardrails or water down my message to appease special interest groups. If someone is going to get offended they should. It takes an awful lot of work to be offended. You’ve got to go pretty far out of your way to actively choose to be shocked by the pejorative nature of a literary work or a piece of art. That’s why I don’t respect the nit-pickers. I prefer being able to have an open dialogue and robust debate any day, over the narrowly focused snowflake mentality. And this has nothing to do with hypersensitivity — I myself am that way.

What it otherwise involves is a desire to oust the transgressive. It’s an othering of the unknown. For how dull life would be if we were never surprised once in a while. I like to engage with work that challenges my core beliefs. I enjoy things being turned on their head, so I can look at them in a different way. But most people aren’t like that. We see it in the politically correct nature of the average man today. They fear turning this way or that, so not as to inadvertently offend. To me that is a life of utter sadness and desperation. I want to me moved. I want to always question my values.

I’ll admit, however, that my type is in the minority. We appear to be in a worldwide lull right now, a time where everyone is required to kowtow to those on top. To kiss the ring of the king, so to speak. And you thought we were done with the monarchy! No, we might have unofficially done away with such practices, but there are puppeteers pulling the strings as we speak. We know them as the elites. They influence wide swaths of the population with their causes and signals of virtue. And none of them are untainted. Every single one has skeletons in their closet, their main mission being to divert attention from them.

I say we air out the dirty laundry though. Take a fine tooth comb to their infractions and throw them back in their face. If they want to stand behind a bully pulpit and preach, let their past reflect cleanly. I’m not talking about social credit scores or socialism whose goal is communism. What I’m inferring is we take a whole different approach. Any man who considers his record unblemished is dishonest. We all falter. We all make mistakes. But we shouldn’t encourage bigotry. Doublespeak and duplicity parade around before our eyes and we’re told to disbelieve what we see. And the biggest problem is people go along with the folie à deux.

Yes, we’re all delusional in a sense. No, reality is not what it seems on its face. But we know what we saw, and to be told to ignore it and move along is too big an ask. None of us enjoy being hoodwinked, so why are we encouraged to do so to ourselves? Why do we put our trust in princes? It is said that we give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and I have no problem with that. But our current leaders couldn’t hold a flame to he or Napoleon. And I will reason with intellectuals, because shooting them is just bad advice. What’s most bothersome is how detached some of them become from reality.

That’s why you’ve got to shock them back to life with a dose of realism. Get them out of their tendency toward abstract thought patterns and show them real suffering, up close. We can all sit in our citadels and hole ourselves off from the world. But what is more honourable is to get down alongside the masses and rub elbows with them. To learn the exotic ways of the foreign tribes. To expose ourselves to the things that broaden our perspectives and don’t limit our world view. There are far too many armchair commentators orating on the landscape as they see it. We need to live in the here and now instead.

I question the sexual proclivity of the grown man who reacts to the salacious claims of another person’s life. What they do in the bedroom is of course no concern of mine, but my larger point is that gossip mongers seal their fate with their own lips. To assassinate the character of others seems pedestrian in this day and age, even normalised. We’re living in a time where being reactionary is commonplace, and crafting anything from scratch is a novelty of the past. I’m more interested in those who tell their own stories, rather than borrowing a highlight reel of experiences from others.

But that is just not done anymore. It’s almost like people are afraid to be themselves, show authenticity, or even vulnerability. Of course you also get those who overshare as well, in which case we all know we didn’t need to hear certain aspects or intricacies of their lives. What I’m after can’t be bought. It’s balance, it’s having been raised right. Doing the right thing when no one else is looking — simply because it is just. Nobility might have depended on ones bloodline in the ancient times, but today it depends on something else entirely: our character. But and still, I take moral shortcuts myself, and I’m not ashamed to say it.

There’s a sense of honesty that prevails above all else. When we realise that the truth is universally relatable. And it’s not always easy to stick on the straight and narrow. In fact it’s harder than anything else we might endeavour to do in our lives. And that’s because there are so many side roads on offer now. Convenience oozes from the amorphous blob of capitalism. And everyone in sight wants to suckle of its saccharine nectar. But will you choose the easy way out? Or will you take the road less travelled? The one riddled with thorns and obstacles at every turn? As Ryan Holiday always says, the obstacle is the way.

We live in one of the most politically correct times in all of history, where you can get blackballed for merely saying the things that are on everyone else’s minds — things they’re too afraid to say out loud. And it’s not about manners or decorum, this is about our personal sovereignty that’s at stake. Freedom comes with consequences, yes, but I’ll always prefer dangerous ideas over safe art. I speak from experience too, because I’ve been sabotaged over the nature of my artwork. It gets into the wrong hands and your goose is cooked, you’re persona non grata, or my favourite, labelled problematic. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no martyr. I chose this life, and I’ll suffer for it with a smile.

That doesn’t change the fact that nothing that’s been thrown at me is fair or right. You see, when you ask questions you sometimes make people uncomfortable. When you hold the mirror up to society and its participants reflect back on it it’s nasty. That isn’t my fault though. I’m documenting what I’ve witnessed, and the picture just isn’t pretty. Could I instead live in a mentally constructed fantasy world and ignore the harsh, cruel realities of this human existence? Yes. But do I want to? Of course not. Because I owe it to myself and everyone else to capture the essence of the times. That’s the nature of what I do.

I get that fiction is a great escape, but even when I dabbled in it I found myself wanting to err on the side of realism. With a constant sense of nihilism lurking in the back of my mind I can’t help but feel like life however lacks meaning. And it’s in that meaninglessness that I find a peculiar comfort. It’s easy to say nothing is that deep, and everything is random. But what’s really difficult is assigning some hierarchy of importance to stuff when none of it seems to matter. You become apathetic over time and wonder why you should bother doing anything meaningful at all. We’re all dying, some of us quicker than others. And I know it sounds morbid, because it is. I just won’t lie.

There are those who grin in your face and knife you in the back. But that’s just human nature, right? I’d prefer if someone told me to my face whatever issue they have with me. Let’s have a dialogue, an open discussion, as opposed to getting passive aggressive. Some will say I’m on the wrong side of history, exploring transgressive ideas. And a small minority will commend me for it. But I don’t do it for praise or criticism — I do it to express myself. After all, if we can’t do that what’s the point? Quashing another person’s right to speak, write or draw is inherently fascistic. But so what? A little bit of fascism never harmed anyone, did it? Of course I’m being facetious, how could I not?

It wouldn’t bother me so much if it weren’t my lived experience, so I choose to take it as a lesson instead of putting myself on the cross. But right there I catch myself. It’s because it happened to me. You could call me neurotic or paranoid, and both would be accurate descriptions of my current state. I honestly think I value freedom more than anything else. We’ve given up our privacy to Silicon Valley and millions more will do so in future. And can you imagine if I was on social media? Cue the shadow ban, Johnny on the spot! What’s amusing is a great deal of this could be in my head. Pursuing invisible enemies. The othering of special interest groups. People out to destroy me.

I can’t get away from it. No matter how much I try run and hide trouble always seems to find me. And it’s probably because I refuse to acquiesce or kowtow to authority figures of any kind. They don’t like people like me. They want to rid the earth of my kind. If you can’t tell by now I’ve had a pretty awful day, and only now do I feel any of it lifting. But that’s because I’m comfortably seated behind my word processor and I can finally be myself. How far we’ve wandered from meaning when the thing that strikes fear in most hearts is a breach of the terms of service. And why can’t I just be like everybody else and follow the rules? What is it about me that is so insubordinate?

I refuse masters and gods all the time. I’ve never had to stomach an overbearing micromanager looming over my every move. So everything became that. Everywhere I looked people were out to get me. And I still struggle with these thoughts. They refuse to leave me in peace, especially at the most inopportune times. That’s how life works though, it has a funny way of kicking you when you’re down. The important thing to remember in this situation is we’re not alone, and it happens to all of us. Even the most well adjusted person lives with crippling doubts. They’re hardwired into us in the human interface. We can repeat all the affirmations in the world to ourselves but it never seems to stop.

Even though it feels like I’m spiralling, and I’m conscious of it, I can’t escape the descent. It’s like water circling the drain, it only goes one way: down. I’ve been through this before, though, where it feels like I’m walking in quicksand, and I know it’ll pass. But that doesn’t make it any less painful. And the only way I know how to soothe myself is to come to the page. But this specific piece is centred around something very disconcerting. To climb out of this nihilistic hole I’ve dug. But why even attempt escape if its engulfed me whole? It’s a part of me. It’s inside of me.

The only way it can leave is if I no longer exist. Unless of course it follows me beyond the grave to wherever it is we go. The afterlife seems less and less possible with the more knowledge I attain. I’ve educated myself with books I probably shouldn’t have read, and now I live with the consequences. Those same consequences I mentioned earlier, just wearing a different suit. There is no way I can fathom the point of existence when my depth of pain expands so widely. We’re being moulded into something more, by our very setbacks. It’s hard to accept the gift when its wrapping gives you every indication that it’s a curse. Why what’s beautiful is concealed in ugliness I’ll never know.

I tend to think the worst in most situations. I immediately assume the other shoe is going to drop when fortune favours me. Then, as time goes on, I notice situations are not all as bad as I thought they’d be. Take for instance this perception of my being blackballed for provocative work — it could be true, or it could be false. But my natural instincts give me no wiggle room to so much as consider that it’s all self-created. After all, maybe my work is not as pejorative as I suspect it is. Perhaps we need a jolt to our collective systems and I’m providing such a release. There must be value in what I’m doing, it just seems as if I disregard any positive feedback whatsoever, over and over and over again.

I home in on the needle in the haystack, determining its placement in milliseconds. Think of it this way: if every shred of hay is favourable feedback, the needle is the uncertainty. And I run with that. I’ve been questioning whether this bout of severe vigilance is merely a symptom of the mental illness I live with, or instead, a personality quirk that results in my not being able to get out of my own way. However, If I’m able to articulate it and possess insight, surely it shouldn’t continue? I get great advice from mental health professionals and fail to implement it. Then I proceed to stew in my problems, knowing full well there is an escape hatch in arms reach. Tortured artist aside, none of this feels intentional.

Then I get to thinking the blackball is deserved. It serves as a wrecking ball to my bouts of overconfidence. Swinging between shame and grandiosity is extreme, and my unpredictable moods tend to guide me in all the wrong directions. Soon I’m overcome with crippling uncertainty, and it begins to compound with every passing minute. Maybe I need to find my tribe. Perhaps there is someone out there who will help me connect the dots. Because surely there must be a way out of this solipsistic hellscape. But if anyone were to offer a hand I’d defiantly drown on my own terms. And you can’t really help someone who won’t help themselves. I should be used to the shadow bans and blackballing by now.

I can’t act complicit in my very own undoing, however. But I refuse to dial it down. We need hard hitting work that threatens the status quo — otherwise, what is the point of art? Hold back once and you begin to compromise more and more. It’s sad to see a person whitewash themselves. To scrub their undoing and hide it from view. To try and appear more virtuous than they are. Forward thinking, all about progress and freedom — all while they avoid the hard questions. But some folks don’t want to be challenged. They want complacency, and a neat little organised life. One where their boat is never rocked. I feel we need to be offended from time to time, as it’s a springboard to intellectual honesty.

As much as I struggle with clinical depression I see every new day as a gift and an opportunity to overcome the negative bias in my head. And while it’s not easy living with the affliction of mental illness I simultaneously see it as a challenge to conquer. That’s exactly what gives me my fighting spirit — waging war on myself. It may seem extreme, and it probably is, but I’ve found it’s an effective way of getting things done. Things that might otherwise be impossible. And I think we all have nagging thoughts that are hard to ignore, so the experience is not exactly unique to me alone.

Sometimes people like to shift the blame onto outside factors. Things they clearly can’t control. But it doesn’t have to be that way, after all, as human beings we’re just not powerless creatures. We have tremendous depths of untapped potential. It’s more often than not up to us to get out of our own way. Professional victims have never quite been people I can empathise with. Yes, I know things can be tough in life, and no one is saying they’re not. But to incessantly wallow in your own sadness and rope others into pitying you is pathetic. I look around and see all these missed opportunities.

The opportunity to turn adversary around and make the most of a bad situation. And it really comes down to choices. This is why I’ve distanced myself from those who exhibit toxic behaviour. Because they won’t listen, and are more interested in hearing themselves talk. They’re not receptive to feedback or ideas that aren’t their own. So it’s in this arrogance that we see their own undoing. But it’s much easier to be objective from the outside looking in. And that’s why it’s so important to gain perspective from outside oneself. If you’re too close to your problems you might never solve them.

As much as I try to be receptive myself, however, I clearly acknowledge my blind spots. And blind spots are not always easy to identify. This is because they’re areas in which we’re mostly ignorant. I can’t even fathom struggling with a problem and then when someone offers a solution I just disregard it and keep battling. It’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to accept help. And it’s also okay to get caught up in the myopic nature of your own existence from time to time. What isn’t okay is staying there willingly. And from all the stuff I’ve written about over time, I could be considered guilty of that too.

What I try to remember at my lowest moments is that nothing matters. Now that might seem a bit defeatist, even pessimistic. But nihilism is valuable to me as a philosophy and a thought process. Once you’re freed from the confines of thinking the things that happen to you mean anything you’re no longer a slave, questioning the reason why. At least for me this is the case. Of course I pursue my dreams to the best of my ability, but the absurdity of life is a comforting thought once you get used to it. A lot of us wonder why bad things happen to us, because almost everyone thinks they’re a good person.

As much as I say it’s okay to ask for help though, I don’t really know how to ask for it. I can spout off all kinds of platitudes about the virtues of this or that ideology but I’m very much wrapped up in my own head and problems. This is why it feels so hypocritical of me. What right do I have to tell others things aren’t so bad? I’ve never faced some of the obstacles they have, because most of my problems are self-created ones. In short, I think too much. I analyse. I pick stuff apart. I examine things so closely that I get lost in that phase and forget the real reason I even care so deeply about it.

We all know what we’re supposed to be doing in life. Moralistic absolutes are drummed into our heads at every turn, and the self-help genre doesn’t seem to be helping much. Instead, you’ve got new authors popping up all the time selling snake oil disguised as personal development — and just because it sounds good doesn’t mean it’s good advice. My method of determining if someone is worth listening to is to investigate those aspects of these self-appointed guides’ lives to see if the way they conduct themselves holds firm under the weight of scrutiny. Do they evoke envy in me?

Would I want their life? And how true are their anecdotes? Following a charlatan can only do you harm in the long run. If I’m jealous of their lives it indicates to me that they’ve achieved something I couldn’t — and those are the people worth reading. There’s something about severe positivity that turns me off, and it’s probably the reason I wouldn’t want to go to heaven. Can you imagine having a complete absence of any negative emotion? It’s unrealistic to me, and totally unbalanced. Now, I’m not saying I want to go to hell, but I’ve witnessed enough polyanna placation to question both destinations.

As time has gone on and with the more information I’ve amassed I’ve become something of an atheist. Something I never thought I’d become. To me, God has never answered a single prayer, and even though my uncle professes that he’s heard the voice of God, I haven’t. Later he’d go on to be diagnosed as bipolar, and that might better explain the words he heard in his head. Despite leaning into a degree of atheism however, I still have a great interest in things of a spiritual nature. I still seek God in all things. I want answers to questions, and I want to quench this immaterial thirst.

It’s not enough to know all the right things without putting them into practise. In the end you’re just a bad person who knows right from wrong, yet disregards acting on those impulses. But I get it, we’re all reactionary to a degree, and most of our responses to stimuli of any kind are knee jerk. The thing I’m most interested in is mastering myself to the point where my good actions outweigh the bad. I’m also very self-destructive though. While I’d like to think I alchemise my doubts into something proactive I rarely do. They cripple me, and I’m left questioning why I sabotage my own efforts, time and again.

No one can live your life for you, and mistakes can never be rectified fully. Some things leave a scar and we have to come to terms with that. I’m most interested in conveying the uncertainties I experience, in order to hold myself accountable. For all the focus that our enemies place on us however what is illuminated most are the things we can’t take back. We make decisions frivolously all the time and pay dearly for them down the line. We don’t take the time to plot ahead, and so we instead fly by the seat of our pants. For anyone who poo poos strategy as something manipulative I say of course it is.

Navigating the world today requires more strategy than ever before, and that’s because passive aggression has replaced barbaric violence in most civilised countries. The battlefield of life is rocky and nuanced, more psychological than it was in the past. And with this very cognitive approach we undermine one another mentally as opposed to physically. Business is cut throat as is every day life. You come to find out everyone has an angle. It’s something that begins occurring to you in adulthood. There are self serving motivations behind every seemingly peaceful act, despite our clouded perceptions.

No one is coming to save us, and I think that’s the thing I realised the hard way when it comes to religion. All these lofty ideals being preached about how great God is, and you kneel down to pray, but all you get is resounding silence or things get worse. To me it just feels like a waste of precious time. Religious types will make all kinds of excuses about God working in mysterious ways and encourage you to keep the faith, but that’s all they have. Faith in something that might not exist. Don’t get me wrong, though, I’m not bashing believers. All I’m saying is all my solutions have generally come from other human beings who had my best interests at heart.

Not from a bearded man in the sky. Not from a church. Simple, straight forward help. Offering a hand when the chips are down. In life we have the givers and the takers. Have you ever asked yourself which one you are? I have. And I’m not so sure I’m comfortable with identifying as one or the other. You see, in every situation we make a conscious decision as to whether or not we’re going to give or accept the gift. And we’re seeing a generation of youth more entitled than they’ve ever been before. The answer is not to burn yourself out with selfless acts, but rather seek balance.

In my work as a cartoonist, whose audience is comprised of adults, I’ve noticed something about the industry. It runs parallel to geek culture, which I just can’t identify with. I’m just not into the types of things they are, and I suppose if I were to categorise myself as anything it’d be an intellectual with street smarts. I say intellectual because I’m not comfortable with the term nerd — it just doesn’t describe me. As with any self-published author, however, I’ve frequented festivals to hawk my wares. But I’ve long since stopped that, I and now simply sell my work on consignment. The reason I mention this aspect of my life, however, is because I always feel out of place amongst these types.

Of course you get the cosplayers, furries, and everything that goes with it. Collectors etc. One of my observations of this scene though is the lack of meaningful relationships. All these people seem to be lost in some fantasy world and literally struggle to connect with other human beings — let alone members of the opposite sex. And anything that carries the slightest hint of incel is something I’m averse to, in every way imaginable. The way I see it, if you can’t court a woman with the appropriate social graces, you’re a loser, plain and simple. And this is what turns me off these events.

I just don’t want to be surrounded by people who can’t venture out of their cloistered reality for a second and appreciate the world for what it is — often times brutal, cold and unforgiving. The last time I attended a festival of this nature I felt so out of place that I left after a couple hours. There’s also the matter of the politically correct crowd that tends to gather in these places. Another thing that makes me dislike the environment. Slowly, over the years I’ve realised that my work has a very specific target market, and it’s not comic book collectors per se. After all, I don’t draw superheroes.

There’s also something inside me that doesn’t quite cut it when it comes to being a salesman. I don’t want to try convince somebody to buy something. Anything. My attitude is if you’re interested in what I’m offering, fine. If not, that’s fine too. But I’ve seen so many of the people at these festivals making sales — merely because they speak one another’s language. I don’t know the first thing about Superman or Star Wars, and I’m just not interested in any of that stuff. Therefore, what I’ve done is gotten my books into book stores, places where I don’t have to sit behind a table and humiliate myself. But I get it, when people think “comics” they think Dungeons and Dragons, et al.

This is another reason why I shifted gears as far as my career goes. I wanted to focus on writing because writers are my people. I always felt more comfortable around them than I did cartoonists, anyway. Plus there’s this aspect of comics I don’t exactly enjoy. They’re goofy and childish. And when you’re making work like I am, for mature readers, you walk a fine line between humour and things that make you think deeper. Financially, comic books are career suicide. If you think writers get paid badly, just know, it’s even worse. And so much time and attention goes into making comics. It’s just not worth it at the end of the day, and would be better to categorise as an expensive hobby.

But looking around at some of the acquaintances I made in the comics scene I notice a trend. None of these people are in relationships. They’re not married, let alone dating anyone. And that leads me to think there’s a very real problem with them. Anyone who retreats into fantasy as a form of escape is running from something. And I know a couple instances where this is the case. So why are these types perpetually single? Maybe because they live very sad lives. Their existence centres around things that most normal people have no interest in. They want to pore over mint condition copies of rare luxury items and avoid their miserable existence. What’s also astonishing is their attitude.

Everything revolves around their toys — which let’s face it, most of us outgrow eventually — and their baseball cards, and their superhero comics. For some reason, though, it took me a while to realise how much I couldn’t relate to these people. As a naturally gregarious person I didn’t conduct myself in a judgemental fashion, and accepted them for who they were. But there’s a dark side to them too. A lot of the males, as involuntary celibates, have complicated or ambivalent feelings toward women. They have these unachievably high standards when they themselves are total dorks.

It’s just something I picked up on by observing a subset of the community or scene as a whole. And one might say it doesn’t make them bad people, but I disagree. So no wonder they repel any chance at dating someone half normal. Then of course you get the geeks that find each other and behave really weird together, and that seems to work. But for the most part that’s few and far between. Another thing I noticed is the political beliefs these types hold. They know all the right buzzwords and can rattle off ideologies that sound forward thinking when they’re anything but. In other words it’s a very oppressive environment, one I’m sure most women would be uninterested in entertaining.

And I don’t blame them. Women want to be swept off their feet. They don’t want some little squirt that can barely get two words out without referring to some obscure pop culture film or comic. This is partly the reason I’ve distanced myself from trying to relate to these types. They’re not my tribe and the sooner I admitted that to myself the sooner I was able to determine what my next course of action is. I don’t want to live an inward, awkward life with skewed perceptions, all brought on by my inability to relate to the world. I want to conquer my obstacles and be the best man I can be. It’s pretty much everything the scene I’ve described isn’t. But that hasn’t affected my relationship to art.

Art is a whole other ball of wax. And I mean, can comics really be considered an art, if we’re realistic about it? I guess they can, but a different kind. A whole other medium, really. The problem I have with geeks is the way they avoid the hard questions. It’s far easier to sit in a basement and play video games than it is to go out and face who they are. I know it might seem like I’m punching down, and maybe I am, but I got burnt out quick on comic conventions. I’d say it’s easier to make money any other way you can than by trying to do so within the comic book industry. And it doesn’t even matter how talented an artist is in that context, they’ll almost never make a liveable wage at their craft.

That gives me every indication that the entire premise is a sinking ship. Something to be avoided at all costs. So I shifted my focus into writing — a realm in which people are far more connected to reality than they are fictional men in tights and capes. Writers are my people. I can actually have a decent conversation with them about things. They have something to say and they say it. Plus, I’ve noticed that there are a lot more healthy relationships amongst this subset of creatives. And women are not objectified or overlooked simply because they’re women. Something about the sausage fest in comics disgusts me to the core. I don’t want to be around dudes all day, especially in a hot room.

The crux of the matter is I never really knew what I was getting myself into when I got into comics. I didn’t realise how weird and screwed up the scene was. And I always seemed like a jock compared to the other people who attended the events. Which is crazy because I’m no jock — it’s just, in relation to them I seemed like someone who was more in tune with himself, not effeminate or inward. For a recluse, I have an outgoing side to my personality as well. I’m not content to be relegated to such a narrow view of the world. I think this also made some of them uncomfortable, because they felt like they couldn’t relate to me. And that of course affected business in a big way.

