Self pity makes me sick. Our society is drenched in this disease. We are taught “poor me.” We are taught to deflect and comfort ourselves in a blanket of ineptitude. Pity has always been more offensive to me than hate. Than disdain. Than disgust. Every moment is a choice, and we convince ourselves otherwise. What are you okay with? What makes you feel okay? To learn how to lean into oneself, to search deep in the dirty places of our souls and find comfort there. That is bravery. I don’t know any way to teach other than by example. Something like faking it til you make it or until you make up your mind. Knowing what you want only goes so far. Execution is everything. Death to the parts of yourself that seek comfort out of complacency. Head first and off with it. It will always be revealed, you just don’t know when. I’ve been surprised before, I’ve been surprising too. I blow my own mind wide open and pour the contents on the table. Piece by peace the rot gets picked away. But what will be left in its place? I have no promises here. Satisfaction is not guaranteed. Just because I will doesn’t mean I won’t. You can have it all, just not always at once. And all at once. With machine like precision, the infection will be cut away. Piece by piece and in pieces. Everyone is for me and I don’t mean on my side. Which side? I am wide open space. The world stretches out in front of me and I see it for what it is. Like those special days when the moon is high in the sky but it’s still the afternoon. I don’t know what I crave but I do feel excited to find out. I feel something new. I just have to remind myself. Trust is earned, even trust in self. I am a god. Holy ground. I am coming home to myself. My hands are empty and my eyes are wet. Something about speaking in tongues. In a language I haven’t discovered yet.