The art of writing is really something magical.

Conjuring up words and sentences,

giving form to thoughts and ideas birthed in the unconscious mind.

In a sense we are all creators.

In a sense we are nothing at all.

Labels, distinctions, characterizations, classifications, nothing but words.

If we can't speak, we can't judge.

If you don't see me, I don't see you and so we hide behind masks and costumes pretending to be the people we think we are.

Underneath, we are energy.

We are not our hopes, dreams or ambitions.

We are not our collective hurt.

We are not this silverscreen masquerade.

We are a spiraling, swirling mass of the most magnificent energy waltzing along through the universe.

We are all actors on a stage fucking one another over for a chance at a bigger part, for a more important role.

A thousand tails that want to be the head.

A million sperm racing to penetrate that glorious ovum of possibility.

Realities like matryoshka dolls,

one inside of the other

inside of the other

inside of the other

ad nauseum.