Coltrane pouring through my speakers. Jazz, baby. Jazz.
Twenty-seven. 27.
Flip through pages of GQ and it’s easy to figure out what sort of life we’re ‘supposed’ to lead. Six-figure fashion spreads of airbrushed figures. The fancy car gets the girl(s). The player’s guide to bagging more bodies in your bed. Dreams of Prada suits and automatic timepieces.
Sometimes it’s hard not to wonder what side of the prison bars you’re lying on.
The game. The game. The game.
I don’t want to stumble through the next thirty years of my life to have the rude awakening that the game is nothing more than a zero-sum time-waster for people who can’t keep their marriage(s) together.
Countless days spent lost in a fear-driven world that promised eternal paradise for sticking it out through the toughness the world has to offer. Only to realize the safe haven found beneath the point of a steeple is little more than the cold walls of a prison that has unlocked doors. Spirit of fear. Spirit of fear. We live not in a spirit of fear but of peace, love, and a sound mind. Screams and wailing say otherwise, preach.
Freedom and love is found in the mind. Yet, the mind is one of the most convoluted refuge to find in Generation ADD. Free thought has been written off as the far cry in the desert.
As a 27-year-old man, the concept of freedom is an elusive one. Freedom isn’t found shifting gears of an Italian supercar or in the arms of the latest weekend catch. So many men are afraid to raise their voice and sing…or speak what’s really on their mind to the beauty in front of them, rather than what Details magazine claims to say in order to guarantee a weekend lay. We’d have far more art in our museums and music in our ears if the chairs in corporate america weren’t filled to the brim with fresh-faced college graduates walking butt out into a world that wrings its wrists in anticipation of processing the latest batch of consumers.
To you…
My valkyrie
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