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Guilty of being a romantic. No, not the flowers kind, the other. The one that’s defined as “a soulful or amorous idealist”.

I read books with characters I can relate to, ones I associate with. Bean from Ender’s Shadow, with his high intelligence and deplorable life. Shadow with his quiet intelligence and cool, calm demeanor. Hiro Protagonist from Snow Crash, with his weird ability to be in the right place at the right time - always “this close” to being the next big thing, yet somehow messing it up. And my newest love, Bukowski’s hard-drinking, fighting, womanizing alter-ego of Henry Chinaski.

I read those stories, and romanticize them. I can feel what they are going through - I know what they feel. I was them. I am them? I know of a life of hard times - living in my car, in a dumpster behind a carpet factory. I know the thrill of being rick on paper, then squandering it all away due to lack of foresight.

I know what it’s like to live hard. My father died when I was 6 weeks, raised by a bipolar mother who refuses to get help or acknowledge her problems. I know what it’s like to have to beg for $20 to be able to buy antibiotics for a double pneumonia from not taking care of yourself. I know what a soaring high, were you feel in control of everything. And crushing lows, where the only sensible way out if a bullet between the eyes.

Funny thing is, I wouldn’t change the way I grew up in a second. I fought hard for where I am, and protect it dearly. A tattoo on my shoulder is there to hide the scar tissue, given to me when I was 8, and melted butter for popcorn. The pan got to hot, and in a moment of elementary school panic, I lay it on the formica countertop, blackening and warping it. Then I know the anger in my mother’s eyes as she sees this, and takes the scalding hot pan and hits me in the shoulder with it, repeatedly. The scar is covered - time and the bright shades of red, cyan, yellow and black have covered it well - but I still carry it.

You’ll have to forgive my post, for it was written under the influence of temazepam, Red Hook ale and nicotine - but the words remain the same.

I have a slew of sleep and awake problems, and take both uppers to stay awake and downers to go to sleep. Whether it was genetic or years of prior drug abuse I know not - but I do know that I’ve come to accept my medicated faith - and even romanticize it.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t sleeping as well as I do now. To understand a ‘tortured artist’ is to be one - and 20 years of hyposomnia will indeed torture you. In an essence, these sleep aids do their job quite well - especially aided with a nightcap or two. I sleep well now, and hard. Waking easily to the alarm and ready to face the day with a vigor and resolve I never thought possible from me.

But they have taken the artist away. I’ve been published many many times throughout the years. Mostly in small trade journals with names you don’t know nor care to learn. And most … no, virtually all, of them were written before I received ‘help’ in the form of a prescribed small white capsule. Although it no longer knocks me out completely like it once did, the effects are still there - and quite strong. But instead of guiding me gently to sleep it awakens parts deep inside of me. The body becomes paralyzed - effort extreme to move. But the mind, it sharpens, and my words begin to flow as if I’m guided by a force entwined within the ether of life. It is quite rare for this, these days, but it happens - nights like now. Nights where the loft maintains a temperature just slightly higher then I wish - one that drives an ancient archaic thirst. Beer, cigarette, write. It calls to me.

I invariably answer, as I always have.

It used to be different.

I used to close my eyes at 10pm. 11pm. 2am. Without fail I’d awaken between 3 and 4am - my mind racing with a dozen thoughts - permutations of dreams interacting with past realities and future wishes.

I would sit at my desk, letting the quiet seep slowly into my skin. Feeling the aura of the ‘normal’ world surround me. Then begin to delve deep inside of myself and let the words flow.

And they would flow.

Sometimes I would race the sun, writing dozens of pages on whatever was embedded within my psyche.

Tales of drunken lust in post-apocalyptic worlds. A future of untold technological advancement, but powered by 18th century engines designed by Watt. Steam - the most powerful and unpredictable of forces - driving everything around us. The modern methods seemingly forgotten - perhaps destroyed in a technological tower of Babel.

Those days, those writings are gone now, for the most part. My prose it more predictable, more stable - reflecting who I have become.

It’s due to a special woman - a woman that makes you desire to become better not because she orders it, but the divine beauty of her spirit envelops you and you just do it. You don’t question, don’t rebel. You revel in it, letting her aura seep into you - deeper and deeper. Altering your Chi, your life force. And you better yourself - though ‘better’ is a loose term, for it all depends on the perception of you and those around you.

You better yourself. You pay your bills. You stay gainfully employed and not only do you do your job, you excel at it - letting the mystic of the cosmos guide your fingers as I you begin to write code, worshiping the digital Goddess that gives you your paycheck and, by a lesser degree, your life.

Your desires begin to temper, heated by the flames of passion then shocked by the waters of reality. You, yourself, become steel - a fine point, a sharp edge, a weapon and a work of art.

I’ve spoken to many people in my life - and very few are where they thought they would be. Most have taken a path that was much easier, or less riskier, or led by someone else.

Are you one of them?

For so long I was not. I purposely took the difficult road. I did what others said I couldn’t. I went where I felt like, when I felt like it, with little regard for anyone else. I tried to live in the now. Not thinking of the past, not thinking of the future.

I had a gut feeling, something so visceral and raw I knew it at a young age - that I wouldn’t survive to see 30. I almost didn’t - was less then a week away. But now, I’m 31. I’ll be 32 in a few months, then married the month after that. And to be quite honest, that’s who I am now. I feel comfortable in this new rule as much as I felt in my old role.

I don’t have much advice to give, and what I do have to give is probably not something that you would want to teach your children. But it worked for me. Stop accepting help. Do a lot of drugs. Move across the country in a moments notice to stay with a friend you met online weeks before. Work until someone pisses you off, then leave. Roll those proverbial dice as much as possible - because even though you’re bound to get snake eyes many many times, the times you hit a good roll are a wonder to itself - almost angelic.

To quote my neighbor downstairs “Drive fast, take chances“. Truer words were never spoken.

Now what was your dream, and why haven’t you pursued it? Time for a cigarette, another beer, and then bed. Good night.