My confessional, autobiographical nature side lined me even more when it came to genre. And I can safely say I don’t think I’ll ever attend another one of those conventions in my life and die happy. Book festivals, sure. Writers doing speaking engagements, yes. But as it pertains to comics, I think that time has come and passed. Look, there’ll always be a part of me that finds comfort in the medium itself, it’s just everything else that comes along with it that I can’t bear to be a part of. You may ask where that leaves a cartoonist, then. A cartoonist who is averse to conventions and refuses to blend in with the crowd. Well, it leaves me at a crossroads. And I can choose to use it as a lesson.

I actively invested all my time and a great deal of my life to an art form that didn’t serve me. I don’t have to half-heartedly continue going through the motions of pursuing something that bears no fruit. That’s why I write. Because this feels authentic, and I actually feel a connection here. If I hadn’t gone through what I did I might be less sure of what I actually want. Now I know for certain. Expressing myself through comics for so long will of course result in mixed feelings from here on out. But I don’t have to just be one thing. I can be many. Those losers and their misogyny will get them nowhere. I can usually relate to people of all types, but I refuse to entertain the small minded.

Melancholy lingers, badgering me into inaction. There are so many things I want to do but I can’t seem to get myself unstuck. Where did this feeling originate, and how do I rid myself of it? I had a good run for a while there, my mood relatively euthymic. I can’t be bothered to pick up so much as a pencil. Where did all my vigour for life disappear to? Or have I always been this way, just under the surface of a happy-go-lucky front? Whatever the case might be, it’s paralysing me. And I want out. The only thing saving me from myself are the words on the page in front of me. Nothing more.

I’m really not certain how I’ve managed to talk myself into doing anything today, but I’m trying to go with it. The peaks and valleys in the life of an artist can be tremendous, cruel, and extreme. If I didn’t have self awareness my edges might be softer. But I’m prickly and evasive, brooding, as a black cloud descends upon me. I don’t wish for these aspects of my life to disappear, solely because wishing won’t make them go away. And I know what works, it’s almost as if I’m to afraid to execute. They call it failure to launch. All my creative efforts seem to have been done in vain at this moment.

Psychiatry doesn’t even seem to be able to lift me out of this hole, and that’s saying something, because I looked at it as my saviour for the longest time. It’s just another doorknob confession, scattered in the wind. Hating myself would be a pointless endeavour, for offering grace instead is the gentler approach. I’m getting lost in my head again, and a part of me is too apathetic to care. All those nights of quiet study, expanding my knowledge with books old and new seem to have created a monster of some kind. A monkey on my back, for the more wisdom I gained the more painful it was.

The feeling I describe is unchanged by my supposedly cathartic acts. Everything seems hollow and flat now. The meaning and purpose behind my pen is reduced to ashes, where I reminisce on better times. But you can’t have good days without bad ones, right? Everything hangs in the balance on the finest of fulcrums, as I pirouette from empty task to empty task. So how do we find meaning when all hope feels lost? I can’t force myself to be profound, I can only document my experiences. And to create a fictional world to lose myself in would be unwise. I must confront myself in spite of it all.

In some ways I envy those who are living in wilful ignorance. To them, when something occurs there is no context for it. It just happens, sans a deeper inference. But I’ve never been able to live like that, which is why I examine rabbit holes far beyond what’s necessary. I’m always in search, scanning my environment for possible threats — or new nemeses. A worthy rival gives me some way to hone my blade, otherwise it’ll get blunt. I’m always on the ready for attack, and new obstacles present themselves at every turn. Most people are frightened off by enemies, I value them.

At least someone who hates your guts exposes those weak areas of yourself, bringing attention to what you can modify into productive behaviour. They actually aid one more in self discovery than any friend might. Because those who call themselves friends gossip behind your back, and the reason I know is because they gossip behind other’s backs. One can be considered a fool of the highest order if they think otherwise. This is why I’m wary of people, because you never know when they’ll flip. It’s best to make friends with yourself, and bask in the sacred solitude of your life.

No one ever gave me a handout — nor should they have — I got everything I have off the sweat of my own toiling. And for all the failures I’ve racked up, in them have been individual lessons that were valuable. That’s not to say they didn’t hurt, because they most certainly left a mark. If one fails enough they begin to identify as a failure themselves, when using the experience as a teachable moment is far more helpful. But getting there is the problem. How much ill fortune can one really tolerate? And why does it feel like luck works against us at every turn? Wallowing is just natural.

When I sat down in my chair this morning I was uncertain as to what I was even alive for, but now it’s becoming clearer. I’m here to pursue excellence at any cost. But to what end? What is the point of trying if nothing you do moves the needle? And if the needle really did move would you be prepared to run with it? Success comes in many forms, but a bad attitude repels it entirely. I have a former friend who has become a professional victim and a caricature of himself. He seems to think that the world owes him something, he never listens when others talk, and he’s straight up delusional.

Perhaps you can now see why I call him a prior associate. If I were to project that kind of aura I’d want someone to help me correct course. And I think the minute I realised I was being triangulated and my concerns were being ignored that was enough closure for me. But some might see me as a self-proclaimed victim of circumstance. That’d be their decision, of course, however, I like to see myself as someone who faces down his problems and addresses them appropriately. I might sound like I’m on one never ending rant about how unfair the world is, but I expect absolutely no sympathy.

What really matters to me is the way we treat each other. Compassion is not as difficult as it might seem. It just takes a bit of perspective — getting out of your own way, and placing yourself in other’s shoes. Nobody wants to be around a self obsessed, narcissistic individual with a superiority complex. But it’s the people we surround ourselves with too. They’re a big reason we become who we are over time. I exited stage left on a loose group of toxic idiots a couple years ago now. And when I ran into some of them last Summer I was reminded why I’d so carefully kept my distance.

Your peers, if chosen poorly, can affect you deeply. I was once around a bunch of people who thought everything was a joke and never took their existence seriously. And I started seeing them turn into demonically cartoonish portraits against a backdrop of indifference, once I’d begun my new life as a married man. And all of a sudden it hit me like a ton of bricks. These people are going nowhere, and they truly embody the idea that life is inherently meaningless. Well, it is for them. But I was on a different path, one which entailed making my life’s task my purpose, and sticking to it.

I no longer had time to waste on binge drinking and recreational drug use. I needed a therapist badly in order to undo all of the damage I’d allowed them to do to me. I’m not one for schadenfreude, so I took no pleasure in the realisation that they were flushing their lives down the toilet. Instead I decided to focus on being the best version of myself I possibly could be, and dodged their ill timed jokes at my expense. After all, they couldn’t seem to help themselves or control their darkest impulses, so the best course of action was to leave them to their own devices. And ever since, I win.

Doubt doesn’t only cross my mind around severe toxicity, so I have to be extra cautious with who I let in my circle. I’m my own worst enemy at times, and that’s enough abuse for me. When I think back, however, to all those years I wasted being half lit and stumbling around aimlessly till dawn, in close proximity to losers of all kinds I can’t help feeling like I cheated myself. Sometimes you grow out of certain people, and other times you can at least meet them halfway. But what’s the point if they refuse to budge, not giving you so much as a inch of space to express yourself and your ideas?

It’s oppressive, and it’s a place I never want to revisit, so now I devote my waking hours to the soliloquies that have kept me company for the past year. I won’t ever pretend that I don’t need others, it’s just the type of company I keep that I’m careful of. I’m not an inherently positive person, as I have my hang ups and impose limits on myself all the time, out of fear or indecision. But what I won’t tolerate is the incessant negativity proliferated by those who can’t muster anything more. It might sound judgemental and it should, because without a logical assessment of ones life we’re screwed.

There are times when I wonder what drew me toward such darkness, and I question why I was fascinated by it, like a moth to a flame. And the more I think about it I see a darkness still living with me. That doesn’t seem like it’ll ever change, and to try and pretend it isn’t part of me would be plain dishonest. What I do with that darkness however is what matters. I’ve actively alchemised the process, coming out the other side with something positive to show for it. I transformed my pain into a work of art, using it as a catalyst to explore the human psyche. If that isn’t a form of magic, I don’t know what is.

I see the futility in modern life, and it gives me a greater range of pain. Pain most others are numb to, because they stuff their psyches with the equivalent of funnel cakes. I’m insecure and uncomfortable with myself and it cripples my ability to have a healthy self-esteem. There is a self-destructive urge inside me that I can’t rid myself from, and it eats away at me in pitch dark night and broad daylight. No one seems to be able to save me from myself and the machinations of my own mind. It’s like my brain is constantly scanning my everyday existence, and monitoring it for flaws.

Wandering from thought to thought I begin to ponder who we’ve become as a society. Everything feels disconnected and forced, as if we’re stuck in an incessant rut. Conversations are stilted and superficial, no one really listens or pays attention unless something pertains to them. We are a selfish, self-absorbed amorphous mass of lemmings following each other off a cliff face, falling to our ruin unknowingly. All of our leaders ring hollow and placate their special interests and put that above protecting the public. But I never wanted government anyway, and anarchy isn’t too far off.

This may read as self-conscious depression or reality, depending on your perception or interpretation. However, is it possible for a mere mood to gain sentience? You may think none of this is important or even worth thinking about, though it troubles me to no end, gnawing away at the corners of my mind. And there seems to be no end in sight. I sometimes wish I could be like other people and be more blasé about it all. The state of the world and how we relate to it is at stake. Things are changing so fast, it’s like I want to stop the ride and get off, at least to catch my breath.

I don’t know why the things that bother me do so. Perhaps I’m just to self aware not to wince when people embarrass themselves. The hollow, transactional nature of our current era is palpable. And no, Wu Tang, cash doesn’t move everything around me. There’s more to it than that. What has happened to the culture? Why has it been infiltrated by self-proclaimed authorities who have no business guiding the deaf while they’re blind? This is not a political statement, it’s a psychosocial one. One that you can feel in the recesses of your soul, if you feel deeply enough. An escape hatch.

Running away is the only way I know how to deal with my problems. If I don’t have to face them I tell myself they don’t exist. But they do. And they keep knocking. I’m not looking for sympathy or pity in any of these instances, however, because I suspect other people may be feeling the weight of everything I’ve laid out so far. The thing that bothers me though is that I can’t seem to shake the feeling, and I’ve noticed increased hostility and tribalism erupting in the zeitgeist. And the only way for me to stop internalising it is to express myself through my pen. For here I can be the real me.

All the expectations human beings place on each other are absurd to me. The world doesn’t have to be this unpleasant, but I’m also aware that no utopia is coming around the corner. If anyone thinks that our problems will magically disappear one day that indicates to me that they’re delusional. And it’s a double edged sword because a level of delusion may just be valuable in the right context, but only if it is measured and engaged in carefully. Anyone who does anything that’s worth paying attention to is accessing that part of their brain where make believe manifests into something solid.

What I refer to is the human imagination, an aspect of our being that is utilised less than ever before. And it’s because of all the shortcuts that have been drummed up, all in the name of convenience. Doing things the hard way, or the long way round has never been more crucial a task. You might be able to outsource anything that requires problem solving now, but that doesn’t mean the information you’re getting back is sound. It’s just information, why take it as gospel? The first thought that occurs to us is usually the easiest. But to condition oneself to sit with a problem is best.

That’s why first drafts exist, to iron out the creases in our thought process. Not to be taken and run with. Our problem solving phase needs to be cultivated now more than ever before, and that centres around the development of wisdom, not just a stab in the dark. Anyone can rattle off the first idea that comes to mind. It’s the seasoned professional who refines those thoughts. My main issue with what’s going on today is that not enough people are thinking, or using their powers of reasoning. They source information from the internet sans a deeper dive while the truly original thought dies.

It was Ivan Pavlov who said, “If you want a new idea, read an old book.” And I think this speaks to my cynicism of modern works. If a book stands the test of time, it’s done so for a reason. While weak ideas sometimes slip through the cracks and may be celebrated in the heat of a trend or fad, they never last long. Then we feel cheated, and begin to mistrust our own judgement. But it wasn’t solely our judgement that got us swept up in it all, it was peer pressure. Imagine someone recommends a particular book to you, talking up it’s relevance. It may fail to evoke anything in you.

Different things appeal to different people, and everyone is a critic. What really takes hard work is being the one who creates the work instead of reacting to other ideas ad infinitum. And while not every idea is profound simply because it took time to refine it, there are levels of brilliance that remain timeless. I personally can’t see the value in anything I do. I often want to throw my latest project in a fire and watch it burn. Because I can’t get out of my own way, and the urge to destroy things as far as I’ve come is there no matter what. There are those who are self satisfied. But not me.

If I ever feel so much as a twinge of joy from the work I do I might keel over and die on the spot. Each paragraph feels like me digging a deeper hole for myself, and soon there remains no way out. So if I were to take my literary shovel and use it to dig my way out I might be a happier man. But I can’t lie. No matter how hard I try, honesty is my only saving grace. If I can’t be forthcoming nothing I do is of use. And the only thing that saves me from leaving things unreleased is this narcissistic urge to know that someone out there is reading me. I play down my talents all the time.

If I were to approach things from the standpoint of me being well adjusted and keeping my chin up it’d be a false characterisation. For the smallest infraction results in hand wringing and me pacing the floor of my studio. Pinch me, save me from this day dream turned nightmare. I want to wake up! I can’t bear another afternoon of uncertainty and a sense of limbo. Every twist and turn I take results in something of a dead end, and soon the anguish overwhelms me to the point that I’m frozen stiff. You’re seeing the tortured artist up close and personal, and I’m going to great pains to capture this.

A head full of words that won’t fit together dance before my eyes. I can’t lie down because of the knives in my back — old friends fading away and becoming my greatest nemeses — all due to the fact that I turned inward and stopped licking around divine debris. The debauchery of youth happened when it did for a reason, because that’s we’re supposed to do when we’re young. But it also led to complications, and truthfully, a severe chemical imbalance. Maybe I was always this way, and only when I opted out of the game did I become public enemy number one. It’s amusing.

An absence of growth in those who surround me results in my falling away, eventually. I’m interested most in change and the betterment of the self. While I once followed gods into the darkest pits of personal hell I’ve since altered my outlook for the better. I gave up trying to convince myself that it could all be left up to providence. Because honestly, there might not be a saving grace after all. With my thoughts obsessively recorded I go my merry way, writing into the void. To no one, to nothing. And it’s that nothing that was my ultimate saviour. The absence of any promised god at all.

You may not be gravely depressed at the fast pace of change occurring in the world right now. To you it might be refreshing, and you can embrace it, making it work for you. Then there are the individuals such as I, who resist what has come down the pike in service to classical methods of the craft. And while I may seem at odds with myself in certain instances, I also acknowledge the reality of being left in the dark. The world will tell you there has never been a more opportune time to take advantage of the tools it offers, but to take those tools in your hand comes at a price. Be priceless.

What I’m about to do could probably be considered flip-flopping. However, as Lewis Carroll wrote, “I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then.” You see, I’ve lobbed a fair amount of critiques Ryan Holiday’s way, but one of his books — namely, ‘The Obstacle Is The Way’ has kind of altered my opinion of his work. And perhaps it has something to do with the fact that in the introduction he explicitly states, “This is…not an academic study or history of Stoicism. There is plenty written about Stoicism out there….There is no need to rewrite what they have written — go read the originals.” This is a far cry from what he’d go on to do, but it’s his early work.

Although he’d arguably go on to become formulaic and repetitive in later work, there is a particular edge to this book, and from that I infer he hadn’t yet had a chance for notoriety to go to his head. I always knew success changed people, but you’d think somebody who espouses the virtues he does would keep himself humble. All personal digs aside, ‘The Obstacle Is The Way’ is a profound piece of work. I can see why he caught the attention of publishers and why they continue to work with him. One of the things I enjoy is that his chapters are concise — and having just completed a six hundred page tome by Robert Greene that waffled on quite a bit, this is quite a breath of fresh air.

Holiday is remarkable as an author, and all the previous drawbacks I went to great pains to list melt away entirely now that I see his origin story. There’s a good chance I misunderstood him, and I’m willing to freely admit that. Sure, he commercialised Stoicism, but why shouldn’t he? I’m a capitalist myself. I don’t believe wealth should be abolished and socialism — whose goal is communism — should be ushered in any time soon. Holiday found something he clearly adores and made it his life mission to spread the word. And if he made decent money along the way good on him! I tire of this rhetoric that the rich need to be punished for their success. Plus, I’m a nobody.

Nobody cares what I think. My opinion isn’t any more important than the next person’s. I mean, arrogance has to be justified in some way, and I simply don’t qualify. So I guess I’m calling myself out in a way, and taking accountability for my missteps. Perception is everything, and sometimes we make mistakes. My mistake was judging aspects of an author’s approach I didn’t necessarily like. But as much as this seems to be about Holiday it really isn’t. It’s the envy and bitterness that builds in a person who has had little success. All my failures are my own fault. Not having a clear goal is me being driven by fear. And being deliberately obscure or opaque is a repellent, not a draw.

I should feel lucky that anyone reads my work at all. And in a way I do. But I’m still figuring things out, and to pretend otherwise would just be a lie. The reason I’m so cautious of defining an end goal with my writing is because of some of the experiences I’ve had before in the arts. So I keep the stakes low and leave it at self-expression. That way there are no expectations, whatever happens happens, and if I gain a few readers along the way all the better. Because let’s face it, anyone can get anything they want on the internet for free, so trying to sell books will almost always result in no sales. Even if you’re brilliant you’ll probably be overlooked. That’s the way it is — accept it or don’t.

Returning to my initial musings on the nature of Holiday’s work however, it’s difficult to accept how wrong I was. It was Elias Canetti who said, “One is bored to death by people who are right and know it. The truly intelligent man conceals being right.” But there’s a disconnect here, because I wasn’t right. Oh, how misguided I turned out to be. All those rave reviews and blurbs on the front and back of his books had to mean something — and they did. Maybe it was sophomore syndrome, or maybe I was just in the wrong mood when I picked up those particular books that made me think he was a charlatan. As someone with schizoaffective disorder it’s sometimes hard to trust myself.

And what I mean by that is my perceptions become skewed under the weight of paranoia. My senses tend to mislead me into thinking something is deeper than it is. I always tend to assume the worst about others, thinking they’re out to harm me in some way. And it’s not as easy plight to live with, but I do it anyway. Despite being mentally ill I manage to conduct myself like an adult most of the time — and I say most of the time because at others I can be downright immature. That’s long since left me, though, and these days cooler heads prevail. Most people panic a little when they hear the suffix schizo. But I’ve learnt to laugh at some of the aspects of the illness, otherwise I might cry.

Perhaps we should consider this, though. Holiday isn’t the type of person to suffer in public, as his whole belief system hinges on remaining in control of ones faculties. He could have his own hang ups — which I’m sure he does — yet he might choose not to see them as limits, per sé. And that’s what his book ‘The Obstacle Is The Way’ is all about. It’s about seeing the boulder in front of you, and instead of turning around, doing something about it. As the instrumental track by Nine Inch Nails is titled, “The Way Out Is Through.” This inspires me to stop licking my wounds and man up. It doesn’t mean I can’t show softness, which is very much a part of my personality. It is to overcome.

People can say whatever they like about a popular book, as it’s been released out into the world, and therefore criticism is fair game. But when last did you read criticism coming from someone who is legitimately accomplished? Usually it’s some troll on social media poking fun at something that blew up. The irony is if something is popular enough it’ll gain its fair share of haters. Those who have nothing going on in their lives have an aversion to popular media simply because it’s popular. They see themselves as counter-culture, underground, or subversive. Liking something is anathema to them. It’s beneath them. Their standards are so unbelievably high that nothing impresses them.

And who are they to sit on their high horse and judge? Just another face in the crowd. Failure to launch does strange things to strange people. Just because they never achieved anything of significance in their lives they wish to pull everyone down with them. That’s a doomer philosophy. They’re black pilled, crashing out, and know no better. They’re crabs in a bucket, clawing at the sides of the barrel and stepping over each other to try reach the top. But they never will, and that’s the funny part. Even if someone makes bad art they deserve credit. At least they tried and failed, as opposed to avoided doing anything at all. I struggle immensely with my own nihilistic attitude.

It may be depression talking, but life does sometimes feel inherently meaningless without a purpose driven task. And that’s why I throw myself into my creative efforts, and become so deeply immersed in them. Because I’m trying to find meaning beneath the surface. Because without a reason to wake up and rush to the studio I’d surely be dead. Most mornings start slow — partly because I’m not a morning person, and partly because I’m on heavy tranquillisers — but once I’m caffeinated I feel a tremendous pull to whatever project I’m working on. It’s magnetic and undeniable. And of course I spend quality time with my wife, but during the day I’m chipping away at my goals, one by one.

Of course we don’t live in a world in which people get to pursue their crafts ad infinitum. We have business to attend to, and all the trappings of our domesticated lives. It’s a careful balancing act between doing what you have to do and making time for what you want to do. As flawed as capitalism may be, however, it also allows us to buy back our time. Deep work is gratifying, but there are those whose jobs require them to juggle numerous tasks and be on top of them all. And this is the drudgery of everyday life. We didn’t make the rules but we tend to have to live by them. The only way out is to work your way out. If you’re more lax about stuff you may never get it right.

I’m realising our collective attention span has more than halved. We see it by the slim volumes that sit on the shelves of book stores now. People don’t seem to want to take the time to read a brick that exceeds a certain page count. And honestly, not all books need to be that long. Even I mentioned the drag that Greene’s ‘The Laws of Human Nature’ felt like toward the end. I pick up Holiday’s book and it’s a breeze — easy reading. So as much as I like the idea of longer work maybe the internet has my dopamine receptors all shot. Perhaps that’s why shorter books are on the rise. People just don’t have much time to themselves anymore. However that’s not going to stop me from going long.

Just because you’re good at something doesn’t make it easy. As Charles Bukowski famously said, “A man can go to bed at night being a writer and wake up in the morning and be nothing.” The reason I’m mulling this thought over is because I recently read a piece by Ryan Holiday in which he touted the idea that he’s written books and it’s not that hard. Now I personally think he’s just saying that, because it’s one of Robert Greene’s strategies — to make what’s difficult look effortless — and Holiday was indeed Greene’s research assistant, so why wouldn’t he apply such a rule? He would.

Holiday has consistently had a natural tendency to lift or borrow ideas in order to make a particular point, and this instance is no different. And as someone who wrote an entire article taking Holiday’s ideologies apart, you might ask yourself why it is exactly that I’m still reading his work. Well, because I can. Despite the fact that I find holes in some of his work it doesn’t mean I’m going to stop reading him — for that’d be immature and petty. I believe we should actively seek out those things that we disagree with in some way, in order to challenge ourselves and formulate new ideas.

While I enjoy writing immensely, it isn’t always a walk in the park. In fact, most times it can be a struggle to get my thoughts out in a coherent fashion. I’m not so sure what the point of saying things come easy serves. But maybe I’m all wet. Maybe Holiday is just a natural. One thing I’ll say is that his stuff is very much accessible and easy reading, as opposed to say, Greene’s. But is that good, bad, or neither? Of course he’s different — working in proximity to someone great doesn’t just make you so purely by association. We all have to earn our own successes, off the sweat of our labour.

But I don’t want this to turn into another taking apart of Holiday — despite my original piece having been quite a conversation starter. I just can’t seem to get over someone stating that this craft is a piece of cake, when for me it’s the opposite. Here’s the thing, though. People say and write all kinds of stuff, and in this day and age you don’t know if it’s just some marketing strategy or content aimed at causing a deliberate stir. If writing is that easy, why do Holiday’s books seem rushed and flit from anecdote to anecdote — based off the books he uses in his research phase? I smell a rat.

