As I come clean

1 10 2010

Writing a blog is like writing a sermon for an empty congregation, it’s based on faith that some how the message will get out, to whom is the big question. 

So I have confidence in you that one day some of this will create a revelation about the existence of a lesser social dynamic group, one left alone to their own devices, left to fend for themselves in the purist sense of survival known. 

I face the sun as I place a wreath upon my door, in all it’s warmth and glory I can feel a new beginning, I step down and walk away.


fall from pride

2 06 2010

A man’s tale one that has been passed down since the beginning of time, our internal Iliad, a battle of wills versus ego and pride. The more we feed on elements to satiate our own need for success the further we move along an intrepid parapet of false security. We never see the end because pride can blind and test the ability for survival. Humility is so bitter sweet to maintain as an element of modesty you must look beyond your immediate addiction. And when you fall, the return to humility runs a rampant feverish rate bordering insanity and acts of defiance. We only find humility as we are lowered into the hole of our own stench sitting broken and in despair. And even then pride still jades the recovery process, thinking immediate pleasures will expedite a full recovery, it runs deep in our marrow. Some will never make it back dying a bitter death knowing neither a full sense of confidence nor the ability to love unconditionally. The social dynamics may be the culpable party but my addiction my ID is a self imposed wanton. I languish in my daily regiment only allowing brief glimpses into my past: travels, money, lecturer, CEO, warrior, lover, husband, father….. all the former none the present. I escape only when I know you are not looking I slide unto my Jean-Marc chair (a memento from a French Aristocrat) and I open the wound I see the flaws but I do not care. I close my eyes, ease to the comfort of a good scotch, a low rolled smoke, a virtuoso playing Suite No. 1 in G minor and I am swaddled by my memories past. Undoubtedly my comfort is temporary and my dreams cut short by the aggrieving images I have left behind in my own wake of self destruction and I find myself cold and alone on a leather chair defaced by humility.