How many more days can I give my life to the wealth of others? How many more days must I struggle in order to give them the bounty of my effort, the blood of my time, the breath of my very existence?

When do I muster my courage to break free of this mold and smash it to the miserable bits it deserves to be? Do I have the talent to own my destiny, to speak my truth and to cast the whims of my heart out into the winds left to blow in my life?

Doubt, it seems, holds me enslaved to the master who who has played the game quite well. Fear, it seems, holds me shackled to the cornerstone of commerce squeezing out a living while casting aside a life.  But it is I who have chosen to stay a slave, and refused to tear the bindings from my weary mind.

I just wish to write, to walk a million miles in the glory of nature while sharing that journey in a million truthful words; words that act as pixels on a mental canvas, little bits of truth spun into a tapestry of bewilderment.  I wish to kiss the lips of life and tell the story in a way that sends shivers of delight down the spines of those who read it. I want to dance with my saints and demons and to share the tale of a tango lost in a whirlwind of discovery. I want to stare not in the quest that gives a master his spoils, but to see the passion within me rise with the glory of a life well lives and stories well told.

What, I ask the holy who know the answer to such things, was I born to do?

Those who raised me would certainly say I was born to struggle in the rich man’s game, engaging in the same fallacy as they that one day I will join that club. One must work for the man to become the man, or something to that effect. Many of those who I’ve endeared my confidences would certainly complain about the struggle while embracing it as an American birthright, one that often glorifies the act of busy while forgetting who we are busy for. Some who’ve I’ve entrusted my innermost feelings would suggest I just turn the key and free myself, often oblivious to the responsibilities I’ve chosen along the way.

So, the quandary is real, and the mess of truth no more makes sense as does the lie. A soul laying quietly in the meadow can only wonder what he does with the heat of day when the promise of a chilled night presents itself. Does such a man surrender to his lot in life or does he create it? Which, dear Universe, does this soul do?