Maybe I’m just jealous that writing comes so easy for other people. I mean, it’s not like I white knuckle my way through every sentence. Rather, it’s that articulating ones thoughts and transferring them from your head onto the page can sometimes be a struggle. And perhaps it’s why we do it, as writers. Because we have the desire to express those things that would otherwise lie dormant in our psyche. My wife always says that she doesn’t know where it all comes from, and actively encourages me to engage in the act of writing so that I can release my thoughts in a productive way.

I must also say, despite my harsh critiques of Holiday, he does spark soliloquies in me, just like any good writer should. All selling out aside, the guy knows his way around Stoic philosophy. But that’s the thing, Stoicism is dear to many people’s hearts, and to couch oneself as the de facto authority on such a thing reeks of self-importance. I mean, who knew reselling the world an ancient philosophy would be so lucrative? And isn’t it inconsistent with the values and virtues of said philosophy? I get that we all have to make money to survive — but this guy has amassed tremendous wealth off it all.

Again, I don’t exactly begrudge him that. After all, he worked in marketing and knows how to sell his way out of a paper bag. Otherwise he wouldn’t be the literary giant that he is. I just don’t get how one person can associate themselves with one particular idea, and make it their entire identity. So writing is not easy. It takes a lot of work, and those who overlook that are only lying to themselves. Then I get to thinking, maybe I’m just not very good at this, and that’s why it isn’t exactly easy for me to do. But that’s the appeal. Wanting to conquer a task as gargantuan as the one I’ve laid out.

Looking at the other side of the coin, and putting myself in someone else’s shoes, maybe writing is a cinch for those destined to do it. Coming from a whole different career and having studied multimedia is a lot different than getting a degree in English. The two are just not the same. They’re like oil and water, the only thing loosely linking them together is that they’re arts adjacent. Another drawback that exists in my nature is that I can’t bring myself to engage in effective marketing. It’s something I’m trying to change, but it’s difficult without turning to social media to get the word out.

I wouldn’t want my life to turn into a modern version of The Truman Show, which influencers seem to be doing to themselves every day. Every action is documented, any thought that occurs to them. And their data trail seems to be their life. But social media is a bubble, in my opinion. These platforms that are so hot right now are going to slowly be replaced by different ones. If I think back to the Tumblr days, for instance, where did it wind up? As an albatross. A dinosaur. Completely phased out. The site is like a ghost town, when it used to be all the rage amongst artists in the scene.

But the premise of effective marketing does appeal to me in some way. I do want to promote my work better, and get good at putting it on display in the right arenas. Unfortunately I think we live in a time where clicks and likes are treated like currency. But if you’re making what you consider to be meaningful work it’s only right that you be compensated for it. The reason I’m so wary of monetising is because I know it’ll ruin the reasons I now show up. I’ll slowly start buying in to the nonsense of who I’m writing for or what will appeal to an audience. I’ve been down that road before.

A cautionary tale I’ll share is that, with art of any kind, what’s most important (at least for me) is self-expression. When your work starts becoming about something else, it loses its bite. To de-fang the edge is to acquiesce to the demands of a consumerist culture. To soften what you really want to say in service to how well you’re compensated. The minute a carrot is dangled in front of ones face things begin to take a turn for the worst. We start to perform instead of create. As Rick Rubin said in ‘The Creative Act: A Way of Being’ — and I may be paraphrasing — the audience comes last.

And that doesn’t mean you should thumb your nose at them. It doesn’t mean to hold them in disdain. What it really means is to focus on the work that interests you. It may not be great financial advice, but even for those who are monetised, are the few shekels you get even worth all the stress and strain of thinking you have to deliver? I’d say not. The conundrum comes in where full time employment is concerned: one avoids getting a straight job in service to their art, but they don’t want to market it; which would result in an income of sorts. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.

People may ask how one is able to sustain themselves with a career in the arts, because the money has to come from somewhere. And honestly, it’s a struggle, because you want to focus on the things that bring you joy, and you don’t want to compromise. Life has a cruel way of humbling you when you start getting a little shine, and subsequently develop a level of arrogance. How quickly we’re shut down — those of us who refuse to do all the things that everyone else is doing to get sales. I always go back to this line: the truth is universally relatable. But I just don’t have all the answers.

I ask nothing of anyone. I have no grand marketing strategy. I live within the world but not of it. And that might seem noble, but I suffer for it dearly. My convictions hamstring me all the time. But I’m delusional enough to believe good things do happen. I have no idea if anything I do resonates, and I’m not so sure I care. All I know is that I’m compelled to create and I yearn deeply to share it with others. When I hear someone refer to themselves as a content strategist I tend to wince. It’s almost showing your audience too far behind the curtain. And I don’t think they want to see that.

There are plenty of other people who check all the necessary boxes, and show up with their formula in order. But to me, all I see is pandering. Employing a hook or using a title that’s essentially clickbait is just so hollow to me. I don’t care about listicles or the latest trending hack. I want to live a fully focused human centric existence — one in which imperfect observations and clumsy stories are told. I’m not above coming off awkward or insecure. We all have doubts, and truthfully they’re what guide us. The minute one shows up and projects an image of false confidence I see straight through it.

If I were to give one piece of advice to anyone willing to listen, it’d be to read broadly and to read often. Don’t just read stuff that props up your world view either — instead, read work that challenges you. Some people say you should never give up on a boring book, but I don’t see the point in continuing a dull read. Rather devote your time to that which moves you in some way. Even if it offends your sensibilities. It might get too grating, however, at which point you have every right to abandon it. Life is too short for bad books. Some are just awful, and deserve the wood chipper.

Sometimes you get your hands on a highly anticipated read and feel like you’re the only one who doesn’t get it. But that’s probably not the case — for it’s not only brilliant work that sells well. There might be hype around a project that winds up empty and useless to you. And I’ve had it happen too many times for me to think otherwise. Here’s the thing, though, not every book speaks to every person in the same way. As the saying goes, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. I’m beginning to think the books that sell have a sense of conspiracy attached to them, publishers inflating sales.

I mean, how many times has a New York Times bestseller really moved you in the way it does mainstream tastes? And why is that the yardstick? It’s just one outlet, and someone has to be number one at any given time. Maybe your day will come where you’re celebrated for your genius, but I know that personally, I’m trying to make work that interests me. I’ve accepted long ago that I’ll wallow in obscurity, and anything else that happens to the contrary will be both a shock and a surprise. There are too many good writers out there for my miniscule contributions to mean much.

Having an aversion to the mainstream doesn’t automatically put me on the moral high ground, of course I know that. But what I don’t know much about is why certain garbage blows up the way it does. I’m done pretending that I get it. I just don’t. Living this way has taught me to trust my own instincts and follow my intuition. And I might miss the mark — as I usually do — but am I really here to sell books? No. My mission is to alter the perceptions of those in the zeitgeist, no matter how incrementally I need to do so. I suppose you could term it something of a subversive approach.

As far as following my own advice, I’m not so sure I read broadly enough. But I choose not to punish myself or make unpleasant the act of reading itself. I do so for both pleasure and to gain knowledge of subjects I know nothing about, but pique my interest. But I can’t help beating myself up over not reading enough. I have this uncontrollable urge to read more, but what overrides the impulse is my desire to embrace stillness. To essentially carve blocks of time out to do absolutely nothing. And that inevitably trumps my highly important reading time. I know it doesn’t have to be so.

If mainstream tastes are going in a particular direction I tend to want to eschew them altogether. To deliberately go against the grain and pursue topics that are underground. This speaks as well to my formative years in the arts — particularly in underground comics, under the tutelage of some local masters. I was exposed to subversive art before I was of age, and I can’t help but feel like that left an impact on me. I’m sure if my parents knew what the adults who were tasked with teaching me the ins and outs of the art form had allowed me to read they’d be mortified. But it did make me grow up.

No one really knows if you finish a book or not. See, you can have ‘War and Peace’ by Leo Tolstoy on your book stand or coffee table, and when friends come over it appears as if you’re well read. But only you really know if you’ve soaked it in, or given it a chance. I’ve found longer books are not something people seem to have the attention span for these days. But that hasn’t stopped me from writing stuff just short of three hundred pages a piece. Like I said, I always satisfy my own tastes first. This might be the wrong way of going about it all, but it works for me. Well, maybe it doesn’t.

After all, how can you write a book that’s arduous and outside the realm of your own interests? And why would you? Life isn’t long enough to squander your talents on empty projects. But we’re all guilty of it, aren’t we? An itch might occur to us that we just have to scratch, and then it bombs dramatically. We’ve all been there. That’s why I don’t think anyone should ever write anything that they think a potential audience wants to read. I do however sometimes feel cheated when I invest in a book and it turns out to be an expensive paper weight and nothing more. I’m sure you can relate.

In one of my books I have a chapter called reading is writing, in which I describe that the act of reading itself sharpens ones ability to articulate a point in their writing. And I believe this because both processes feed off of each other. I suppose one could be an author and not read much, but that’d fly in the face of the art form altogether. We make books because we love books. Because we can’t live without them. Because they give us whole new worlds to explore in our collective imagination. I guess some authors, however, don’t want to be infected by the contagion of other’s ideas.

Have you ever noticed when a particular author blows up and finally crafts a bestseller they immediately catch the attention of publishers everywhere and are offered lucrative deals? Chances are, though, that their sophomore effort is usually weak. And that doesn’t necessarily mean that the work itself is necessarily bad, what it means is that they’re being measured on the success of their prior efforts. That’s why I’m specifically terrified of success in any way shape or form. Because of the pressure associated with having to deliver something equally as compelling as your first project.

Of course, there are rare cases in which ones second effort is even better than the first — but we rarely hear about that happening. Perhaps it’d be best if someone who makes an epic piece of work should just leave it at that, and cultivate a sense of absence. After all, the market craves the mystery of what might come next. I think it’s utter nonsense that publishers only chase an author after they have a modicum of success. They’re therefore gatekeeping the industry from the rest of us anonymous storytellers who could certainly make use of a bit of backing. But such is life, correct?

As you may be able to tell, my opinion on publishers is not all that favourable. I see them as parasites looking for a host. It’s another reason I self-publish. The second reason is because I’m too scared to pitch anything to a real publisher for fear that I’ll be rejected. So I live in this constant state of telling myself I’m not good enough for the big leagues. I have however learnt some things from being in a whole different industry altogether, and seeing the intricacies of how similar fields work. I of course refer to the alternative comic book industry, a place where print runs are lower.

I’m sure there are others out there who feel the same way I do. They can’t seem to get out of their own way, or they don’t want to play the aggressive self promotion or social media game. Sure, will it get you more followers? Maybe. But it seems — even when I did utilise social media platforms — I never really gained all that much traction. Maybe it’s because what I do is too niche, or it has too strong an independent flavour to it. There are many reasons why I don’t think my audience will ever be considerably large. And it all goes back to not wanting to sell out. I don’t want to go viral.

Going viral seems like something that could spin out of control pretty quickly and easily. You become known for one thing, and in turn you become a caricature of yourself eventually. I’d prefer not to be the punchline of a joke, thanks. I want people to know my work in the context in which I create it. But that’s the thing. So much of what we do lacks context, because of the almighty algorithm. We’re shown the things we never expressed interest in, and the people we do follow get shadow banned. I’ve had my fair share of being suppressed on social media, so I barely use it now.

Real readers seem to be a dying breed, and that saddens me tremendously. I went to the book store the other day and almost everything was covered in red tape announcing a sale. They were trying to get rid of books for half the price. If that isn’t a sign of the times I don’t know what is. My biggest fear is that they’ll close their doors, and Jeff Bezos will collect the profits — sans the presence of the brick and mortar store front. Don’t get me wrong, I take advantage of sales all the time on Amazon. I just see the writing on the wall, and it makes me nervous. Because to me, books are everything.

Taking a couple days off is a beautiful feeling. Allowing oneself time to willingly procrastinate, be still, and stare at the wall. And it’s something I engage in from time to time, because I’m fortunate enough to be able to do it. I truly believe that artists need unscheduled breaks to let their mind wander — because I find that I return with fresh ideas and a new perspective on things. Of course, in the age of hustle culture, this act is frowned upon. We’re expected to be busy for its own sake.

I couldn’t fathom a better way to rebel, other than to embody the notion of a non-entity. To forget all the unwritten rules and practice the art of formlessness. I’d go as far as to actively recommend it. After all, you can always avoid doing so in future if it doesn’t work out for you. Some possess the burning desire to always be on — but that just isn’t me. I remember a time when it was, though. To me, down time is as important as being proactive and productive. So doing nothing is almost an art.

Why we feel the need to run ourselves ragged with little payoff is beyond me. Because some of my best ideas have occurred to me on a park bench, while I was watching the sun set. This is however no coincidence, as many of the greatest thinkers of our time did the very same thing. Natural procrastination has immense benefits, and I’ll tell you why. The brain seems to rebel from the act of doing nothing, beginning to wander. It’s almost like reverse engineering the premise of productivity.

But maybe you don’t get enough time to yourself. Perhaps you have responsibilities that overshadow your ability to so much as catch your breath. What then? In which case all my grand strategies about sitting still do nothing for you. Honestly, I don’t have the answer there. The only way I’m able to show up and create is to use the method I’ve laid out. I couldn’t imagine being subject to the overwhelming responsibilities most have to tend to. But it’s not all sunshine and roses.

One becomes selfish and turns inward when they’re able to blow things off, and this skews their perceptions. Comfort appears more important than effort, which is naturally uncomfortable. In short, to those who simply can’t stare into space on a Tuesday morning, blowing things off till later, have a type of advantage over me. You see, they have real life experiences to draw from. What occurs to me is a type of cloistered reality, in which my experiences are heightened by avoidance.

What I mean by this is if one can carefully steer clear of situations they don’t want to be in you end up kind of spoilt, and then it has a negative impact on your lived reality. Perhaps being lost in my own head is a form of rumination — something that can lead to bouts of depression or melancholy. Those on the move might ask what an individual such as I has to be depressed about. As Marilyn Manson said, “When all of your wishes are granted, many of your dreams will be destroyed.”

And it sounds kind of contradictory, right? I’m sure there are those who just want to sit down for five minutes without being interrupted by something they have no control over. But I’ve come to realise that the absence of interruptions creates a type of drudgery that can certainly lead to burnout. Imagine you had all the time in the world to create. What is motivating you to finish anything? And how do you figure out your end goal? With self-created deadlines? They don’t work like real ones.

I surprise myself when I take a step back and have any duration of time I desire to assess my creative life. It sometimes ends up feeling empty, and I ask myself what the point really is. When things lose their urgency, for some, nothing ever gets done. But there’s something else at play, too. My aversion to anything compulsory. The minute something feels like an obligation I totally check out — unless, in the rare case that such a feeling is self-created. But you can’t be obliged to yourself.

This is why I think things work the way they do, and life is the way it is for the majority of people. In the gig economy everyone is just scraping by, if that. Our collective future hangs in the balance. Unlike some of the generations that came before us, we just don’t have financial security. So we hold on tight to the little we do have. Freedom isn’t the same as a retirement plan. In fact, it is enjoying now what most look forward to enjoying later. Half the people I know just can’t ever retire.

Instead of that scaring me, however, I embrace the comfort of the moment. After all, who knows if any of us will make it to old age? As long as we’ve got air in our lungs and we’re relatively healthy we tend to blow off planning for the future. And that’s often the case in the arts. We might do well and fortune seems to be on our side for a couple years, and then some new technology comes along and blows our skill set out of the water. And I’m almost certain you can read between the lines here.

But no one can replace hand crafted work. Nothing will ever be superior to that — no matter how sophisticated it might seem on its face. This is why we as artists make important cultural contributions to society. We’re constantly building something that may result in legacy, a body of work that tells a story about our ups and downs. Maybe I speak for myself alone here, but I don’t think anybody wants to go to an art show and look at screens on a wall as opposed to canvases.

So we need to recognise the value we have as artists. And when I talk about art, I refer to it broadly. Writing, to me, is an art. There are of course other instances in which certain creative activities fall under the same umbrella. That’s why when I hear someone play down their area of expertise as if it isn’t an art I pause and remind them that’s not the case. However most people look at it literally, and immediately think of, say, painting when I mention the word art. We as humans create, all the time.

No artist is more valuable than another. The amateur or maverick is accomplished in a different sense, yes, but overall there is plenty room for different approaches. I make comics, for instance, and for the longest time the art form was considered throwaway, despite how long the average cartoonist takes to draw them. But that’s just another case of perception overriding reality. If we’re told something is bad we tend to internalise it, and it becomes so. Back in the day comics were looked down on.

Currently, they’ve been elevated to a higher art form with the rising popularity of the graphic novel. A more cultured version of the classic floppy. But I say all this to say that our perceptions are largely shaped outside of ourselves when we don’t have the time and space to consider our own tastes. And this is why the system is killing our belief in the arts in a big way. We all know how much capitalism crushes us under its weight, but the alternatives don’t look all that good either.

This is why I’d rather spend the time I naturally need to cultivate my thoughts rather than be chronically online. I want to actively remove the input and replace it with deliberate emptiness. And I suppose you could say it’s a form of Zen that I retreat into, where everything in the world is one. I do wish more people had the time to ponder deeply. I believe the greatest thinkers of our time make space to do so, and I’ll freely offer my secret to anyone who cares to listen — as I have outlined here.

I’ve always told myself I’m incapable of meditation, and more recently, prayer. But spending time in that place where nothing is going on, and the weight of silence is something you bask in can certainly be considered a form of meditation. Prayer is just a different form of meditation, but for reasons related to my upbringing, I tend to view it in a negative light. I don’t see that as a pity, though, because everyone formulates their own beliefs over time, and those are the things that make them tick.

If you can in some way integrate a block of uninterrupted time to your own thoughts and feelings, I feel it’ll be immensely beneficial. I share this with a sense of joy at the results it yields. I get that not everyone feels like they have the time to devote to such a thing. But even small increments of time can add up and aid you in your creative thought process. Sometimes it’s not so much the presence of good ideas that creates them, but rather the lack of anything else to stimulate ones mind. Try it, and you might be pleasantly surprised.

Just one more notification, text or call and I swore I’d do it. So I did. I went on down to the beach, and I threw my phone in the ocean. The sense of peace that followed washed over me from head to toe. I was no longer subject to the empty whims of others. I was totally free. There was no grand strategy behind it. I didn’t announce my departure off the grid. I just decided I’d had enough of the game. Now that I’d opted out, others were forced to engage me in actual face-to-face conversation.

To knock on my door and pay me a visit, in the flesh. And yes, it is possible to live without a phone of any kind. Some might scoff at the idea, thinking I took things too far. But I was slowly divorcing myself from a dependency on the digital crutch, long before I took action. Immediately my life became richer, and I had an abundance of time on my hands. It was never a case of how I’d fill said time, rather, it opened me up to a whole new world — one in which human centric interaction flourished.

Most people wouldn’t go this far, and I wouldn’t expect them to understand right off the bat. But what if I asked you to try it for a couple days, and see how you like it? The angst associated with anticipating another uninvited ping, completely eradicated. I’ve come to the conclusion that every form of communication conducted over a mobile device interferes with ones peace. I’d already done away with all my social media accounts prior to this, so I considered taking it even further than that. When I’d bump into people I knew in the grocery store I could be that much more attentive to them.

I don’t care if I sound like the Unabomber. The hypersensitivity to my surroundings was being piqued by that digital demon. I came to dread my mornings when it was time to turn it on. And so it was only natural that at some point I’d remove the culprit altogether. Other people’s reactions to my decision ranged from confusion to annoyance. “But how will we get hold of you in an emergency?” Well, that was a chance I was willing to take. It isn’t required of me to be at anyone’s beck and call. The chips will fall where they may. The problem was always how inane and banal their texts could be.

Do you ever find yourself wondering why somebody sent you a particular piece of information on instant messaging? Have you ever considered that it might be due to ease of access? Because I most certainly have. When a message lacks importance, yet you’re considered rude if you don’t respond, your time is literally being stolen from you. They are attention thieves, operating around the clock. The argument could be made that what I’ve done is utterly selfish, and while it might be considered as such, what am I really missing out on? Have you ever been in a meeting that could’ve been an email?

The truth is, people like to hear themselves talk. They reach for their phones out of boredom, and subsequently try to suck you in to their web. I know what I’m describing is extremely antisocial on my part, but I don’t care. Who do you really owe an explanation to, in life? And why are our lives monopolised by the products foisted on us by Silicon Valley? How am I the oddball for not wanting to participate in a useless back-and-forth? When something is “free,” you’re the product. “Oh, I’ll just send him an instant message — after all, it’s free.” As opposed to a straight up text? How cheap.

We live in an age where people forget your birthday because you’re not on Facebook. I mean, who needs a social network to tell you who’s important to you? Surely you have a calendar? My aversion toward the myriad of technological advancements is palpable. We’ve been sold a bill of goods. And my initial reaction to anyone who refers to social media in passing conversation is a loss of respect. Does nobody think about the long term implications of our private information being stored in the cloud? There are literal profiles being built off our backs, and we’ve willingly handed our lives over.

Throwing my phone in the ocean was the best decision I ever made. It’s the ultimate rebellion against a surveillance state. Because you know they count on your data trail. It’s almost like those who are immersed in social media can’t compute when they encounter someone who doesn’t use it. It’s the ultimate pattern interrupt. “How can I relate to a person who eschews everything I’ve become?” But I don’t think it even goes that deep for them. They just see those who avoid tech altogether as Luddites. They’re under the impression that I’m the one who’s missing out. But let me state, there is absolutely no fear of missing out here. They can keep carefully curating their online presence.

They have a story to tell, and it’s much different from the truth. I’ve always wondered why it’s necessary for people to post pictures on their social media accounts after (or during) a night out. What point does it serve? And why have we become more concerned with the perception that we’re enjoying ourselves than we have actually doing so? There is nothing more peaceful to me than sitting down with a good book and not being interrupted by that ringing plastic bastard. Rip the phone cords out the wall! I was always told no man is an island, but I’m starting to think I’m pretty close.

Seeing half lit drunken faces, in groups, in my feed would evoke all kinds of feelings in me — none of them good. And I couldn’t be happier that I’m away from it all. I already don’t like leaving the comfort of my own home for necessities, so you can imagine how hellish a night out with friends might be for me. All the noises, odours, visual input, coupled with the fact that I’m stone cold sober is just a recipe for disaster. I know I used to be more fun, but I’ve entered into a whole new phase of life now. One that doesn’t involve large crowds, being around substance abuse, and the idiocy of the group.

For someone relatively young I’m not exactly acting my age. But I felt it was high time to knuckle down and focus on my long term goals. And alcohol or drugs interfere with that in a big way. To remove myself from that environment is healthy. To know in the back of my head that I’m not wasting a single second of the time I’ve been granted on this earth is immensely satisfying. There are those who could only dream of living the lifestyle I do — not tied down to anyone or anything. But they’re waist deep in the responsibilities that come with adulthood. I’m sure this inspires envy.

Without being tethered to a mobile device I have more time to read. More time to write. More time to bask in the solitude and quiet of my chosen activities. Because as you know, there’s always someone who wants something from you. And there’s always someone who supposedly needs something from you. Well, now that I’ve placed obstacles in their path I might have excluded myself from some opportunities, but mainly I’ve removed my availability altogether. If anyone who means anything to me really wants to find me they know how to. I haven’t vanished off the face of the planet.

