Life or the world in general tries to correct itself and when that fails at least return things to how they once were, like a turtle or an hourglass flipped upside down. We are stuck in the current of the whirlpools of our own tendencies and destinies, always returning to where we were but just a little closer to the end.

Once when I was an angry boy; I read Bukowski, wrote hateful poems, dreamt of wandering the Earth, longed for violence. My disgust gave me something solid to hold on to, a stance to take, something to claim.

When I became a young man; I read Kerouac, wrote love poems, dreamt of traveling the Earth with her, longed for commitment. My cynicism was overpowered with learning how to love and more importantly how to trust.

When I became a fool; I read suicide notes, I wrote nothing, I dreamt of dying, I longed for an end.

But then I became a man and Bukowski is back on my shelf next to the bottle of wine. I want to wear my shoes ragged on the plains of our Earth. I want to be read about one day in some highschool students text book and have them not give a shit about my work. I want to always have a place to call home but be able to enjoy where I am at. I am happy but I'm still working on improving.