Holding my breath, I dive. Hitting the water, I do not swim, but sink. Down, down into the chasm of thought. Reds and pinks, violets and golds form, giving birth to a realm within. Colors shifting, worlds are born, characters are torn, pulled apart by the treachery of their environments.

A writer’s only concern is the search for truth.

As a writer, it is imperative to understand that you do not write for the current day but for the days beyond your years. Through the might of the pen, writers hold a singular ability. The power to immortalize others.

I can't stand school, but it's forced upon me.

The infantilism, stupid group projects, annoying little kids…

I'm too old for this shit. Too old to mold, too old to fool into believing strange things.

My teeth are worn, some are broken. The jaw mangled from tearing flesh and chopping meat.

The organs are old, but still working, Hearts still pumping, pushing the blood, flowing the mud beneath my skin.

It’s an open secret that writers hate each other. We nitpick, critique, judge, and sometimes quietly shit talk one another. All of this is done with class of course. Nasty little slights, strained smiles, subtle queues through body language, and perhaps in private… the occasional eye roll.

It is unusual, this enemy. It isn’t physical and yet… there it stands. So resolute in its conviction, that even time cannot wear it. Smooth to the touch, I press against it. Unimpressed, the marble slab stains white against my palms of patience. Impenetrable in its defiance, I can do nothing but wait. Wait… and wait within the hollow confines of its halls.

Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Brown, Upenn, and Cornell all rejected me. However, the real question is, do I still need a degree?

Everyone knows that the hardest part about working out, is arriving at the gym. Honesty, the same is true of writing a book. The hardest part isn’t getting past the blank page, but simply sitting at the keyboard.

Passion is term used by beginners in a field. At first they’re super excited to learn, try out new ideas, and explore a subject outside their expertise. The truth is that over time, passion erodes like rocks in a stream. It’s slow and gradual, not something that happens all at once.

A thinker is one who introspects, reviews, and contemplates the follies and successes of their own experiences. A leader is one who takes charge and makes decisions with the information made available to him at the present moment. A strategist evaluates present circumstances and extrapolates the effectiveness of their ideas into the future.

The human ego is a sword and shield. It is the protector of the psyche, and thus must be built to defend an individual's self-esteem. Without the fortress of ego, a person's concept of self can be easily made to shatter against the ridicule of others.

When I play, there is no sound.

The world becomes absent, silent, still. A shadow in the night, a cool breeze in the dead of winter.

At least… I wish it were this way.

In the mirror, only I exist. Bone covered by muscle, and muscle covered by skin. Yet beneath it all, resides a slow process. The dying of cells, the fracturing of DNA… the steady record, of my decay.

It says not a word, but sits unperturbed.

Hard as a rock, it rests in a relaxed position. In the early mornings, it cools. Waiting patiently for some poor soul to take a seat. Slide out their feet, in an attempt to get comfortable.

They hold all the secrets of the earth, these little manuscripts. Formulas and fictions, fantasies and fallibilities, books have seen it all.

Computers are cold and indifferent. A totality of silicone, transistors, wires, and chips. Powered by electricity, they hold no prejudice. No judgements to speak of. They don’t know that I’m human, can’t see my face; can’t peer into my eyes.

Writing isn’t a gift, but a skill. Something that must be practiced daily, or at least somewhat consistently over time. To be honest, I don’t write every day. Anyone who does is either a maniac or a liar.

I can stare at a shoelace in my mind, tie it, and loose it again. I can move pieces over the chess board, before swiftly forgetting where they were. I can climb a mountain, throw down stones, and freeze them midair with such precision, that I often can’t tell whether or not I’m actually there.

When it comes to self-help and self-improvement, everyone starts off on the treadmill.