But this isn’t about them, really, it’s about me, and what I’ve always wanted out of life: no distractions. How can I be the best artist I can be without devoting as much time as I’m humanly capable of to my art? How can I be a half decent writer if I’m interrupted every few minutes by a ping? This might seem extreme, but it’s necessary. And I’m not the only one paring down his life this way. Dumb phones are on the rise. People don’t want to be bothered with another app or QR code. We’ve had our fill of the noise, and we seek tranquillity, away from those little oblong screens.

I’ve gradually evolved to this point in my life. It didn’t happen overnight. Instead, it all started when I began wondering how necessary all of it really was. And it turns out it wasn’t necessary at all. I’m quite content that others find value in these things. I just know they’re not for me, and I had to address the cause at its root. I don’t feel an ounce of regret for doing what I’ve done. It was high time that device wound up in the sea. In some ways its metaphor for the new chapter I’m entering into — one without the limits of others imposed on me. After all, what use is a phone you never answer?

I desperately need to protect my energy, but I’m not certain how. It’s quite alarming when you realise a loved one is harvesting your energy, and they’re essentially a psychic vampire. Protecting your loosh or life force from attack when the very person who’s doing it is in your inner circle proves doubly difficult than it would if said person was a stranger. But I’ve always had this problem with being too open and gregarious to those who unknowingly wish me harm. It’s just who I am.

When it comes to a relative stranger, they’re easy to get rid of. You can cut them off, and never deal with them again. But doing that to somebody in your family is almost impossible, because you inevitably get seen as the bad guy, for abandoning a relationship with someone you’re supposed to love. What makes this even harder is when it’s a parent. Unfortunately, I’ve got major traumas that stem from childhood, and so this shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. However it’s something I realised only recently.

In short, it hurts. You come to wonder how the person who raised you can inflict so much damage, beyond your years as a child — when you were totally dependent on them, for everything. Another issue I struggle with is that of being highly perceptive to other’s energy, something I battle to turn off. In a sense, it’s both a gift and a curse. But sometimes you just want to be numb. It’s easy in these moments to turn to drugs or alcohol, both of which I don’t partake in.

Well, actually, I did pop painkillers at various intervals in my life, so that’s not strictly true. But I’m not currently engaging in such a method of escape. And with this self-effacing attitude, things are made all that more hard. Instead, what I’m planning to do is to learn how I can shield myself from psychic attack through spiritual means. This naturally requires a lot of work on my part, and despite my flying blind, I’m relatively confident I can pull it off. With my painstaking studies in the esoteric arts I have equipped myself with what I think might help.

But it’s not like I can be sure. After all, the best way to quash this problem would be to reduce ones contact with the individual in question. And for me that would seem too mean-spirited. A potential overreaction in service to protecting my peace. As an empath I tend to create my own problems in this sense. There are people who wouldn’t think twice about cutting a parent off, but they raised you from an infant, essentially brought you into this world, and to cut ties would be somewhat barbaric.

I ponder to myself where to draw the line, and what boundaries I need to put in place. Because going the route of embalming myself in spiritual protection seems rash. As you can tell I’m somewhat ambivalent about the process, and that’s not because I don’t know what course to take, rather, it feels quite extreme. In order to protect my peace, however, I must do what I can to set the wheels in motion. I’m reluctant, yes, but another part of me sees no other way out of this situation.

Walking in to the lion’s den is what encountering this person in future feels like. I’m filled with a sense of foreboding. I don’t want to approach them, for fear of the after effects. Those being a complete drain of my psychic energy, which then spills into my physical vitality. I dislike intensely that I’m being made to feel this way, and I yearn to cut the snake off at its head. I feel the need to be diplomatic about it, however, and try to remind myself that the offender isn’t aware of themselves.

This lack of self-awareness is surprising to me, however, because I know they mean well, and don’t intend to hurt me. I’ve subsequently decided the conversation is too hard to have, and will stir feelings of confusion and panic. So as much as I’m being negatively impacted by this individual I still care about their feelings. I don’t enjoy going around and causing pain — I doubt many do — and I also think they’ll find it hard to understand the bind I’m really in. Although time will tell me much.

I have to bide my time and not jump the gun. I owe it to them to guard them from the devastation of them knowing what they put me through. Unbeknownst to them, our relationship is solid and simpatico. But that really isn’t the case, in fact, I’m experiencing tremendous bouts of anxiety at their hand. There are certain people who just won’t understand such a nuanced dialogue. It’s not that they’re particularly closed off to the concept, rather, it’s that there are psychic processes at play, and I’m not sure they can grasp the intricacy of the issue.

I also don’t want to be one of those people that desert their family in times of strife, because I know I’m stronger than that. If I have to suspend my own comfort for a time to keep the peace I will. And that’s real love: looking beyond oneself. Seeing how something you say or do might affect them, and the chain reaction it could potentially put in place. I of course must also turn the discussion in on myself and realise that I might be inadvertently feeding off the life force of somebody else entirely.

And this is where I can empathise. I’m not perfect and would never claim to be, and if I were to be brutally honest I think I sucked the life out of a few people in my youth. I might not have totally realised what I was doing, but I was that guy. That’s another good reason to have cooler heads prevail. If I subjected others to such a thing, perhaps they didn’t know how to tell me, feared offending me, or couldn’t get through to me, even when they might have explicitly stated what was occurring.

There are also nemeses I’ve racked up over the years in which I most certainly have fed off of psychically. So I’m no angel in this regard. I think a little bit understanding and self-reflection goes a long way most times. In order to solve my dilemma I might consult with those who may know more about this specific instance and how it could potentially play out in future. In gaining perspective outside of myself, I may then be able to come up with a better solution than the one I’m currently considering.

To keep the person in your life but consecrate yourself in spiritual armour kind of defeats the purpose. I know I must either have the hard conversation in the gentlest of ways, or place distance between myself and them. Neither of those options seem appealing however, and the whole sordid affair fills me with dread. Some would tell me to snap out of it at this point and encourage me to protect my own peace at all costs. I’m aware that my approach seems to paint me as some kind of martyr, when that is not the case at all.

I also need to carefully reflect on what it is I’m internalising when I interact with this supposed psychic vampire, if past traumas are accumulating in my psyche and making the interaction too much to bare. I’m well aware that this problem seems as cut and dried as can be from the outside looking in, and it may seem like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, or even being the architect of my own demise. With all the psychoanalytical speak and self-referential anecdotes I might appear very much self absorbed.

But that is all a part of my life, and coming to terms with it is of the utmost importance. Because if I can’t make sense of what is really going on I’m doomed to reopen past wounds and therefore be an active participant in inflicting new ones. Early last night and at dawn this morning I went on at length about this matter with my wife, and she mainly listened, perhaps sensing that I needed to vent. She usually provides quite a lot of insight, but I suppose she feared looking as if she was taking sides.

I might have come off as if I just needed to rant, but I see a deeper problem with these psychic attacks. I’ve now acknowledged them, and so it is time for me to take a course of action that is most appropriate. If you’ve ever experienced something similar you’ll know going about this in a way that’s fair and just is a careful balancing act. And perhaps somebody can give me their perspective on how they solved a similar problem. Protecting ones psychic field has never been harder in a society where we’re more prone to such attacks. And I can only hope they diminish over time.

I want to know something. Is an article considered higher on the totem pole than a blog post? Where does each fall in the hierarchy of importance in relation to the arts? And does an essay differ from an article or blog post? If so, how? I sometimes wonder what it is I’m doing — and since I have no experience other than writing in a vacuum — I’m finding it hard to categorise what I write. I’m sure I could study the definitions of each of these words and gain insight. All I know is I tend to lean toward non-fiction. And that isn’t to say I haven’t dabbled in fiction, I just don’t do it anymore.

I’d say blog posts are probably looked at as lower on the rung of the ladder than articles. And essays seem more literary than the other two. But what do I really know? Also, does it even matter what genre it is I’m crafting work in? I’m aware there are formulas people use to lure readers in and get them to engage, but I prefer to let what I’m conveying happen organically. If my inadvertent hook works it’s not because I gave it much thought. Perhaps what I’m doing is considered stream of consciousness. But I’m not so sure how I feel about formulaic writing and manipulating my readers.

You can’t put a gun to anyone’s head and force them to engage. And maybe it’s because I come from a completely different medium — the visual arts — that my approach seems hodgepodge. In any case, I tend to get lost in my own intellectual pursuits, and it makes me forget the entire reason why I do what I do. I’ve come to appreciate self-help, but I have an awfully hard time implementing the changes that subset of books suggest. Like I said, I get caught up in my own head, and then things become abstract and impractical, rather than literal and proactive. But we all process stuff differently.

Another thing that’s occurred to me lately is pondering whether pseudonymous writing is cowardly. If you can’t stamp your name on something and stand behind it are you hiding a part of your life? Do autobiographical anecdotes count as legitimate behind a nom de plume? What’s there to hide, anyway? I’ve just come to the conclusion that real life connections can sometimes be a bit nosy, and when you’re not on social media they look for alternative ways to track you. But I should be grateful for any interest I get, because let’s face it, I’m not becoming a bestselling author any time soon.

A lot of authors exist in relative obscurity until their big hit. Then they’re faced with the anxiety of having to follow up their previous work with something just as good (or better). And the sophomore syndrome is real. I think writers then get caught up in what they think their target audience wants to read, and start pandering. Inevitably, their next project doesn’t do as well and then people see them as all washed up. A lot of the success stories we read about are a revision of history — people try make it look like they knew exactly where they were headed before their big break, when they failed on numerous occasions, and for many years.

This is the main reason I enjoy living in relative anonymity, going about my day without the pressure to perform. I was speaking to some friends of mine last night and we all agreed that when it comes to our various forms of self-expression, feeling obligated to do it always ends in disaster. I wonder why it is so many of us are like that? Maybe it’s because creativity can’t be forced. Perhaps it’s a character flaw in which we like to do things on our own terms. Whatever it may be, the reality remains: having to do something you don’t want to do is something we all take great pains to avoid.

I think this is the reason I’ve had very few straight jobs in my lifetime. The undercurrent of doing stuff against my will. With personal sovereignty being at the forefront of my value system, it’s only natural that I’d push back against figures of authority. I was reading about this recently, and apparently it stems from childhood — like most trauma does — we come to resent the seemingly iron fist of our parents and go through a necessary period of rebellion post adolescence. Now, that all makes sense to me, but what doesn’t is why we continue to live in a society where everything is a grind.

If I read one more listicle about how to build a side hustle from ones writing I think I might just pull my hair out. What if you don’t wish to monetise your work? What if you’re quite happy with doing it for the joy of the craft? My apparent aversion to money isn’t something new — for I know how badly it can ruin ones artistic pursuits. The reason I say this is because when I was younger I got the bright idea to go into business for myself, and apply my artistic abilities to commissions. In this way, what I was doing was creating a commercial product from an otherwise fulfilling act.

Suffice it to say it didn’t work out all that well, and things came crashing down around me eventually, to the point of me entering into the prodromal phase of schizoaffective disorder. The pressure mounted to such an extent that I began seeing cameras and bugs placed in my domicile, and I was certain that there was an assassination plot out on me. Later on, admitting some of this, a person asked me why I thought I was important enough to be stalked. And even though I didn’t at the time, I now take great offence at the idea that my mental illness could be reduced to self-centredness.

It just goes to show you how uneducated or unaware others are of certain conditions. And the individual in question wasn’t exactly sane, so it added insult to injury. All in all, the pot that boiled over and resulted in my being incapacitated stemmed from trying to mix business with pleasure. If you draw hundreds of illustrations for clients — sometimes juggling multiple jobs a day — the only conclusion I can draw it that you’ll wind up in a nut house. This might be because I’m a highly sensitive person, or it might just mean that I’m weaker than most people, despite my ironclad will.

When I stop and look up from my efforts and I see what other people are doing, I often feel underwhelmed at my creative attempts. I feel like I’m just not good enough, but at the same time I know it’s my impatience talking. I’m on my way to getting a better handle on the English language, but I haven’t mastered it. I’m not where I want to be at all as a writer. And the only thing I seem to have going for me is my honesty. It’s my saving grace, and what tends to pique people’s curiosity. I can safely say very few people are as apt to disagree with themselves as I, and it’s how I’ve always been.

In any creative endeavour honesty comes out on top. That’s just my opinion. And it’s because the truth is universally relatable. I’d rather engage in intellectual discourse with myself than others, because it helps me get to know myself and my motivations. After all the self-analysis I’ve engaged in I still lack a lot of self-awareness, but it’s something I try work on daily. Our subconscious plays a big role in who we are consciously. It’s almost as if we’ve got conflicting personas fighting to come out — ones that contradict each other so harshly, that it’s almost impossible to believe they’re part of the same entity.

No one is as inherently dishonest as those on social media, only showing the highlight reels of their lives. And nothing can be that good all the time. What I often find peculiar is if you know someone on a one-on-one level, and they engage in this kind of exhibitionism, you often find they’ll dump on you, describing their low points in person. But it’ll never see the light of day on a social network. This is what I’m talking about when it comes to dishonesty. Why are keeping up appearances to important? And how did this all start? I’ve long since left all but one social network. And the one I use is unpopular with a lot of people because of who owns it.

Of course, I couldn’t care less, and I enjoy the fact that there’s a level of controversy to the platform. But I also think I enjoy it because few people are showing their fantasy lives on it. Sure, there’s a lot of slop on all social networks, but sometimes you find a diamond in the rough. One thing that fills me with hope is that a lot more people are beginning to write long form content. And yes, I said the dreaded word. But I’m highly interested in what actual human beings are willing to express cognitively, as opposed to writing a prompt into artificial intelligence. Look, not everyone is going to hit the mark, but I think we’re moving in a good direction now that people are writing more.

Even though we live in a highly politicised age, not everything is about politics. In fact, in my view, we’re beyond politics. They are of little use to us, and I don’t say this without having done my research. Politics have famously been called theatre of the ugly, and oh, how ugly they can get. Most people today hold strong opinions on particular leaders, and one of my biggest pet peeves is when they relay information to you — no matter how inaccurate — and automatically assume you agree with them. It’s not always that I disagree, it’s more a matter of how irrelevant politics can really be.

However, I didn’t always hold this opinion. At one point I used to argue with people about their political ideas, and how wrong they were. I was an avid listener of talk radio, and for a time allowed it to brainwash me into thinking that our entire existence could be seen through the lens of politics. I guess you could call what I’m going through a kind of fatigue of the subject. Don’t get me wrong, though, I’m well aware of what is going on politically. And I do keep up with the news. I just don’t think it’s the most pertinent information one can fill their mind with. It’s essentially propaganda.

Both sides of the aisle engage in dirty tactics, and no political movement is perfect. It can’t be. There’s simply too much at stake for each of these factions to be honest. As my uncle once said, “Politics and corruption were born to one another.” But I don’t begrudge anybody for buying a newspaper — even though those are seen as a relic of the past. What I can’t begin to understand, however, is the people who’d go so far as to politicise a ham sandwich. Of course I’m being facetious. There are pressing issues at play, I get it, but wouldn’t it be better if we realised we’re human first?

There are so many other things to concern ourself with, that I tend to lose respect for those who make everything a political issue. I think we’ve given politics too much power. And you usually find that mastering oneself is not inherently urgent to those who get caught up in the twenty-four hour news cycle. It almost becomes a full time job. So, you might say politicians count on those who are uninformed — but that’s not what I’m advocating — I’m referring to instances in which an otherwise apolitical subject becomes enmeshed in being preachy. Telling us who to vote for.

Another major mistake those in the entertainment industry make is to side with some cause or another. They tend to state that they have no option but to be vocal on any given issue, and it all starts to feel like they’re marching in lockstep. Such-and-such government is all bad, they did X, Y, and Z. But all governments are crooked. They literally live off the money they tax us for. They’re not public servants, in fact they often seem to act against our best interests. Partisan politics is for the immature and underdeveloped. You can only be a fool if you swear fealty to one set of ideas.

I’d like to see entertainers entertain, and honestly, would prefer if all politicians were sacked. “But who will build the roads?”, they’ll say. Look. If you’re waiting for the government to patch a pothole when you can do it yourself, things have become a lot more backward than I initially imagined. There’s also this sense of sanctimony about those who think they’re more politically right and just than the next person. Because they believe in what sounds like a good idea doesn’t make them a good person, not at all. You know what I want? Honesty. A sense of accountability. But you’ll never find that amongst politicians.

People might tell me to not be so pessimistic, and they’ll try convince me that the next leader has the magic formula for getting things back on track. No one does. They’re all as useless as the previous cabinet or administration was. What we see through the media is either framed as a win or a loss, depending on whoever is most popular. Most of all, the level of dishonesty involved in the people who decide to go in to this line of work is astounding. How can you trust someone whose fortune is dependent on your very own hard work and what’s in your pockets? As far as I’m concerned, tax is theft.

I’ve been disappointed too many times to have hope in the system. It’s done nothing but bring harm to my peace and autonomy. In fact, if I were to be brutally honest, society and the way it currently operates contributed to the severity of my mental illness. I felt I always had to be on. I worked my fingers to the bone, all for numbers on a screen. And no politician ever directly benefited me in all the years that I was an active participant in the rat race. And to think corporations don’t get swept up in politics and pander to the masses is pure idiocy. I want to live in a world without politicians.

They are the scourge of the earth, and they collect cheques based off the back of the working stiffs. This statement I’m making is not specific to any one country, either. It happens worldwide. We’re living in a broken system, and the only reason it stays the way it is is because those on top benefit from it. Every vote we cast is equivalent to posting a letter to Santa Claus — they go nowhere, and the elites decide who wins. There’s of course no way to prove it, because we’re forced to rely on the institutions that facilitate the voting process. So no matter how hard we ask for change, it never happens.

When I was younger I was completely uneducated on politics. When the next decade transpired I was swept up in what I thought was the right way to get things done. Now — although I still vote — I have absolutely no faith that my contribution is being counted. There’s simply too much at stake for them to allow us to elect our own leaders. The wool has been pulled over our eyes time and again, and here’s the thing, there are more of us than there are of them, so what kind of democracy are we really living under if the majority is being suppressed? We might as well be living in medieval times.

Not that I think the masses should necessarily rule by default. I’m more interested in protecting our personal sovereignty. And what that means to me and to someone else is markedly different. I have absolutely no solution other than to suggest we do away with career (and legacy) politicians. And what’s up with all the old people in government, anyway? Can the youth not lead? Doing away with government altogether might be a radical concept, but I’m prepared to stand behind it all the way. Think about how many people have lost their lives for a flag. The logic there is lacking, big time.

But maybe you think the establishment can turn itself around, and accountability can be taken. My only response to that is to beware of utopian ideals. There’s a perfect world all of us want but can’t have. There are things that move you to do what you do in your life that might not appeal to me. Where I think we’ve gone wrong is by lumping people into two main teams. One side is incessantly demonising the other, and vice versa. It’s just a diversion tactic, because if they have us fighting with one another it takes the heat off them. I always use this particular mantra: question their motives.

We’re citizens of the world. Why die for boundaries drawn on a map? Is that really something worth losing limb and life over? I’d say not. I think the best thing any of us can do is to remain rugged individualists, and make our own decisions instead of having governments doing it for us. Some would argue that lawlessness would break out, and to that I say anarchy doesn’t have to be that way. We all have an inherent sense of right and wrong, and if you need the law to keep you in line you have much bigger problems than I can fathom or articulate. Our countries are all on similar land.

When are we going to stop letting fascists dictate what we do in our own homes or personal lives? I’m not encouraging an uprising, nor am I saying let’s riot in the streets. All I’m doing is reminding you that you’re more powerful than you imagine. You have agency. And you’re far more capable than you give yourself credit for. Trust yourself today. Do something for you. The system will continue to punish us if we acquiesce to it. I instead will gladly live in my own cloistered reality, far away from the impositions thrust on me by dictators. Oh, you want my vote come election time? I’m sorry, that time is over.

I never used to scrap anything I did, and it feels like I used to have a lot more confidence in my work. Why I’m slowly appearing to lose ground, I can’t say. It really grates me when I feel the need to hold back on publishing something, but I guess not every piece deserves to be out there. There are those who would encourage us writers to go ahead and hit publish anyway, and let the chips fall where they may. Though sometimes, something just doesn’t quite work. I’ve had a few of those lately.

It’s not so much that I overthink the potential audience, or that I don’t want to offend anybody. Rather, if the words just aren’t singing in tandem, they probably don’t deserve to see the light of day. I recently had someone purchase my entire body of work till present day, and it felt great. To finally have somebody invest enough time and attention to the work you put in fills one with immense gratitude. Maybe not everyone knows this, but my stuff doesn’t sell all that well. Most wouldn’t admit that.

Lately I’ve been neglecting my illustration practice. There are various reasons why, but I’m considering picking up my art supplies and actually engaging in the act of drawing again. As you might not know, I’m a cartoonist as well, and I’ve been working on a new project in which the end result will be a collection of new comic strips in book form. Most likely around one hundred pages. But comics stimulate a different part of my brain than illustration does, as there are words involved.

The thing I love about illustration is the way one can convey ideas with a striking visual. And in a world where hand crafted artwork is under very real threat of being replaced by artificial intelligence, drawing is almost an act of protest. Now, I’ve never been one to attend an actual march or anything like that, but I’ve always sought to bring attention to relevant issues in my artwork. These particular issues may not be to everyone’s taste, but they’re important to me, and that’s what matters.

I think images have the power to communicate even more sophisticated ideas that words can, because they’re less specific, and open to interpretation. Of course that depends on the style of writing too, but most of all, we all know that old adage a picture is worth a thousand words. But are editorial illustrations a crucial addition to a written piece? And do they add any inherent value beyond looking cool? For many years I was commissioned to create them, but the phone stopped ringing.

There are many ways I could’ve handled that. I could’ve felt defeated. I could’ve turned bitter and resentful that the line of work I was in up and evaporated. But I chose to go a different path. I decided I wanted to explore my writing. One friend in particular always encouraged me to write more, and I never quite took it seriously because I didn’t think I was good enough. To this day I still don’t feel like a real writer. I’m constantly plagued by this idea that I’m doing it wrong, and maybe I am.

But I realised something else. What is a real writer, anyway? Surely there’s room for different approaches to this creative outlet. Surely all the rules are meant to be broken. I’ve mentioned before that I never knew what a pantser was. I thought every writer out there was a plotter. And obviously I had absolutely no knowledge as to what I was in store for by attempting to build a writing career. To be honest, I still don’t. I just know I enjoy writing, and have a desire to get this stuff out of my head.

No one can really teach you how to write. I mean, there certainly are some pointers one can attain that might be helpful. But sitting at your word processor and expressing what’s on your mind involves a great deal of work and effort. Often it’s not pleasant. And then there are those who freeze up every single time they sit down, expecting to write. The reason I don’t believe in writing courses and workshops is merely because there are too many of them being made available by hucksters.

If a writer is on their own personal writing journey, not all that established, and struggling with the same things I do, how are they meant to convey to me how to do it right? The way I see it we’re all in the same boat, but at different skill levels. And again, no one can teach you how to generate ideas. I know there are books out there that claim such a thing, but I remain highly dubious about them. I guess you could say my scepticism is crippling me. That I should be more open to this stuff.

I employ my own set of techniques in order to come up with new ideas, but it’s not a hard science, nor is anything ever guaranteed. The best ideas hit you out of the blue, and clearly come from elsewhere. I try to act as a signal tower, picking up on invisible rays of consciousness from out there in the ether. A lot of people attribute this to God, but the most arrogant of all take all the credit for themselves. I have a cursory understanding of copyrights and patents, but a lot of people are idea thieves.

One of the most classic methods for coming up with something that seems new is to take two old ideas and combine them in interesting ways. But wouldn’t that be a kind of shortcut? We’re currently at a place now where people are attributing ideas they didn’t exactly come up with to themselves. But it’s a slippery slope, because if everyone is doing it, it becomes the new normal. I’m not a masochist. I don’t think everything should be a painful or arduous task, but that’s usually what produces legitimate results.

I also think there’s this delusional school of optimism erupting in the zeitgeist, where anybody thinks they can be anything. But if you’re a jack of all trades you wind up being a master of none. Mastering one area alone is the only way to get better at it, and it takes most people a lifetime. But where does that leave me — a multi-disciplinary creative who dabbles in words and pictures? You start feeling like a fraud. Like you haven’t taken your own advice, and stuck to one thing and seen it through.

But I don’t necessarily see it that way. I put my thousand hours in at the drawing board, and later in life I decided to switch gears. I want to give my creativity another layer. Of course I’ve always written, throughout my entire life. In fact, that’s how most comic strips start: as words. But I can’t shake the feeling that I just might be cutting the mustard as a writer. There’s this negative voice in the back of my head, telling me I’m an imposter, and that nothing I do has any value whatsoever.

That’s a me problem, though. And most people aren’t interested in excuses, they want results. My insubordinate nature has driven me to accomplish more than just a couple major tasks in my life. The fear of having someone looming over me, telling me what to do. Whenever a new book of mine goes to the printers, for instance, I’m heavily involved in the process of overseeing that it all gets done correctly. I can’t help it! I just don’t trust other people to do the job all that well, and it shows.

There’s a certain point where you have to acquiesce, however. To put your trust in a third party and hope for the best. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why I find that so hard. Perhaps it’s the DIY aspect of comics, most of which I’ve self-published. As a cartoonist, you do everything yourself (unless of course you’re Jim Davis, who created Garfield). He has an entire production line working on the inks, lettering, and colours. But he’s more of a brand now than a real artist. Oh well.

I’m sure there are other people out there like me, who find their work too precious to allow it to be contaminated by collaboration. The loners, the dreamers, and the pariahs. Whether or not one takes a hands on or hands off approach is totally up to them. Some of us can’t help but be hands on. And I’ve always kind of scratched my head at those who are more hands off. I’m thankful the areas in which I’ve chosen to express myself are solitary pursuits, because Lord knows I could never delegate my way out of a paper bag.

The following piece is an interview I conducted with myself, with the hope that it’ll draw some attention to my book entitled ‘The Provocateur’s Playbook.’ Out of all the projects I’ve worked on in the past year, it’s the one I’m most proud of. I’ve admitted time and again that I suck at marketing, so I’m actively trying to change that. I’ve done everything in my power to not make it feel like a pitch.

What personal experiences inspired you to write ‘The Provocateur’s Playbook,’ and was there a defining moment when you realised these principles had become your philosophy?

I’ve had a great deal of setbacks in my life, and so each of them contributed to my desire to write a book that might help others become proactive, as opposed to taking the passive route. I wouldn’t necessarily say I was inspired by those challenges I faced, but I instead chose to turn them into something productive, and this book is a result of that.

During the course of outlining the book, more and more principles manifested themselves, and I worked at and tweaked them until they best represented my life’s philosophy. I work from my subconscious a lot, and certain ideas begin a lot more abstract than the end product. The defining moment itself lay in between deciding to write the book and actually writing it

The book frequently borrows the language of warfare, castles, spies, and kings. Why did you choose military metaphors instead of more conventional self-help language?

The reason I did that was because I wanted to harken back to our origins, and simpler times. I also felt like it’d be more poetic, and give the book an esoteric edge. And that stems from some of the initial themes I explored in my writing journey.

I also think that life is a lot more warlike than we imagine it to be. In business for instance, competitors are cut throat and ruthless. That’s what drew me in to the more harsh and provocative style I employed in the book.

You describe the book as “amoral” rather than immoral. Where do you personally draw the line between strategy and manipulation?

You can choose read the book literally, or you can look deeper and pick up on the metaphors and see them through a literary lens. My intention was to blur the lines of genre.

A strategy is a carefully thought out plan with multiple steps involved and courses of action to take. Manipulation often comes from within us, and tends to be more knee jerk in certain people than it is in others.

Many readers will immediately compare this book to Robert Greene’s ‘The 48 Laws of Power.’ Where do you think your philosophy overlaps with his, and where does it fundamentally differ?

This book was most certainly inspired by ‘The 48 Laws of Power,’ but I don’t think there’s too much overlap between my work and his. For starters, he’s a cultural giant and a best seller. I think there are far more differences between my book and his than there are similarities.

One of the areas where Greene’s work fundamentally differs from mine is the aspect of isolation. I tend to believe it can work to ones benefit, whereas he warns against it.

Several rules encourage withdrawal, silence, and absence as sources of strength. Do you think modern society has become too accessible?

Most definitely. With the rise in popularity of instant messaging and social media I feel like we’re all drowning in mental noise. Algorithms are now deciding what you should see in your feed based on what you tap or click on.

I purposefully avoid these modern day time sinks in service to meaningful, deep work. And funnily enough, some of the people on social media don’t seem to believe I’m capable of producing new work at the pace I do. They tend to infer that I’m cheating somehow. Instead, I just work really hard at my craft daily.

If someone misunderstood the book as encouraging cruelty or selfishness, what would you say they’ve overlooked?

In life, as far as I see it, people can be cruel, and a degree of selfishness is necessary. Now whether I’m actually encouraging such behaviour is another matter.

I do believe if somebody acts incredibly cruelly toward you you should smite them, figuratively speaking. I don’t think turning the other cheek is the best way to go. But you should also show restraint, and dole out the consequences of their actions in measured tones.

You repeatedly return to the importance of protecting one’s time and psychological space. Why do you believe boundaries have become such a neglected skill?

Due to the availability and twenty-four hour access others have to us, with the use of instant messaging and social media. The fact that I refuse to utilise these things has freed me up to a point where I’m laser focused on my goals and can realistically achieve them. And so I want others to experience that freedom.

The warnings at the end of each chapter often soften what initially sounds like an uncompromising principle. Why was it important to include those caveats?

Because as much as I wanted to bring attention to the effectiveness of each rule, I also wanted to caution people not to take them too far. I also think it’s helpful to provide possible drawbacks if any given rule is misused.

Do you see ‘The Provocateur’s Playbook’ primarily as a philosophy of power, or as a philosophy of personal freedom?

A philosophy of personal freedom. Power is something we all have in varying degrees, but I wasn’t interested in aping what Greene has already done so well in his work. The result would then be me attempting to recreate what’s come before, on a smaller scale. And lastly, I’m not interested in attaining power. Just personal sovereignty.

Many of your ideas revolve around controlling perception. How important is reputation compared to genuine character?

Controlling perception is of great interest to me. It fascinates me endlessly. And I wanted to make a piece of work that gave people a solid framework on the road to shaping their own narrative.

Unfortunately I’ve had my reputation smeared for years, by those who feel inferior or envious of my gifts. So I don’t think ones reputation matters much, personally. Genuine character outweighs it every time.

You write extensively about becoming unreachable and revealing less about yourself. In an era dominated by social media, do you think mystery has become a competitive advantage?

I do. Ever since I’ve removed myself from social media it’s generated more interest in where I am and what I’m up to. And so I think it’s an effective tactic to receiving attention. Only the truly wise see through it though, and don’t fall for the trap. And I admire those who don’t.

Some readers may find the book empowering, while others may find it unsettling. Did you intentionally write something designed to provoke disagreement?

A provocateur is a person who deliberately provokes or incites others, often to challenge norms, stir controversy, or prompt action. So yes, I did write the book to stir something inside people. Some will love it, others will hate it, and a large majority of people won’t care either way.

What surprised you most about yourself while writing the book?

The depths of my despair, and how fallen it feels like the world has become. I feel like I opened a portal to an alternate timeline in which everything is black or white. But I deliberately did so, because I wanted to work with the power of absolutes.

The book encourages relentless productivity and the pursuit of a personal “great work.” What does success actually look like to you?

The Great Work is a tip of the hat to Aleister Crowley. I believe everyone has a purpose and needs to work at finding out what it is, in order to devote enough time to mastering and honing it.

To me, success is being able to do whatever you want whenever you want. But we all impose limits on ourselves, believing we can’t be or do more. In the midst of all the darkness there remains a sense of hope at the end of the tunnel.

How do you distinguish confidence from arrogance, especially when encouraging readers to become more dominant and self-directed?

Confidence is an altruistic quality. Arrogance is despicable. There is nothing inherently wrong with becoming more dominant in life. People who know what they want generally end up getting it. If you’re floating around aimlessly you’ll never achieve anything.

Do you think these principles apply equally in personal relationships, business, and creative pursuits, or do they need to be adapted depending on the situation?

By reading the work from the right perspective, I think the principles can be applied across the board. While some of them are more pragmatic than others, they all work as a cohesive whole, and encourage cross-referencing.

If someone finished the book but completely disagreed with your world view, what do you hope they would still take away from it?

I’d hope they were intrigued, and that they’d learnt what they don’t want out of life. The choice is relatively simple, you can either go the whole hog and throw yourself into the process of life, or remain an observer, watching everyone else make things happen. I think the choice is pretty obvious, but each to their own.

Looking back now that the book is complete, is there a fifty-first — or perhaps an unwritten — principle you wish you’d included?

No. The book was written with fifty clear principles that take you through a process of complete reinvention. Once I complete a project I’ll stand behind it and no revisions are necessary. If I did ever experience that feeling in future, it’d take me on a journey of writing a whole new book on the subject.

‘The Provocateur’s Playbook’ is available now as a Kindle e-book on Amazon or a PDF on Payhip.

I absolutely hate everything I write. I’m never happy with it, but I try not let perfectionism cripple me, and that’s why I publish. If one refines or revises their work endlessly it seems to create a cycle. A cycle where it’s never good enough. And nothing will ever be good enough if it isn’t finished. Inaction is the greatest enemy of us as writers, not the odd bad piece. So if I were to choose between material that’s not quite where it needs to be, or scrapping it altogether, I’ll always choose the former. One of the biggest mistakes I think we make as writers is thinking we’re just not ready yet.

Well, I have news for you: if you’re not ready now you never will be. Excuses like polishing is one I’ve heard too often. But there’s a flip side to all this. A friend gave me advice one day when I was not quite finished with a book I was writing. He urged me to just put it out, saying that art can go on forever if you let it. That was terrible advice. And I’m embarrassed to say I took it. The result was a rushed and incomplete end product. The problem is, once you release a book there’s no going back. You can’t remove it from the market. Well, I guess you technically could, but then it’d be a rework.

My thoughts on the matter are to let your intuition guide you throughout the process of a creative project. If you’re not done you’re not done. Only you know if you are or not. I subsequently worked on a few other projects after the book I mentioned, and made sure not to repeat the same mistake. One of my weak points is selling. I’m confident enough to talk about the creative process, but not the marketing side of things. Perhaps that’s because I don’t make work for the audience, but instead I create work I’d want to read. Certain people might tell you you’re wasting your time doing that.

But I see it differently. I don’t think time devoted to any one person’s life’s work can ever be a waste. Seeing as though my stuff doesn’t sell much at all, I have no experience in what any given audience wants. But I believe creating from a place of authenticity is most important. And what better way to express oneself than through those things that inspire them? There are numerous courses out there today that claim to condition the mind into producing original ideas, but few of them are effective. Unfortunately there is no silver bullet or hidden secret to crafting strong work.

What I think we need to do is acknowledge the role luck plays in a project that resonates. Sometimes one finds themselves at the right place at the right time, and in time they see dividends from it. It’s happened to all of us at least a few times in our lives, those moments in which everything seems to coalesce, come together and work out. That’s good fortune. No matter how much we try attribute our own efforts to the success we achieve, there are many moving parts that might have worked in our favour. I’m not saying hard work doesn’t pay off, but there’s more to it.

Think about all those times someone gave you a shot in your life, and the opportunities that were presented to you. These aspects all play a part in where we end up eventually. But maybe you were overlooked for the majority of your life, and no one saw your vision. Perhaps all the hours you put in to actualising your dream were the reason you got where you are. It’s still not right to let that go to your head. Arrogance has been the undoing of many, and it can make even the most attractive of people ugly. However that doesn’t mean you can’t be proud of what you’ve accomplished, not at all.

I’ve met my fair share of egotistic types in the course of my life. They’re very fast to dole out critiques of others but are often hypersensitive when it’s done back to them. In them I recognise a level of immaturity, and I tend to distance myself from them in any way that I can. My greatest fear however is my very own hubris. And as I opened this piece, I’m aware of my low self-esteem. It’s not feigned humility, rather a logical assessment of my mind state. I think what’s healthy is to not allow ones doubts to affect their work, as hard as that can be. I strive for balance, but can be pessimistic.

Balance also isn’t sexy, it’s arduous and can be rather dull. Stopping oneself from overdoing something isn’t easy, nor is keeping oneself in check and being sure not to slack off. One of the only reasons I try to strike a balance is because I’ve lived through the opposite. I was diagnosed with a chemical imbalance, and with that took the time to reassess those behaviours that were to my detriment. Of course I haven’t eliminated them all — no one can — but to strive toward something is to give it the good old college try. Romanticising suffering is sometimes a bad habit of creatives.

While I’m not quite certain why that is, it’s prevalent in the portrait of a tortured artist. Some how or some way being attracted to the dark is a natural occurrence for a lot of creatives. We see it everywhere — in music, in the arts — and it’s what the psychiatrist-psychologist Carl Jung referred to as the Shadow. That innate part of ourselves which often drives us toward behaviour that seems, on its face, out of character. Somebody can seem relatively cheery, for instance, but beneath the surface be hiding a miserable demeanour. And I’ve noticed that a lot of people aren’t quite what they seem.

We like to present a particular character to the world. And naturally, we want to be well liked. But we all have skeletons in our closet of some form or another. This is why I pay close attention to micro-expressions rather than what folks project consciously. There is a whole world that exists beneath the surface. And this is something that drew me to the arts from a young age, the expression of that inner sanctum. Bringing things out of ones subconscious and transforming it into something productive. To me it’s magical, and one of the closest things to ecstasy I’ve ever experienced in life.

Before I ever knew about Jung’s Shadow I was exploring mine. I religiously kept a sketchbook cum journal and would scribble down my thoughts without thinking twice. I guess you could’ve called it a form of automatic writing. This was just something I did, without thinking about it. Often times people would see me with a little black book and ask if they can look at it. There were times when it felt uncomfortable for them to do so, but after a while I got used to it. And perhaps I shouldn’t have let others see what was in there, only keeping it for myself. In any case, it always raised a few eyebrows.

And that was because the nature of the work was dark. It was coming from my Shadow. And while I seemed like a relatively well-adjusted person on the outside, people could detect the incredible pain I felt inside when reading my journals or looking at my artwork. Some laughed, others were disturbed, but I always seemed to acquiesce when any interest was shown. I think those little black books were a cry for help, come to think of it. I was drowning in bouts of depression and mania, and I wasn’t being treated for any of it. Fast forward to present day and it’s harder for me to do that.

As I’ve mentioned before, I seem to have lost my edge. But one can’t falsely manufacture inner turmoil. That’d be dishonest and I’m not about pulling the wool over people’s eyes. I still keep little black books to this day, but they’re obviously not as raw as they used to be. And that’s because I’m in a good place. I’m happily married and I have a creative career that fulfils me. To go looking for pain in any of that would be a fool’s errand. But because the nature of my work has always been pretty dark I do find things to tap into that produce interesting results. They’re just not all negative.

A great source of my pain at the time came from my late father. I’ve never dealt with his death to this day, but I used to be a lot more angry about it. I remember seeing a friend’s parents drop him off one day — we were going on a school excursion — and I said to him that he was lucky to still have his Dad. Well, he didn’t say anything, and seemed embarrassed that I had witnessed his parents seeing him off. But in that moment I was expressing a kind of envy now that I think back to it. But a lot of people don’t appreciate their parents, and don’t know what it’s like to lose one until it’s too late.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said that to my friend, because he clearly felt awkward and didn’t seem to know what to say. After all, we were young men, and getting mushy is looked down upon. I still recall keeping a little black book and documenting that particular trip. If I go back through my archives I could probably find it. But it’s a time I’d much rather not remember, for various reasons. Being raised in an affectionate household definitely influenced the person I’d become. And when I got out into the real world I realised that it wasn’t exactly normal. After all, men don’t cry, right?

I don’t enjoy writing under duress, but I’ve given myself a personal rule that I must write daily. This, at times, can cause anxiety. I wonder constantly what I’m going to write next. And nothing ever comes to mind until I sit down and start. I’ve heard those who practice this same exercise say the same thing. Just start. You’ll figure it out as you go. But the last thing I’d ever do is take advice from another writer. We’re in the same boat, and they’re wind bagging you if they say they have it figured out.

The truth is most people don’t really know what they’re doing, and they’re just pretending that they’re on top of things. The amount of self-proclaimed authorities on life and other matters today is astounding. Just because one formula worked for a particular writer doesn’t mean it’ll work for another. We’re all different, and that’s what makes life beautiful. I remain particularly dubious of workshops or courses, because I know I have to find my own way. And the only way out is through.

But if we look at this entire premise outside the context of writing itself we find it goes much deeper. Life coaches, guides and gurus promise nirvana all the time. Everyone thinks if they look in the right place they’ll uncover some hidden treasure trove of life hacks. Unfortunately it doesn’t work that way — there is no easy way out of the arduous journey life presents you. Most people don’t want to admit that to themselves, and that’s how they get suckered in to glorified shortcuts.

We as human beings have become increasingly comfortable with convenience, and anything that smacks of effort is avoided at all costs. But what can you expect? The leadership we’re offered up is crooked and corrupt — and it seems to be spreading through all facets of life. The resounding message nowadays is that money is power. And if you don’t have it you’re a loser in every sense of the word. That’s the message we’re sending to our young people through the representatives we elect.

I’m not talking about one country either, I’m referring the the global landscape. If it were just Trump I’d say that, but he’s the least of our concern at this current fulcrum. World banks are teetering on the edge of collapse, and all you need to do is pick up The Economist to see that. Better yet, go to the grocery store and observe how little you get for what you spend. We’re officially in the gig economy, and it shows. People are underemployed, dissatisfied, and utterly dispirited. You just can’t live on sporadic cheques.

But that’s the nature of our existence now. Scramble for crumbs while the elite get fatter. All those people trying to appear wealthy on social media are living in debt. It’s all marketing, or worse yet, a short rise to the top with a sharp fall afterward. When did it become cool to waste your money on optics? It was never cool to me. Fortunately I never fell for the trap of trying to look well to do. I just was what I was, but if you search for me on social media now it’s like a ghost town. I’m not there.

I hate to have such a gloomy outlook on life, and it’d probably be wise to focus on other things, but the truth is the truth. However let me catch myself for a second there: focus on other things? Like what? There’s very little to be enthusiastic about right now. The world is falling apart and no one can tell me otherwise. You’d think writing it down might help, but I think it’s making it ten times worse. And you know why? Because it festers. Sitting in my own sour air has become the routine.

My grandfather always said if you lose your sense of humour you’ve lost everything. But it’s getting harder to laugh with the way we’re being oppressed by our respective governments. Freedom of speech is a lie — that isn’t celebrated — in fact we have more folks than ever before being pressured into press statements they don’t want to give, or even complete silence. This isn’t the world I grew up in. Something has gone terribly wrong. I feel like I’m living in a nightmare. But it’s real.

If you look at the state of the world and come away hopeful I truly believe you’re delusional. And once all hope is lost and our dreams are dashed what will we find to distract ourselves from the pain and anguish? Will we gorge ourselves on fast food and outsource our workload to another chatbot? I hear they’re making employees embrace artificial intelligence in their positions now. But I’ll tell you this — we’re training up these machine learners to replace us entirely. Soon people will be laid off.

I mean, what do we need people for, anyway? Just go for what’s cheapest and fastest. Screw toiling at a problem and solving it with the persistence only a human being can. It’s an open secret. I was talking to my best friend on the phone the other day and he senses that he might be out of a job soon. And while it’s devastating to hear, it’s not particularly surprising. Imagine if someone hit the kill switch on all these chatbots. Where would people be? They’ve integrated it into their lifestyle.

We’re being boiled alive so slowly we don’t realise we’re the frog in the pot. Our goose is cooked. And if you’re looking for the silver lining I’m afraid there might not be one. We’re messing with things we shouldn’t be, and we all know it. I remember when I first heard about HAARP. Then DARPA. Then CERN. How arrogant do we have to be to want to influence the weather? It’s called playing god, and despite being uncomfortable with it no one has been able to stop it from occurring. And I mean no one.

I’d like to live in a world where certain things are sacred and we don’t interfere with them out of hubris. But a utopia is just that — a dream world. Either most people don’t understand the impact of the things we’re doing as human beings or worse, they do, but they just don’t care. Our arrogance is going to cost us our lives. If there truly is a creator looking down on us he must be so ashamed at what we’ve chosen to do with the earth. The scariest thought might just be that there’s no one at the wheel.

So many people worship a god of some kind. We then draw the conclusion that there has to be something out there if they believe in it so strongly. But if there is no karmic repercussion for the terrible things people do that’d be even more nauseating. It’d mean that anyone can get away with anything sans the consequences — and if that type of a secret ever got out, we’d be toast. I’ve heard many kooky things in my life. One of them is that religion was created deliberately by aliens to control us.

And if that’s the case, how much farther are we going to be led down the garden path? I’m not sure if there is any intelligent life out there in the cosmos, but I certainly don’t consider us as such. We’re too stubborn and narrow minded to get out of our own way, let alone affect real change. Everyone seems frozen in time, stuck on the small stuff, and incapable of seeing beyond their blinkers. And if I were a better man I’d try and wake them out of their slumber. But I’m not, I have my own problems.

All in all it’s starting to feel like life’s small pleasures are the best it’s going to get. I never saw myself as an Atheist, but I’ve lost a tremendous amount of faith in organised religion. It’s just too stodgy for me. I also don’t believe we just magically appeared here or evolved from fish in the sea. So you could say I’m questioning everything to the nth degree. No idea is safe from me when I get this way. I could be in the throes of a depression or reassembling my brain chemistry at random.

Who really knows why we do the things we do? Why things are the way they are? As a child I constantly wanted to know why. As an adult I’m plagued by more intricate questions. If I hadn’t been educated as highly as I have, perhaps I’d be able to naïvely float through life without a care in the world. Maybe it’s true that the more intelligent you become the greater the range of pain is that you feel. I’d hate to categorise myself as smart with as little as I know, so I’ll leave it at knowing I don’t know anything.

Sometimes I feel like I’m living in clown world, and I’m seriously considering a renege on my policy of letting everyone get away with everything, hoping karma will take care of it for me. It really bothers me that I wrote an entire article and felt the need to scrap it, because I deemed it too hardcore. The only way I see getting out of this is to go back on my word and hit publish on that piece. It’s not like I owe anybody the best version of myself — and after all, drama does sell itself.

Not that I’m selling anything. Well, perhaps I am hawking my e-books, but I don’t make a habit of engaging in aggressive self-promotion. I think I’ve written two articles, total, that were composed for the express purpose of marketing my work. But getting back to the world and how I see it, everything just feels off, and I hope you’ll forgive me for saying I’m surrounded by idiots. The crux of the matter is I can’t be anything other than myself. I’m just not naturally strategic or manipulative.

No one seems capable of empathy anymore, so why should I continue to be empathic? At this point it can almost be considered a suicide mission. The sly nature with which people move stops me in my tracks, and I’m almost gobsmacked at the audacity they exhibit in any given situation. Now more than ever before we are living in an age of self-absorption. Nobody seems to care how shoddy their workmanship is, yet they’re simultaneously entitled enough to expect preferential treatment.

What I mean by clowns is this bizarre sense of sardonic jokers meeting me at every turn in life. It appears to be a secret cabal, conspiring to confuse others with the absurd and surreal. And I wonder to myself if anybody else feels this occurring. You might think me paranoid — and it’s a very real symptom of the illness I live with — but I can’t seem to ignore it any longer. So what do we do about it? How do we combat this group of clown-like figures that we encounter at every turn?

I’m all about live and let live, but when these unusual characters keep cropping up in daily life it’s, simply put, hard to ignore. Then I mull it over more and come to the conclusion that perhaps it’s all in my head. But I’m not talking about literal clowns. I’m talking about people who appear that way, all while everything seems topsy turvy, backward or upside-down. It’s kind of like walking through a town and watching the landscape transmogrify into gravity-defying shapes and structures.

Are you familiar with that feeling of being somewhere you shouldn’t be? Knowing in your heart that something bad is about to pop off that you have no control over? The clowns are out in full swing, and they all look like doppelgängers. This is yet another theme I’ve revisited, time and again in my work: people who look like other people, all doing odd things. I never really had a fear of clowns before, but these are more abstract versions than literal ones. Are these ramblings of a nut?

The more I think about it the less comfortable I am with giving others grace despite their intentions. I’m under the impression I might have written a weak piece over the past few days, and that bothers me tremendously. But I guess one can only drill down so far into their psyche before brilliance of any kind is lacking. Maybe I’m all washed up and these villainous jokers are a figment of my imagination run wild. Then again, I could be practising the ultimate gaslight on myself in all this.

It’s difficult to accept when your mind plays tricks on you. When strangers become increasingly hostile due to your own perceptions turning in on themselves. In order to beat these clowns at their own game I suppose I might have to get in their heads, figure them out and camouflage myself in their very same psychic attire. There must be a reason coulrophobia exists. It can’t just be random. If I told you I see clowns out in public frequently you might laugh me out of the room. But I don’t.

I’m instead referring to their aura. It smacks of trickster energy, and all their pranks are awfully mean-spirited. These entities feel dangerous, and I can’t quite put my finger on why. It’s like they’re ready to squirt acid out of their fake flower instead of water. I recall a provocative line, though I can’t remember where it originated: “Sometimes you get your throat cut while a clown is pulling your pants down.” And I might be paraphrasing. This is how it feels though. It describes the notion well.

If I had to tell you to beware of the sadistic clowns out there in Bizarro World you wouldn’t understand until you encountered them. It’s almost indescribable, how palpable the evil is in these beings. I mean, they are human, but there’s a haunted element to them for sure. Most people go about their business in life without encountering a clown unless they’re at a kid’s birthday party. But like I said, these people are hiding in plain sight, and they sabotage others just for the thrill. It’s sick.

Funnily enough, DC Comics wrote a fictional title around what I’m describing, but to me it feels more real than reality. Jean Baudrillard described a subsection of reality that he referred to as hyperreality: “A state in which the distinction between reality and its representations becomes blurred, making simulations or images feel more real than reality itself.” This is precisely what I’m experiencing. With the influx of symbols, logos, icons, and graphic representations around we freeze.

The abstract becomes more garish over time, drawing us in to a fictional world where street signs, brands, and digital interfaces overshadow the nature of reality itself. We think in archetypes, and something about them is magnetic and uncontrollably irresistible. Before you know it, shadowy figures and alien entities are encroaching on your mental makeup. And the thing is not everybody even realises this is happening. Instead, they bury themselves in social media and whatever is viral.

Our psychic diet however determines what it is we accept or don’t as reality. This is why politics are so divisive. You can have two completely different world views spurred on by the same set of facts. The bottom line is that people believe what they want to, instead of what’s real, and that colours our entire perception of the world. We’re being suppressed by a worldwide network of clowns in suits, and it’s like a Punch and Judy show — a theatre of the ugly. Whatever you believe is an interpretation.

I’m under no illusion that I have all the answers. I’m merely posing some questions about some things. And if that makes me seem like a tinfoil hat wearing conspiracy theorist, so be it. Anyone who maintains that they have all the answers is both a liar and a loon, and one should stay as far away as possible from them. Put your fingers in your ears if you must. Just get out of dodge. When I speak of the clowns no one is receptive. They want to believe that people are generally well meaning.

I’ve realised it’s not my job to ring the alarm about these bad actors hidden in plain sight, rather I’ll tell a cautionary tale as to how they could possibly infiltrate your life. To rid oneself of these clowns one must be vigilant and on guard at all times. And defeating them isn’t easy, because how can you be mad at someone who makes you laugh? My feeling is that they’re a total psy-op. They’ve been put here to cause havoc and everything is done under the guise of a joke or prank, but they’re darker.

You might never have encountered one of these people. Or maybe you have, but they were hidden in civilian clothing. Not all of them walk around in costume. And that’s what makes them so tough to parse from an ordinary person. If you’re perceptive enough, your inner alarms will go off however. You’ll have a knowing that you’re encountering an entity that just doesn’t quite fit in the context of our timeline. Destroying them is your best bet, and to do that you must learn to ignore them.

They’ll advance on you, and try to lure you in with all kinds of tricks and traps. But you must resist acknowledging them at all costs. The only way they’ll go away is if you treat them like they’re invisible — which they are — and then the translucence begins to show. They’ll fade away, and make their way on to their next victim, and it won’t be you. The only advice I can give is to not engage. And that’s tough, because a lot of them work amongst civilians. Beware the dreaded clowns.

I've been wondering if cultivating a writing habit sans the express purpose of publishing what you get down is helpful. Because I know some people do that. Of course I know there are some things that shouldn’t see the light of day, and are reserved for ones personal archives. But some of us hit publish anyway, no matter how personal. I guess there is a performative aspect to it all. A desire to get attention in some form or another. And while not everyone will admit to that so freely, I will.

The question I’m sitting with right now is whether I should devote time to journaling in some form. Because I’ve always kept a sketchbook, and most of that work never makes it to publication. Writing is cathartic for a lot of us though, and I suppose that’s the point. Not how many people read your article, but the fact that you got it out of your system. In the age of hustle culture everything has been turned into a job, though. And for that I think the content (for want of a better term) suffers.

It might be hard to determine what the real reason someone is writing for nowadays. But if you give a cursory glance to their work there are tells of sameness in their titles. In short, most are clickbait. I’m not saying being broke makes you a real writer, though. Far from it. I’m just surprised at what some writers are getting paid for. I’ve never even so much as toyed with the idea of monetising — and again, that doesn’t make me better than anybody — it just means the stakes are much lower.

The trends people follow pique my curiosity, and I ask how we got here. I guess art for art’s sake is a thing of the past. A lot of people have careers that are not attached to their writing in any conceivable way. And some have simply given up on making it. Let me be abundantly clear about why I do what I do: for self-expression. Writing is a different form of communication, and the silence associated with the practice appeals to me. I believe it accesses a different part of the brain.

While I can only stomach so much verbal conversation, I can get lost in a book or the process of writing for hours. Some would call that introversion, others might say it indicates one is on the spectrum. I like to think of it as merely a passion for the written word. Books give me something movies never could. They touch something inside me not even music does. In fact, I couldn’t even imagine my life without books. Fortunately enough, they’re not a vice, like drinking or smoking is.

But if that were the case, I’d collect them anyway. One of the things I don’t think I could ever do was write to a deadline, though. Which probably means I’ll never get a book deal. And for all the pluses of self-publishing, there certainly are drawbacks. Can you imagine the pressure of knowing one of your books became a bestseller? Anything you write thereafter is measured up against your prior efforts. Luckily enough, most of us will never have that problem. Wait. Is that good or bad?

I’m going to err on the side of caution and say that any writer in any context wants success of some kind. I mean, personal fulfilment only takes one so far, and it certainly doesn’t pay the bills. Unlike some writers I’ve never attended a single class on how to go about it. I’ve just always written a lot, and have been encouraged by some of my peers to pursue it more. As you might have realised, I took their advice. That’s why I’m writing this now. But I could never shake the feeling that I wasn’t legit.

After all, writers huddle in groups, attend workshops, classes, and take courses to sharpen their skills. I’m sure I’m doing it wrong in so many ways. But with the advent of the internet, anyone can publish their work now. There aren’t any gatekeepers. And that’s what’s so freeing about doing what we do. Sure, you could put your foot in your mouth and get banned somewhere or cancelled, but most of us are careful enough with our words to avoid such a fate. For those who aren’t, that sucks.

I believe people should be able to write about whatever it is they want without kowtowing to some arbitrary terms of service, but that’s just the free speech absolutist in me. In my opinion, there are far too many rules around what people can or can’t say in polite society. But I’m a libertine at heart, so there. But there are times when all of us self-censor. It’s become ingrained in us. Often we stop and think, “What if so-and-so sees this, and takes offence?” Then we hit backspace on our sentence.

There are times I’ve read something I didn’t agree with, but it’s never quite so bad that I feel a pang in my heart and come away disgusted. But I’m a live and let live type of person, so I wouldn’t say I’m easily offended. One of the things I can say repulses me is censorship itself. Surely bad ideas will get the boot if you allow them air to breathe. That’s what comment sections are for. To air out your grievances with the author, of course. Hearty debates can turn nasty sometimes, though.

I know what you’re probably thinking, though. There’s no way nothing offends me. There has to be something that butts up against my core values. But when I say nothing anyone writes affects me that way I mean it. Unless of course someone is calling for physical violence on others, of course. Fire in a crowded theatre and all that. But no, chances are ninety-nine percent of what others write about either moves my needle or leaves me apathetic. Words have such tremendous power. I cherish them.

If one reads a particular author long enough you get to know their likes and dislikes, purely by where their thoughts take them. Often times it’s not just what they say, but what they leave out. That can tell you a lot. This is my major issue with fiction in particular, however. The reason I prefer non-fiction is because fiction feels a tad too removed from the author’s life. It’s difficult for me to determine what they’re really getting at. I suppose, at this stage of my life, I’m more rooted in reality.

Some would argue that the very notion of fiction being too removed from an author’s life is preposterous. A lot of people seem to be able to peer into their favourite author’s inner life by the stories they tell. Maybe I’m being too literal about this. Because I like some peculiar books. If I come away from an author without them evoking any emotion in me, that’s bothersome. There has to be something that moves me about their work in order to sustain my interest. I think that’s natural.

No one can say I’m too cagey about my personal life, however. Because I tell my readers things about myself I probably never would in casual conversation. Well, that’s at least half true. I’m probably too honest for my own good. I think I’ve gotten more restrained with age, though. One of the reasons I use a pen name, however, is because there are those who know me in real life and would be shocked at some of my soliloquies. So to be on the safe side, I hide my work in plain sight.

I suppose there are some things we shouldn’t say out loud, for fear of destroying the mystery around our persona. But my view on this is if it’s personal enough to make you second-guess putting it out that’s precisely where it belongs: in the public eye. As a visual artist, I never had a way to convey myself through words. This is why writing freed me up to such a degree. It was a brand new way of expressing myself, one that felt way more direct. I’m under no illusion that I’m brilliant at all, though.

But regular people have stories to tell too. What makes them relatable is the fact that others have been through similar experiences. And that’s where the writer and the reader coalesce. A bond forms, and you start feeling like you know them better over time. Half of the things I disclose I forget about. I bet you could say I’m building a damning profile around my pseudonymous identity. No one probably needs to know any of it, but it’s there if they choose to dive into it. Writing rescued me from my own intrusive thoughts.

In a bout of anger and frustration I wrote a piece that probably won’t ever see the light of day. Essentially, it boiled down to me overstating my aggression around a negative experience I encountered out there in the real world. I’ve come to realise that I’ve built such a comfortable cocoon away from anything mildly unpleasant, and therefore, when some minor infraction happens it becomes a way bigger deal than it should. Most of all, I just don’t like the person I became in the moment. But I’m also not trying to sell anyone a dream about the virtues of being mild mannered.

I’m no stranger to anger. When my father passed, my mourning took the shape of severe resentment, and I took it out on everything around me. Compound that with the fact that I was just hitting puberty and it was a dangerous cocktail. For years I never understood why I was the way I was, but I still can’t help but feel like those unresolved issues left a mark. Of course, I’d go on to be diagnosed with a pretty serious mental illness in my early thirties, and from then on I had to rebuild my life from scratch. One of the things I’ve decided I don’t want to do is become bitter, though.

Disappointments crop up all the time, and as adults it’s our job to deal with them in healthy ways. But sometimes one just loses their patience, and forgets who they are in the heat of the moment. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m going for a softer approach in future. Instead of raging about how incompetent people are today, perhaps I need to be more understanding. I’m not saying those who are unprofessional in the context of their job deserve a pass, I’m thinking beyond myself and going “Wait, maybe they’re having an off day.” Plenty people are going through stuff all the time.

Do I really want to add to the list of unpleasantness in any given person’s life? No, I don’t. Do they deserve patience and understanding? Yes, they probably do. If I risk becoming bitter about things I risk losing that part of myself which is highly sensitive to other’s energy. If I close myself off to other people’s problems I become the problem. I’m not saying I shouldn’t have boundaries. I just know who I am inside and it’s not that angry person from my youth. I’m about love and patience. It might sound corny, but I don’t care. The world needs gentle souls badly. Not cold, unfeeling ones.

Think about the last time someone smiled at you or paid you a compliment. Chances are you didn’t hold on to that moment the same way you do a hostile gesture. As human beings we seem to skip past the myriad of good things that happen to us in service to obsessing over the one bad thing that occurred. I’ve always been sensitive to energy, and can tell when something or someone is off in a room. It’s not exactly enjoyable to have such a sixth sense — often times one wishes it weren’t there — but and still, it can be helpful to be tuned in to others and what they’re going through.

I’m choosing to use my abilities to help and not hinder. It’s easy to walk around with a vengeful attitude, ready at any moment to go off at someone. But to be a light in the darkness takes restraint. I’m so embarrassed that I let such inconsequential things bother me, but for a long time it felt like it was just who I am. Making a conscious choice to be a force for good in the world is honourable. After all, nobody wants to be around a misery. In fact, they say that misery loves company, but I don’t think it works the other way around. When others come away from an interaction with me I don’t want them to be drained.

There have been numerous instances in which I’ve felt that way, due to someone else’s energy, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I struggle to put boundaries in place though, that I will say. And when manipulative types pick up on my lack of boundaries, of course they take advantage. I’m still learning to deal with that, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. There’s nothing cool about anger or a person who can’t control their temper. I wouldn’t want to be emotionless or anything, all I want is balance. Because for years I lived an incredibly imbalanced lifestyle. And it wasn’t any fun at all.

I have no idea where I first adopted this attitude of anger being cool. It’s so destructive and counterproductive that it wreaks havoc on everyone and everything that surrounds you. It’s a downward spiral with no way out. As an artist, channelling anger into ones work is, however, productive. But stewing in ones own juices just isn’t. Somewhere along the line, yesterday, I allowed myself to lose control. I don’t enjoy that feeling. What gets me down is how sour and difficult people can be. While there might be good reason for it, it’s up to them to lift themselves out of it.

The only way I can see my way out of the situation I find myself in is through tolerance. I would’ve never dreamed in a million years that I’d be espousing this type of notion. I’ve always looked at my gentle nature as a weakness, that is until I learned that it’s the opposite of jaded — which I don’t want to be. Those who are jaded are unresponsive, numb and disconnected from others. And I get that life has a way of beating all the good qualities out of people through its tribulations, but we can’t let it. We must instead actively work at being better people, for everyone’s sake.

Unfortunately, not everyone comes to the same conclusion early enough in life. They believe that they’re entitled, all while simultaneously being lazy and shirking their responsibilities. For a long time I blamed bad behaviour on human nature, but that’s no excuse. The easy way out if often the least effective way to handle any given situation. It fosters an attitude of easy come easy go, and that lowers the bar all round. I almost can’t believe that this eureka moment is occurring to me so late in life. I mean, I’m relatively young, and not over the hill yet, but still, it could’ve lessened the blow.

No more will I look down on those who choose peace over drama, silence over yelling. One isolated incident of unprofessionalism in the course of ones day is not enough to throw the baby out with the bathwater. With enough self-control I can sidestep those experiences, and disregard them entirely. No longer will disdain for others live in my heart. Often enough, if we knew the reason behind why people act the way they act, we’d be surprised. Not everything is about you. In fact, most people are so self-absorbed they rarely think about other people’s motivations or lack thereof.

Perhaps I’ve isolated myself for too long, under the guise of protecting my peace and mental health. I’m not saying I’m about to become a social butterfly or anything like that, just, that I need to get out of my own way — and out of my own head. But after years of subjecting myself to this way of life it’s very difficult to break an ongoing habit. I’ve decided I’m going to let people get away with whatever they want to get away with. That I reserve the right to hold no opinion whatsoever. Karma will sort out the rest. Life doesn’t have to be this arduous journey where everywhere I turn is terrible.

But I’m the quintessential tortured artist. And I’ve romanticised pain far too long. Getting out of these repeated patterns of behaviour isn’t going to be easy, but I know it’ll be worth it in the long run. The amount of people walking around with hatred in their heart might be few, but I’ve seen it on a number of occasions, and it’s terrifying up close. In order to rid myself of this negative frame of mind I’ve been in won’t take more psychiatric drugs, it’ll take more exposure to the outside world. Because once you get outside of yourself, you start actually seeing others. And seeing them fully.

I’m not certain if I’ve learnt my lesson just yet about blowing things out of proportion. I’m sure I’ll falter along the way at some point again. But it’s definitely worth a shot, for my own peace of mind. I’d hope I’ve not been preachy or come off instructive about the way things should be — these are merely my current feelings on how I see the world, versus how I’d like to see it. Giving others grace can never be a bad thing. Don’t we hope others will do the same for us? If someone burns you when you’ve had nothing but good intentions, that’s on them. Boy, I’m pleased that I didn’t publish that article.

When I look back at some of my earlier creative work I’m amazed at how much better it is than what I’m capable of now, and naturally, that’s terribly distressing. Ever since I stopped living life to the fullest, socialising, drinking and smoking weed I seem to have become boring, maybe even a shell of the man I once was. But I was unmedicated all those years, and experienced some pretty intense ups and downs. So while psychiatry might have made me feel better, it certainly hasn’t helped my art. But I’m not saying I want to return to the anguish and pain I once suffered, not at all.

All I’m doing is acknowledging the stark contrast between my past self and my seemingly updated, revised, serious self. One of the things that bothers me most about the psychiatric drugs I’m on is the flat affect it creates. I don’t seem to laugh as much — but I also don’t do socially unacceptable stuff anymore, either. I used to be a lot to deal with. I used to take things too far. I used to really irritate people, to the point that I’m surprised I didn’t get my lights punched out. There is a particular critic who reviews my work, and seems to have had her perception coloured by my old personality.

We’ve recently reconnected on a professional level, and despite her harsh critiques of both my work and my personality — which is kind of unprofessional — I’m sending her some pro bono copies of my work. This all speaks to my narcissism. I’ll stop at nothing and jump at any and every chance to be spoken about. Even if that attention is negative. But I have news for you! Narcissism isn’t just something psychos possess. In fact, we all have a little bit of it in us. And for that reason it can be considered somewhat natural to the human animal. You see, one of my biggest fears is being passé.

I can’t stomach the fact that I’ve become so conservative as I’ve aged. I feel like I need to get back to my roots as a provocateur. People ask after me from time to time through my wife, and the reason I haven’t been around people as much as I used to be is an intricate matter to describe. I guess you could say part of me has given up in life. And the more I descend into this abyss, the less interesting I become. I’d never want to subject anyone else to my problems, and therefore I stay away during times of personal difficulty. In the back of my mind I know I’m capable of so much more than this.

So what really happened to me? I isolated myself to the point of mind numbing boredom. I spend most days inside my head, and I can’t get out of my own way. I guess you could say I’m going through a depression — something that’s bothersome to admit when you’re on the highest prescribable dosage of Zoloft possible. Do I have treatment resistant depression? Am I going through a midlife crisis? I think the most noticeable thing to me has been those who haven’t expressed any inkling of curiosity as to where I’ve been. In this sense I freely admit I want attention.

But I get it. Some people don’t want to get mushy. And if they’re aware that I’m an attention whore, they know not to feed into it. That’s the only thing it could possibly be. Either that or they never really cared about me to begin with, and I was nothing more than an acquaintance to them (if that). I suppose you could say I’m keeping score, because I am. Nothing I do lately feels good enough. And after skimming through some archives of old work, that feeling is compounded tenfold. I have to find a way to rid myself of this inferiority complex, or it’ll be a death sentence. Of that I’m certain.

I don’t even know what drives me anymore, beyond wanting to be proactively creative, as opposed to a consumer of the slop they call entertainment today. Maybe it’s just me, but it feels like we’re living in a creative lull right now. And I’ve written about this before. What was the last piece that moved you? I’m talking books, music — and my least favourite — film? Everything is either a revamp or can be considered mindless pandering to political correctness. And it’s hurting the arts in a big way. Where is the truly transgressive work that offends, makes one question, or even think?

It feels like nobody has any ideas anymore. Like the people who’re meant to entertain us are afraid to rock the boat. Neutered, safe work is not something I’ve ever wanted. But here we are, in the midst of it. And I’m just one big ball of negativity, to boot. Everything I think and feel is an attack on something else, either evasive or trite. It’s almost like I expect the world to fall in line with my stodgy world view, one which has long since died in the trenches of the culture war. I don’t know what’s considered cool. I don’t have my finger on the pulse. And I avoid everything like the plague.

There’s no good reason for me to be this critical of the world and what it offers. Who do I think I am, anyway? I’m just a dissatisfied, grumpy, stubborn mess. I’m somehow under the impression that I’m moving the needle when nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing I do resonates, my jokes have long since have their day in the sun, and now they’re considered grounds for being cancelled, tarred, feathered, or publicly drawn and quartered. I’m a relic of the past and I need to come to terms with it, but it’s so hard. I guess this is what happens when you read the wrong books.

Dumbing things down is not in my makeup. And my refusal to acquiesce to the new normal is treated as a personal affront by the new school. I think back to the past often, reliving my youth, and wince accordingly. All I seem to have left are feint memories of the good times myself and my old friends had. But I’ve got no good reason to feel this stuck. I have a life some would envy — others, not so much — but if those who are envious really knew how horrible I felt inside their sense of jealousy would evaporate. Don’t get me wrong though, I’m not looking for anyone’s pity.

Lately I’ve almost bordered on braggadocious about how happy and fulfilled I am. But this is the other side of the coin, the one that is completely unrelated to personal happiness. You see, you can have all the things you’ve ever wanted in life, but it never seems to be enough. It always feels like the grass is greener elsewhere. We yearn for the things we don’t have, no matter what they might be. And the only thing I don’t have is a sense of confidence in myself. It’s long been dashed. I’m an incessantly insecure person, and it feels like that’s never going to change. I just don’t see how it will.

When I look back on my life — as you can tell I often do — I realise that there were a lot of seeds of doubt planted in my head by toxic personalities. People who had the audacity to call me their friends. And honestly, I don’t know if they ever really were. That might be my paranoia talking, but I’m almost certain they spoke ill of me behind my back. I lacked too much self-awareness to not be the topic of their conversation. But what scares me even more is if I wasn’t referred to at all. See? There I go again, wanting attention, despite it being bad. I wish I didn’t crave it, but I always have.

I often think about the things people have told me in confidence about others we know mutually. Then I put myself in their shoes, and I feel as if it just isn’t fair. More often than not it’s a little bit of seemingly harmless gossip, but for me it goes deeper. It indicates that if the individual concerned has done it to them, it’s only a matter of time till it’ll be done to you. Most people float through life thinking people’s intentions are pure, that they can take stuff at face value and mosey along. But there is a rude awakening lying in wait for them. People aren’t altruistic. They’re very untrustworthy.

You can’t depend on anyone, really. They’ll disappoint you more often than not, let you down, and flake out. The greater good has been disregarded in service to people’s convenience. They do what feels good, not what’s right. It might sound like a gloomy outlook on life, but you know it’s true. If you do however find a person who is honourable, hold on to them for dear life. A good indication is if they defend you in your absence. You’ll obviously have to get the message relayed second-hand, but if you pay close enough attention you can detect a good egg. But our judgements are skewed.

Often the perception we have of our image or how people see us is inaccurate. We like to believe that we’re more adept, skilled and talented than we are. Then you get those who are under the impression that nothing they do is good enough. And that’s me. Is it fair to say that I might be wrong? Only an impartial observer could really say. I’ve met arrogant little men who have an air of imagined superiority to them, but I’ve found when you hit the right pressure points, they crumble. Learning this skill depends on a keen eye and a strategic edge. Both of which are difficult to attain.

I've noticed a trend. A lot of people give a lot of unsolicited advice about writing. But when you look at their body of work — other than this tendency to want to guide others they have no business guiding — their content falls flat. And yes, I just referred to it as content, because that’s exactly what it is. So what separates a legitimate piece of writing from mere content? Simply, it’s longevity. Will it apply well to somebody out of the context in which it was written? And is it timeless? More often than not, the answer is no. Now I’m not saying I don’t create content, I’m saying I aim higher.

Whether or not I fall short of that is for the reader to decide. Despite our best intentions as creatives nowadays, we need to come to the realisation that almost everything we post online is content. If an artist slaves away on a painting, and the end result is a photo of it uploaded to social media, it immediately becomes content. There’s something about experiencing art in person that heightens the stakes. It is then that it is seen in the context of a gallery co-signing its legitimacy. And if you think about it deeper — while this is a peculiar premise — it is most certainly a sound observation.

Now, I hate coming off like a snob, but I’ll take my lumps. The internet has cheapened what could potentially be great art, and turned it into something you scroll past. Unlike in person, when you’re confronted with the actual object itself. In this way, replicas have come to replace what is authentic. Nobody values digital media the same way they do physical media. Digital media feels impermanent, and almost throwaway. While physical media engages a large majority of ones senses. You can touch vinyl, sniff it, and hold it. The same goes for books. And this, to me, is important.

For those who’ve grown up in a world where the absence of physical media is rife, it makes me wonder how they process what they consume. The excitement can’t be there when receiving a digital download. And I say this all while publishing e-books. I know nothing can replace the genuine article. I’ll just come out and say it, the books I’m most proud of publishing have all gone to print. So where does this leave the future of art, literature and music? If everything is becoming digital, we don’t truly own anything, really. Therefore it’s a case of easy come, easy go. Is there hope?

We’ve seen a slight resurgence of physical media making a comeback, but it’s often treated as some kind of special, rare, merch bundle that is limited to only so many copies. This has to be because it involves risk, compared to posting something online, which can hardly be considered real publishing. Let’s face it, the large majority of people don’t buy physical media anymore. They just don’t. Only collectors and purists do. However, it’s not all gloom and doom. Now more than ever before it’s easier to get ones work out there with the help of the internet. And this creates opportunities.

But to what end? You can get your stuff out into the public, but actually having them reach into their pocket and buy what you’re selling is a whole different conversation. This is where the drawback comes in. What good is blowing up, getting attention, or being famous when you’re still broke? There is no upside. You’re now seen as something of a success with no earnings to show for it. In this way, the internet is actually killing the arts, all round. I understand why people don’t buy e-books. But it’s the low overhead that’s appealing, and the ease of publishing that’s the draw, for those who write them.

A lot of what I’m saying is unpleasant to consider, and I won’t deny that. But it’s the reality of the world we live in today. So there’s two things going on here. One, people don’t value digital media the way they do physical media. And two, physical media is being overlooked in service to digital. It’s a peculiar state of affairs to say the very least, but one phrase comes to mind immediately: you’ll own nothing, and you’ll be happy. Think about the subscriptions any given person has today — they’re all for digital services. If you go through your bank statement and add it up, you might be shocked.

Then again, it’s the new normal. We’re chronically online. We think we need these things, and therefore we pay through the nose for them. It’s only when we’re down to the wire at the end of the month that we even consider cancelling a subscription of some sort. Because most people are living pay cheque to pay cheque (in case you haven’t noticed). But no amount of bellyaching about the way things are will make them change. It’s just interesting to analyse human behaviour in this instance. How did we get to a place where we paid for things we can’t even touch or feel? We’ve been duped.

I remember getting a CD for Christmas one year, and opening up the booklet inside almost immediately. I wanted to read the lyrics in there. I didn’t go to Genius to look them up like I do now. And when an artist I adore releases a new album today, I go straight to YouTube to listen to it. But the excitement isn’t there. It’s just not the same. And the state of music is appalling now, anyway. Nothing sounds original, and the basest negativity of the human race is celebrated in it all. And while I get that sex sells, I don’t think music videos should amount to soft porn. Damn, I’m getting old.

Whatever it is the music industry did to Hip Hop is shameful, too. In a genre where real lyricism and technical ability were once championed, what we hear now is a far cry from all that. The issue is that Hip Hop infiltrated the Pop charts, and they became one and the same, with the commercialisation of an art form that had its roots in subverting mainstream tastes. The whole endeavour is very cannibalistic and off-putting, but I’ll just continue to reminisce on the good old days and try ignore the dreck that’s being served up today. I grew up in the golden age of Hip Hop.

Another thing that has long since disappeared off the charts is Rock in any form whatsoever. And that’s an indication of where the head space of kids today lies. They’re not interested in fuddy duddy stuff like guitars and real instruments. But playing those very instruments is what used to make someone a musician. I’m in no way trying to infer that Rock needs to make a comeback or anything of the sort, but I know I grew up on some Rock, and it moved me in ways other genres didn’t. If you had to press me on my tastes, I’d probably err on the side of the experimental acts and not pure Rock.

Collecting books by authors I love is something I enjoy doing. While I could buy audiobooks or Kindle editions, I value having a physical library. I want to be able to interact with the object itself, turn the pages — but one thing I won’t do is mark books up. I’ve never understood that practice. It seems sacrilegious to me. And I get that people like taking notes — and it speaks to interacting with the work, like I said — but can’t you use a notebook alongside the actual book instead? I guess this speaks to my involvement in the comic book industry, where “mint condition” is a very real thing.

All throughout history we wrote physical letters, bought records and collected books. To have that all go away in service to the digitisation of media, to me, is incredibly sad. But the internet is the go-to place these days, and so it’s only natural that it’d override all those other activities. Receiving an email doesn’t feel the same as getting something in the post. It’s reduced to yet another annoying notification. The biggest scam that was ever pulled on us was renting out space in the cloud. I don’t mean to rain on anyone’s parade, but it irritates me to no end. I just want to log off for a couple hours.

Every morning when I get up, I dread turning on my cell phone. I have no idea what new notifications, texts or calls I’ll get. It creates a type of uneasy anticipation and anxiety. If I could live without a phone I would. Being able to be contacted is the bane of my existence. Not even a dumb phone allows you to escape ones dreaded ring tone, whatever it may be. Perhaps I need to go live on a remote island somewhere, and disappear. Maybe then I’ll feel less tethered to the constant interruptions associated with modern living. Fortunately, most days I come away unscathed. But it’s the looming unknown that destroys an semblance of peace.

The irony of me writing this for public consumption online is not lost on me. But the more time one is able to spend time offline is the new flex. Just about all of the people that are responsible for social networks or instant messaging apps have on thing in common: they’re chronically offline. Many of them don’t even allow their children to use the internet. So the question then becomes, what do they know that we don’t? And why do they cap their very own usage of these platforms?

I’ve become less interested in what unfolds on the internet over time. There were patches of my life in which I indulged fully. But now? Not so much. While it boils down to personal preference, I think these vehicles drive our dopamine levels up, and that’s never healthy. The less you stimulate that part of your brain that is responsible for the pleasure centres the better. In my most humble opinion. Anything that jacks you up is bad, really. Just like the twenty-four hour news cycle. Pass.

Mind you, I didn’t always feel this way. I’ve spent countless hours online, using social media and instant messaging throughout my life. It’s only a recent change I’ve made — cutting back on all that. I slowly came to the realisation of how pointless and mind numbing it all is. But there are those who swear by being reachable at all hours, and seem to post every intricacy of their lives on social media. The way I see it, they’re only doing what everyone else is doing, so they don’t think it’s bad.

But then you get people like me. People who always had this nagging sensation in the back of his mind of how hollow it all is. What I did was proactively replace that consumption time with creative time, and this is how I’ve managed to evade getting caught in the trap of a carefully curated online presence. Arguably, writing platforms such as the ones I use could be considered a form of social media. But we as writers like to pretend that isn’t the case. Because it makes us feel better.

If you’re one of those people who is struggling with social media addiction I encourage you to break free. To wean yourself off the teat of everything you think it gives you. Social media doesn’t make anyone feel less alone — in fact, it magnifies the feeling of loneliness — and it could isolate you even further. You might think I’m being extreme, and that social media is just harmless fun, but I’d like you to ask yourself a question. Who are you posting your content for? That’s right. Other people.

And why is it so important that you document your life online? Are you hoping to craft a narrative that doesn’t exactly align with reality? Do you want people to think of you as wealthy, successful, and happy? Instead, maybe you should focus on actually building wealth, succeeding at something, and finding happiness, all in real life. But that’s too hard for most people. They want to paint a particular picture, and often it’s a fantasy. It’s very confusing to me, pondering why people do this.

Social media might be feeding those parts of ourselves one would rather not. Narcissism is rife on the internet, and you know why? Because you can show people any part of yourself that you wish. And often times people want to put their best foot forward. But why would there be anything wrong with that, you might ask? Because when we can literally edit out the low points of our lives and home in on all the good parts. It just isn’t an honest depiction of who we are or what’s actually going on.

I know people who’ve been on social media ever since it was invented. I on the other hand was always in and out, until I finally decided enough was enough and it wasn’t serving me in any positive way. Think about all that time we waste online. Then think about all those things we’ve been meaning to get around to. Our bookshelves are stacked, yet we never pick up a novel. Instead, we doom scroll through hours and hours of slop, infecting our minds with everything we aren’t.

Believe it or not, I don’t begrudge anyone using social media. I just know it’s not for me. And if the tech bros swear off it, shouldn’t that be enough of a tell? What we feed our minds is so important. Like food, we need nutritious information that satiates our system. Not an instant influx of images, videos and shit posts that entice us to tap or click on them. I have more respect for my mind than that. But perhaps my opinion is skewed. Maybe in some way social media gives certain people a feeling of community.

The only problem is it’s most often a hollow sense of community. Because no one is really there for you when you need them. Everyone seems to be competing for attention, likes and shares. We’re in a fallen state, and I realised some time ago that if I didn’t make a change myself I’d literally be getting dumber every day. Reading books is a whole lot different, because it forces you to think. To use your imagination. And once we lose that, all hope is lost. Social media isn’t a replacement for reality.

I’m not expecting anyone to award me a medal for walking away from social media. It’s a highly personal choice, and one that only you can make. And just because I don’t use it doesn’t mean it makes me any more intelligent than the next person. I’m not trying to infer that I’m superior for bucking the system. All I’m doing is warning of the danger it poses to our ability to think critically. When was the last time you saw something deeply thought provoking on a social network?

They don’t even show you the content your followers post — they show you highly suggestive posts in order to get you to buy stuff you don’t need or spread misinformation all while labelling it a form of journalism. I’ve heard people that I’ve challenged make excuses about why they use social media. More often than not they’re flimsy justifications for something that’s highly addictive. If you thought nicotine was hard to quit, try this. The problem is most social media users can’t imagine a world without it.

Why that’s such an issue for me is because they might acknowledge the harm it’s doing to them but they can’t seem to stop. Then you get those types who refuse to acknowledge that it does any harm, and trying to convince them otherwise is a fool’s errand. The reason I like spending time offline is because I have a lot of creative projects I intend to bring to fruition, and social media simply splits my focus. I get incredibly overwhelmed with the ease people have to contact me, and I just ghost everybody.

I’m not perfect, and I’d never pretend that I am. To me the ultimate luxury is how little time I can spend online a day. Now, that might sound really unusual to you, but think about it a little more. Are you comfortable with all your business being out there in the open? We all know social media is free, but all that means is that we’re the product. You pay a price for it: your privacy. Is there anything on your profile that could get you in hot water down the line? Because corporations look at that stuff now.

Whenever a person is not on social media, no one has a reference point for them. They can’t stalk you or figure you out. Your ex can’t look you up and see who you’re with. Instead, people are forced to pick up the phone and talk to you directly, or hope to bump into you in person. We as humans exhibit certain patterns of behaviour that can be studied over time. Our opinions become dangerous in the wrong context. How many times have you seen a public official’s old tweets come back to bite them?

My advice would be to clean up your online presence. But maybe you don’t care. Maybe you think I’m being severely paranoid and that I’m just some nutjob that looks into things too deeply. There is a way to scrape your data trail from the internet. It takes time and effort, but it can be done. If you want to continue using social media, that’s your choice. But mark my words, nothing good can come of it. Your information is being captured and stored for future reference. It’s an information mining mission, and one only we can do anything about.

I heard through the grapevine that ever since they turned CERN off time has slowed down to a more natural pace. People are saying it could just be placebo, but then again certain folks are starting to notice more Mandela Effects. But I personally don’t think time has ever been as linear as we imagine it to be. I think it stretches, waxes and wanes, and the same twenty-four hours that passes in a day could quite possibly amount to any other duration of time one could imagine. Then the question arises, are we screwing around with the time space continuum and tearing holes in reality?

It might not be as crazy a theory as it seems on its face. Now I’m not about to get into the intricacies of what CERN is or how it works — because that particular train of thought doesn’t interest me — what I will say, however, is that the people responsible for it are probably not aware of the impact this elaborate project is actually having. Just because they’re scientists doesn’t mean they’re level headed or not engaging in something they otherwise shouldn’t. We seem to trust people in white coats as if their attire gives them free rein to do whatever they wish. Perhaps it’s time we said no.

Everyone has felt it before. When a day drags on as if it surely can’t just be another day. And then, when you don’t want something to end, time slips through your fingers. These are not just cognitive tricks our psyche is playing on us. Instead, they’re very real clusters of time speeding up or slowing down. We all know that if a cell is observed under a microscope it acts differently than when it’s simply left to its own devices, so maybe time acts similarly. I don’t know anything about science, and my scepticism of it doesn’t amount to much more than pointing out a few of its inconsistencies.

All I know is that time doesn’t occur the way we think it does. I have no other evidence than the anecdotal, but to me, that’s enough to spur on further intellectual curiosity. Just because we measure time in a human way doesn’t make it anything more than a proverbial yardstick. I do believe we’re able to influence time to move faster or slower, too, just like CERN has. And the irony isn’t lost on me, because I know how kooky this all sounds. But I’m not one who is drawn to conspiracy theories under normal circumstances. This situation merely brought my attention to something very unusual.

Mass consciousness experiments have been conducted in the past, and have revealed that we as human beings are able to influence the weather. Is this what the power of prayer really is about? A focused intention applied in one concentrated spot? In which case, we could come to the conclusion that we’re able to influence a lot more than we’ve been led to believe we can. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not questioning the existence of God, rather, I’m saying perhaps he endowed us with more power than we even realise. It all seems to come down to influence, intention and ones will.

This is a strangely magical a premise. I mean, where have we heard it before? That’s right. From Aleister Crowley himself. There are tons of books that explore the process of influence. How to influence others, how to get them to do what you want them to, how to affect change in real time. But it seems to be something we struggle to master as human beings. Of course, there are self-appointed experts selling their advice on how to go about it all, and that list continues to grow. So if we have this innate power to influence something as arbitrary as the weather, what else can we do?

I believe we can create — albeit on a smaller scale — what God creates. We can generate life, overcome illness, and even inspire radical change. Why then is it so difficult for us to get out of our own way? Because we only use a small percentage of our capabilities. We’re lazy. We don’t believe in ourselves enough, and we suffer from a very low self-esteem. Of course, that remark is not reserved for the truly arrogant, but arrogances isn’t created in a vacuum. You have to lack something innate to lash out at others and believe yourself superior. But it’d be foolish to think we’re all equal.

Competition exists for a very good reason, and that reason is to hone a craft. This idea of all men being equal is a particular bug a boo of mine. How can someone who lacks initiative or the desire to learn be on the same footing as an overachiever? They simply can’t. And this is why it’s so important to strive in life. To strive for more. To not only hope and dream, but to put those things in action. To create. When it comes to my own life, competition is what gets me out of bed in the morning. For the express purpose of outdoing my intellectual opponents. It’s what gives life colour.

If you ever thought I was just some Pollyanna, go along to get along type you’re sorely mistaken. I want the conflict. I want to wage psychological warfare. The mind is too incredible a thing to waste on trivialities. We must do our level best to outwit, outsmart and outplay our rivals. Playing it safe should never be an option. Now, my dressing down on the concept of time doesn’t mean that people are all experiencing different timelines. What it means is we all have the same supposed twenty-four hours a day at our disposal, but that time expands and contracts on a mass scale. Not individually.

If I were to collect like Kali’s severed heads all the missed opportunities and excuses people make, I’d have a pile of them so high they’d occupy an entire continent. My question is why do we do this to ourselves? To justify failure, or take a nap instead, when you could be killing it is just pathetic to me. One needs to do a complete overhaul of their lives in order to rid themselves of their failings, and then some. Hustle culture might not be for you or I, but our untapped potential is tragic. There’s no other way to say it. Wasting time when you only have a finite amount of it is the source of the suck.

There are plenty people out there who’ll tell you to not be too hard on yourself, and talk about self-love like it cancels out a lack of effort. What I’ve noticed is that people would rather spend all their precious time on processes that serve to evade responsibility, rather than just rolling up their sleeves and getting things done. And I’m no stranger to this feeling, but when I catch myself doing it I make sure to correct course immediately. Being gentle with yourself and being a layabout share a fine line. We can’t expect to live unremarkable lives and expect remarkable results. That’s insanity.

Every day that passes fills me with more trepidation about what the future holds. And if I don’t hold myself accountable for my own actions no one else will. People will tell you to chill out. To relax. To just take the afternoon off. But mastery comes with tremendous amounts of compounded effort, that which we either subject ourselves to or are subjected to. But the most valuable type comes from within, not from others insisting you must. I personally can’t be motivated by anything outside of myself. I just don’t work that way. But we’re all different, and possess our own methods to achieve.

What the unreliability of time has taught me is to be more intentional and to work harder. Because I can’t guarantee that I’ll have the same amount of time today as I do tomorrow, I must make hay while the sun shines. You might think I’m all wet, and that this business of time not being linear is all hooey. And that’s your right. But the way I see it is as a motivating factor. Almost everything is that way. I channel my frustrations into my professional efforts, and therefore make lemons out of lemonade. You might have a different way of seeing the world, and that’s fine. But this is how I see mine.

Once they do flip CERN on again it’s anyone’s guess what it might do to our concept of time. All I know is that they’re messing with stuff they have no right to, but if it means the apocalypse is around the corner, bring it, I’m not afraid. I’ve made my peace with the Lord. I know where I’m going where I die. I live a decent live and don’t encroach on the freedoms of others. The same can’t be said for our leaders, but politics and corruption were born to each other. Never in a million years could any of us comprehended where the future would take us, but it took us there anyway. Look at your watch. Or look at the clock. Is time running out for you too?

I love what I do so much that every time I have an obligation outside of the private little world I’ve built I crumble. I’m instantly annoyed, disinterested, and it kills my buzz. I guess when you evade reality long enough the moment you’re forced to deal with it feels like an assault on your psyche. I don’t say any of this proudly, mind you. But I wouldn’t say it’s something I’m ashamed of either. It just is what it is. For instance, I have to attend a get together in the next few days and I’m dreading it. Something must be very wrong with me. Most people seem to enjoy these things. So why can’t I?

My grandfather always used to say you should do five things you don’t like doing a day. I do none. Instead, I explore the inside of my head incessantly, fascinated by its inner workings. But to what end? I don’t seem to have an overall goal or finish line. I just engage in the things that fulfil me most. I know I’m incredibly privileged to have this kind of life, and there are others who’d kill to have the same. But they don’t. They have to deal with a lot of stuff they’d rather not. I made a decision many years ago that this is how I’d live. And then I took the necessary steps to get there.

So here I am. Twenty-four hours a day, all mine. But when I have no other choice but to waste two of those hours on something I’d rather not, I throw my toys out the cot. How immature. That’s almost the definition of a first world problem. I think the underlying issue is that none of it is ever enough. When you can have and do anything you want whenever you want you become selfish. But I justify that by knowing I’m not responsible for a child or pet. Perhaps I need to think about things outside of myself, and what I want. But why should I? If my wife is happy and so am I, no problem.

You probably think I’m complaining about inconsequential things. You might think I’m self-absorbed. And maybe I am. But like Narcissus, I can’t step away from my reflection in the lake. It’s too compelling. Some would call what I’m doing quintessential navel-gazing, and they’d encourage me to go volunteer at a soup kitchen or give back in some way. But I find what I do terribly important. We need thinkers. We need the arts. They are the antidote to the dreary everyday humdrum most are subjected to. I’m not about to put an end to my solipsism. It’s a great comfort.

Despite my self-involvement I’m a decent son and a loving husband. I just have this never ending fascination with being in my own head. And the only way I’d see it as a problem is if it were harming someone. But I’m not. I pretty much keep to myself most of the time. It might be some type of severe introversion, but even that is hard to accept, because when I’m around others I can be quite extroverted. Right now I’m trying to think up some ways I can get out of this commitment, which involves leaving the house. I could possibly invent an excuse. But nothing is coming to mind.

Anyway, enough of that for now. Recently, I received some feedback on a piece I wrote. The reader admitted to giggling all the way through my article. And while they admitted this to me, they were under the impression that I wasn’t trying to make anyone laugh. I see it a different way. If I can make someone laugh with my words, I’m stoked. The piece involved my critique of Ryan Holiday’s brand of stoicism. The reader went on to say that Holiday inadvertently turned me off that path and into a Machiavellian. I can’t disagree. After all, I was championing Robert Greene all throughout.

This all got me thinking about the world view I’ve come to hold. Unlike the stoics, I don’t necessarily believe in the virtues of good deeds. I acknowledge the dark side of human nature, and will readily admit to utilising strategic dishonesty to achieve my own ends. This is what makes me something of a Machiavellian. I almost treat Greene’s books as scripture. They are a big part of my life, and I refer to them constantly. What I find so interesting is that Holiday was Greene’s research assistant for a time, and perhaps beneath all his faux stoicism he’s really pulling the wool over all our eyes.

It may or may not be true, of course. But what a brilliant way to go about marketing oneself. Hiding behind virtue. Why I suspect this could be what Holiday is up to is because he’s written a few books on marketing. And marketing involves deceit on every level, unquestionably. I’ve never been good at marketing. I suck at it. I’m a cartoonist who self-publishes his own books and sales are always unimpressive. I can spend all day drawing and writing, but when it comes time to sell something that’s when I fold. In this way I’m an utter failure. Or maybe I’m just not making work that connects.

I suspect it could be a bit of both, but this idea of marketing is starting to pique my interest. The thing that gets me is that today, marketing has to involve social media. And I only use one social network (as well as two writing platforms). Could that be considered social media? I’m not so sure. Even though I have a surface level interest in marketing through Holiday I doubt I’d ever do anything with it. I’m a very cognitive personality. As I said, I live in my head a lot. This is why I’m drawn to intellectual sparring rather than physical exertion. To me it’s exercise, and it’s all mental.

One of the luxuries I enjoy as part of my day is a two-hour afternoon nap. I take one most days, and it’s glorious. I find I’m productive in the morning and the evening, but not so much in the afternoon. So I sleep! And let me tell you, it clears out a lot of mental build up. Somehow my mind is wiped clean after the rest, and then I’m ready for my second session of action. I’m currently working on a book that collects a whole lot of my short comics and one longer story in it. It will of course be self-published — because what publisher is going to touch me? Not a single one. Not that I’ve ever tried.

Things like this don’t bother me. Questions like, “Who will read my book?” or “Will anyone buy it?” In this way I make the work for me. And with my aversion to selling, of course most of them are going to lie in a box. I did hit on something ingenuous, however. There are other people who sell books at fares. So I ship my books to them and they handle all the work for me. Then I collect a cheque. My wife calls it working smarter, not harder. Honestly, I have a lot to say about the world. But in this politically correct age I’m not sure there’s a place for the values (or lack thereof) I hold.

Unfortunately in the arts, one is most often surrounded by people who are not educated on politics. Or they are, but they’re on the wrong side of history. I despise Karl Marx, but that doesn’t necessarily mean what you think it does. I like to use common sense, when it comes to shaping policy. I believe in freedom. And anything that stands in the way of that is evil to me. I don’t believe the government should be involved in every aspect of our lives. In fact, I wish they’d stay the hell out of mine. But that automatically brands me as some kind of kook, I’m sure. Not that I even care.

Despite my political beliefs I’m open to other’s views, and I enjoy hearing the reasoning behind why they believe the way they do. I also have a fascination with the world’s different religions, and the same principle applies there. Organised religion can cramp ones style, sure, but we all have to believe in something at the end of the day. Most people are raised to hold certain beliefs and simply accept them and carry on tradition. Then you get those who like to question things and form their own ideas about the nature of creation. I’m sceptical, but simultaneously infinitely curious on this.

The more I think back to why I fell into the deepest pit of depression — something I’ve since been treated for — the more I realise it might have had to do with the oppressive home environment I grew up in. You’d think after that I’d adopt totally opposite beliefs to those of my parents, but that didn’t actually happen. I still value the beliefs I was raised with, barring the Catholic guilt that came with it all. I was made to feel like there was something wrong with me. That I was going down the wrong path. This was because of the nature of some of my artwork. And to this day it affects me.

Breaking out of those patterns of self defeat were difficult, and they surely left a mark, but I wouldn’t change a thing if I could go back and do it all over again. I see these events in my life as lessons that I needed to learn — and when you frame it in that context you really can’t be hurt by it. You strip it of its power over you. I didn’t grow up in an abusive home, but there were other problems. Things my mother protected me from. It’s only now that I look back and realise what was actually going on. Life can be brutal and unforgiving, but there’s also a beauty to it all. I won’t choose victimhood.

Lately, I’ve been sitting in silence or lying, staring at the ceiling a whole lot. It’s what I do in my down time, that I usually reserve for reading the stack of books I have on my bed stand. But I’ve come to terms with it. After all, it might just be what I need right now. In the weeks leading up to this unintended practice I suffered bouts of severe stress and anxiety, all related to the fear of having my wife torn from my arms. All because she’s an immigrant, and is struggling to obtain citizenship. Currently we’re undergoing a great deal of xenophobia in my part of the world, which is maddening.

When we first got married I foolishly assumed that we’d have a legal right to be together, but in my country that turned out not to be so. Whenever we go through this process of getting her papers in order I become extremely distressed. And that’s because the government keeps refusing to issue her even so much as temporary residence. Inadvertently, my creative pursuits take a back seat, and all I can focus on is securing the legality of her presence. In this instance being unable to write, draw or read is the least of my problems. As a man, I of course feel powerless against these draconian laws.

So I think my interest in reading waned in the aftermath of all this stuff. I can’t say why, but I’ve learned not to question why I feel the way I do at any particular moment, and rather just go with the flow. Maybe I need the quiet reflection. Perhaps that is what I need at this time. Because beating myself up over the fact that I can’t create never helps. So I’m learning to be more forgiving of myself, and making room for inaction. Something interesting happens when you’re alone with your thoughts, I’ve realised. All of a sudden a sense of calm washes over me. I can relax and breathe.

This is a far cry from how I would’ve handled something like this in the past. Back when I was on the bottle, I’d have gone on a binge drinking marathon for days until I inevitably collapsed in exhaustion. But that was never healthy. I find, as I’m maturing, certain former friends are still trapped in self-destructive cycles that worsen their moods to the point of me not wanting to be around them. The time for partying is over, in my opinion. We’re not in university any longer. It isn’t cool to be hungover anymore. We’re grown adults now, with responsibilities, and with bills to pay.

I can’t seem to get over the envy my marriage has evoked in these types. They see me doing better, making healthier choices, and instead of following suit, they’re jealous of my happiness. It makes me wonder if they ever were my friends. I can’t help it my wife is not only gorgeous but funny. It’s not my fault these losers can’t get a date. Maybe if they worked on themselves a little someone might take an interest in them. A life of debauchery only goes so far. Sure, one can hide behind self-depreciation for a while, but after a time it wears thin. We all have demons, some more than others.

The hardest part of all this is you can’t save anyone from substance abuse. They have to make that decision on their own. Another such acquaintance of mine is dabbling in hard drugs and it resulted in him being so disorganised that he completely blew his chance at a business venture — which included me. The entire ordeal proved so incredibly frustrating that I removed my name from the project altogether. I say all this to say that I’m witnessing people I once cared about drowning all around me. Numbing themselves with substances, and watching their aspirations circle the drain.

But it doesn’t even seem to register. Each day is another wasted opportunity. And here I am sitting in my chair and contemplating things, stone cold sober. Sobriety being the greatest gift I could’ve ever given myself in life. My reclusive nature has been the butt of a few jokes, and I’ve let it slide. At least when I’m not around I don’t have to tolerate bumbling idiots under the influence, getting behind the wheel and taking their lives into their own hands. I’d rather not be involved in that, thanks. I wonder why my life took such a different turn to theirs. Does it come down to choices?

Let’s face it: no one chooses to be an alcoholic or a drug addict. Or do they? I’d say it’s a pretty deliberate effort at this point. No one puts a gun to their heads and says imbibe. They’ve done it to themselves. So here’s where I show little sympathy for the issue. Underpinning the entire affair might be grief, loss or any number of things. A bad breakup. But we as adults have to face these problems and owe it to ourselves not to run away from them. Why is that so hard? I’ve never allowed myself to say I have an addictive personality. I don’t. But I know people say it’s a disease.

My late father drank himself to death. That was reason enough for me to stop before things got too bad. But I weep for those who are trapped in this perpetual cycle of escapism. Because that’s what it is — they’re all running away from something, possibly themselves. I instead chose to take a long hard look at the habits that were eroding my sense of self and put an end to them. Not being able to hold a pencil after a night out was enough of a wake up call for me to stop. But perhaps not so much for others. My art is terribly important to me, and anything that interferes with it must go. Simple.

Plus being sober is probably one of the most fun things I’ve ever done with my life. I like to experience reality in high definition, not on a blurry, out-of-focus screen. And that’s what substances do to you. They interfere in the beauty of life. One of the excuses I like to use for not drinking or using recreational drugs is my being on psychiatric medication. Now that’s a get out of jail free card if there ever was one. Some people are too stupid to understand, but they’ve never bothered me too much. I also know highly functional alcoholics, who hide their habit beneath their financial wealth.

I think my interest in self-help was born out of trying to be a better version of myself. Back when I was younger I had an aversion to such things, and a rebellious nature to boot. But once you do a complete overhaul of your life, you start looking for patterns and applicable systems of success. Nothing you read alone will probably ever have much of an impact — because living it out in real life is always a better way to learn. But I like to study psychological strategies, then apply them and see how they work in real time. But some of my favourite methods of engagement are controversial.

If you seek to make an impact on others, want power, or simply yearn for success you can’t split your focus with substances. Instead of giving your all, you’ll only be giving a percentage of yourself to your life’s task, and that’ll inevitably lead nowhere. I’m not afraid to admit that I wish to influence others. I find it’s highly necessary if you are to achieve anything on this earth. But I don’t freely reveal my methods or cite my sources. That’d be giving away my power, and as an individual who very clearly wishes to leave his mark on the world, that’s just something you don’t do. It’s foolish.

These are the questions and concerns that plague me every waking moment of my life. I want to get one over on my enemies. I want to crush them totally, and make sure they can’t come back from it. And unfortunately these alcoholics and drug fiends are slowly giving me every indication that that’s exactly what they are: my enemies. They stand for nothing but a good time. I stand for sober reflection and mastery over my craft. The two are like oil and water. And while these losers have ambitions, those very ambitions are interfered with on every level by the bottle or the needle. Pass.

I surround myself with the intellectually curious, all while others are sharpening their street smarts. And I’ve lived that life before, so I know the ins and outs involved. I left the streets behind and moved to the suburbs, and I’ve never been happier. Those who are stuck in their partying phase in perpetuity have no trouble living in the city. Of course that’s where the dregs of society live, and the ease of access to substances is far greater. Here in my quiet little town we have law and order — call it boring if you want — it’s the perfect environment to live a life of sobriety, clarity, and creativity.

Some would assume that you need chaos and a steady influx of hipsters and free spirits around you to truly embody the lifestyle of an artist, but I strongly disagree. I adore my quiet life, with my wife at my side, and my art supplies in arms reach. Peace is priceless. I could’ve done so much more with my time in my younger years, but I was surrounded by parasites. Fortunately I broke free from that world, and it was the most important decision I ever made. Who said you need to live a life of free love, drug abuse and be a socialite to be interesting? I think the perception of the artists life is skewed.

You’d think that the more one writes the better they get at it, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Perhaps there is a finite amount of energy involved, and the more effort one expends the more those levels get depleted. Of course I could be totally incorrect in this assumption, in which case I’m just experiencing a creative lull. But it’s not all doom and gloom. I pour my time into a lot of different creative pursuits — so maybe the problem is that I juggle too many at a time, and then get burnt out.

That’s never stopped me, though. Because I simply won’t accept the excuse that I’ve had a bad day. Ninety-nine percent of what I create I publish. Think of it this way: what’s the use of painstakingly crafting a piece of work that never sees the light of day? You could call me an attention whore, by wanting to get my stuff out there in the world. At the end of the day I just don’t seem to make art for art’s sake. But then again, the audience comes last to me. So there’s a couple paradoxes going on.

Allow me to explain what I mean by the audience coming last. I never pander. I show up and say what’s on my mind despite what others may think or say. But I still value the audience (no matter how small mine is). In a shallow pool, almost every crevice gets noticed, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I know I’m a hard task master, and the problem I run in to is that I’m the only one I answer to. Now that’d make the average man lax, but like I said, I don’t tolerate excuses or bad days.

The truth is nobody is clamouring for my next release. But I work night and day at whatever project I have in front of me, irrespective of that fact. I don’t adhere to highfalutin terms like returns on investment or scaling. In other words I’m not a business man, I’m just an artist through and through. In fact, most of what hustle culture preaches falls on deaf ears when it comes to me. Accidentally making a few shekels is a whole other ball of wax, though. But we don’t do it for that, you and I.

We’re out to change perceptions, to challenge the status quo, to bring more interesting questions to the fore. In short, we want to change the world. But how does an anonymous artist who invests everything they have make a noticeable impact? Well, with the glut of content that’s out there today, it can be tough. I wouldn’t get discouraged, however. You are a diamond in the rough, and once people discover your talent combined with an indefatigable work ethic you’ll get your recognition.

The minute we allow our self-doubt to overshadow the level of confidence we know we have, that’s when we lose. And honestly, there are so many empty platitudes and skewed sentiments being spouted off people are searching for something real. In an age where polished raises suspicion as to whether or not you ran your work through artificial intelligence, raw is the way to go. If we are indeed made in the image of God perhaps we’re all creators in a sense. But Atheists will take issue.

While I don’t see myself as a particularly religious individual, I do acknowledge the spirit, and I think it all hinges on the notion that we’re more than we seem. If we allow others to break our spirits with their acrid vitriol that’s partly on us, because no one can harm you unless you grant them permission to. The same goes for getting offended. It takes an awful lot of work to get there. Spending time with challenging work is one of my favourite pastimes, but no one has time for that.

I can’t get over this idea that all the greatest ideas have been explored and all the best stories have already been told. And what we’re in now is a generation of remixes. When was the last time you saw something completely original? If you’ve done any reading of Jean Baudrillard’s work you might have reflected on this at one stage. He talks of the simulacra and simulation, and puts forward the solipsistic notion that everything we process as real might not be what it appears, on its face.

A lot of folks poo poo these ideas, and will encourage you to snap out of a dreamworld. They’ll say that everything just is what it is, and any questions about the nature of reality are a waste of time. But we hardly know anything about the subject. We don’t know why we lie unconscious for up to eight hours a night, so why would we know why we’re here? These are the questions I’ve gathered over the course of my life by being a curious person. Remember: interested is indeed interesting.

Revisiting some of my earlier points, many folks in the literary world wouldn’t dare break the fourth wall and write about writing. They seem to think they’re above it. And this is my problem with fiction in particular. So much is said within the bounds of the story the author tells, but they subconsciously reveal a lot more than they intend to. After all, fiction is just autobiography with a mask. This is a line I use when addressing other artists, and it is not lifted from anywhere else.

Sometimes I wonder what the point of all my hours of creating amounts to, really. Whether I’ll ever break into the publishing industry, have a book deal or stop having to self-publish. But I love doing it so much that seems like a good enough reason to keep at it. It might be nice, though, to work with someone other than myself. But I’ve had some dreadful brushes with others throughout the process of collaboration in the past. I can’t imagine working to a deadline at this point of my life. I just can’t.

For most people deadlines are a reality they can’t escape. In order to fund their creative pursuits they have to take on menial jobs and suck up being mistreated by a boss on a power trip. And while this is a tragic affair, I must say, it keeps the world turning and the economy running. So it’s a catch twenty-two in the realest sense of the term. I don’t necessarily pity those who are stuck in these positions though, because some part of them accepted this fate — whether they’re aware of it or not.

I’m of the belief that you can have any life you want, but it all comes down to sacrifice. Most aren’t willing to sacrifice their creature comforts and go hungry when the chips are down. They’d rather have a full stomach and swear fealty to some little squirt that actually possesses the capital to run a business. There are those who look for stability, and those who play with fire. Which are you? This isn’t an encouragement to go all out and starve on a park bench, it’s just a reminder of how you live.

One day when I have nothing more to say I’ll pipe down and be quiet, but until then I’ll continue shouting from the rooftops that freedom comes at a price. When it finally dawns on you that you can do anything you set your mind to it’s not that I’ll be right — it’s that you’ll have found the courage to break free. We need doctors, plumbers, and people with a trade. Who else will you call when you need their expertise? Not everyone can be an artist, and trundle through life carefree.

Or so we think. That’s the lie that’s fed to us, time and again. In the old days you took a job you hated because it provided stability, but now everyone wants to be an influencer or something that most stodgy conservative types would deem useless. However your contribution to the world is not useless. It’s very much needed. Art and literature are just as important as those other lines of work. They allow us to dream, they feed our souls, and allow us access to hidden reserves of imagination.

I mean, what could be more important than that? The world is your oyster. As much as I dislike social media it can be a tool to amplify ones voice. And if you never show anyone what you’re working on they’ll obviously never be aware of it. So I’m asking you to take a leap of faith and show the world what you’re made of. To share your art — whatever it may be — with others. It can be gruelling to open yourself up to that type of scrutiny, but the critics will always have their say.

Remember one thing. Most professional critics became critics because they couldn’t do what you can. They had an axe to grind with the world and therefore felt the urge to take things a step further and brand themselves as what amounts to a cultural parasite. Of course they’d never admit this, but therein lies the problem. Don’t be afraid to show your art. You might just change someone’s life for the better. If you have a backlog sitting in a drawer somewhere, release it today. It’s scary but worth doing.

While deception is something that’s frowned upon in polite society, we all engage in it. Think about the times you tell a white lie to protect someone’s feelings, or when you bump into somebody you’d rather not, and feel the need to put up a front. I was just reading about how to navigate such situations, and I came across a notion I vehemently disagree with: that once you’re found out, you should relent. I don’t under any circumstances think it’s wise to let anyone in on ones strategic lies.

Once you’re found out your goose is cooked, so you better be ready to deny, deny, deny. People can accept being lied to, they just don’t like anyone who is brazen about it. And if we are to face facts, everybody exhibits deceptive tactics, it just depends on how far they’re willing to take it. If one is exposed publicly as a charlatan they lose face. People have an excuse to consciously distrust them going forward. But, if you appeal to people on a subconscious level, they find it easier to accept.

Out of all the lies I’ve told in my life I’ve gotten away with most of them. And that’s because they served a purpose. See, people are willing to accept something false, as long as there is a kernel of truth thrown in. I don’t go for pie in the sky ideals and talk of virtue as being a saviour for all people. Instead, I do own up to the very actuality that certain strategies are useful in gaining the upper hand. This is different from admitting I’m a liar, because I’ve learned how to play the game.

Life is a strange enough ride without adding a layer of paranoia to it. If you’re constantly on the lookout for how people will wrong you, you’ll create unnecessary strife for yourself. It’s better to be preoccupied with your own gains, rather than that of causing others to lose. I’m not a particularly mean spirited person, but there exists competition in almost every endeavour in this life. And if my winning means someone else comes second or third place, I’ll sleep easy at night knowing this.

The types of deception I employ are not knee-jerk or off the cuff, but rather carefully planned out, in order for me to get the maximum benefit out of any situation. Most people would never admit to this, and that’s what makes me different from them. They like to think of themselves as paragons of virtue, always doing the right thing, and being morally sound and upright. But I couldn’t be less interested in who thinks I hold the right views or opinions. And in this way I’m exceedingly honest.

Honesty being the best policy, however, is a pipe dream. If you’re under the impression that everyone is as straight forward as they pretend to be, you’re sorely mistaken. While it might not be socially acceptable to operate cloak and dagger, it is appropriate when dealing with the human animal. Often those who see themselves as moral and upstanding citizens are anything but, because being that way depends on how you behave when no one else is looking. That’s when people cheat.

It’s as natural as a duck takes to water to engage in power plays throughout ones life, always seeking to line ones own nest and position themselves comfortably in order to get what they want. We’re outraged when politicians, for instance, are exposed as being corrupt, but if we were all under the type of scrutiny they’re subjected to we’d crack as well. Perhaps politics is not a great example, but it does involve liars, just like all aspects of human life. It’s just kind of concentrated in one spot.

I’ve been caught in a web of deceit before, and had my reputation tarnished because of it. And I think I weathered the storm pretty well, but an outsider would know better than I if I truly did or not. There are those who pose as friends, all while acting as spies throughout your entire association with them. These are some of the most dangerous people you’ll ever cross paths with, and the best thing to do with them is distance yourself early. While I tried, the psycho I dealt with did outwit me.

Some people are so comfortable with the performative aspect of looking like a good person all that they get almost everyone else to believe it. And I say almost everyone because the truly observant don’t fall for the mask. I guess it comes down to whether or not you’ve had sustained exposure to deceptive personality types in your life. When I was younger I trusted everyone without question. I never thought anyone would lie to me, or have bad intentions. So I was incredibly naïve in this way.

Often those who seek power will stop at nothing to achieve their ends. They have no moral compass — or they know exactly how morals work, but choose to disregard them at every turn. Unfortunately we can’t be ourselves with others most times. We have to conceal those darker parts of our identity so not as to alarm anyone else. Take for instance a family dynamic such as one in which an individual seeks approval from their parents. Often times one has to quash their beliefs.

You can’t seem to come out and say what you believe, because it jibes with what you’ve been raised to believe. You now see it a different way, but still feel you can’t say anything about it for fear of upsetting them. Therefore you put on a front that the way in which they believe is right and just. In short, you’ve put your own feelings aside, and to placate them you just nod along and agree. This creates incredible inner turmoil and interferes with your ability to express yourself. They don’t care.

A double life then begins, from that point on. You have the public perception to live up to all the while you’re seething inside with resentment. What you could do in this situation is just say what you think and accept the row that comes with it, but you’re not bold enough to live with the consequences. You risk being discarded by your own family for simply thinking different — depending on the level of severity the situation carries — and so you now become a great pretender.

There is nothing honourable in being too afraid to speak ones mind, but you feel like you’re in a catch twenty-two. Because you’ve witnessed how they react to others who think different. In this situation deception becomes an incredibly normal chain of events. While most people say that being forthright is to be celebrated, in your case it is anything but. And so we learn to lie about how we really feel. We put on an act, and it becomes exhausting over time. But your parents are ignorant.

This is just one scenario or for instance, but there are many other situations that unfold like it. You could say craving that level of acceptance from your loved ones speaks to a deeper issue, but that isn’t my concern at this very moment. What I’m really saying is we’re taught to lie even as children. We’re raised to be dishonest. And when someone admits they’re deceptive as an adult it still gets frowned upon. The way I approach my beliefs and ideas is to be open to that which opposes them.

I can then get a better handle on the pros and cons of holding such beliefs, all while expanding my level of knowledge on the things I tend to disagree with. I feel like this helps me make more well informed decisions in any given situation. A lot of how I think centres around being receptive to those who think differently. This, in my view, is healthy, and far more helpful than the example I shared about a family dynamic in which everything must be agreed with down to the last detail.

But some people don’t have that problem. They’ll say precisely what they think irrespective of what anyone else thinks. This of course is frowned upon, but the way they get away with it is by being consistently outspoken. You could say this is a boorish approach, and would lead to unpopularity, but that doesn’t seem to bother certain types. In this way, deception is the better route to go. Keep the peace. Allow others to feel safe around you, believing that you agree wholeheartedly with them.

These are just a few instances in which deception can be deemed an appropriate tool in potential interpersonal conflicts. If anyone really does know what you think they can figure you out. Better to lead them down the garden path, and strategise your coup all the way to the end. That’s when you catch them. They’ll be so confused. They’ll be caught off guard. You are not inherently a liar. You’re just playing the game. Remember: it’s business, not personal. And life is unfortunately transactional.