Archive for the ‘ Life ’ Category

Why you ask?

Sometimes, when I’m not thinking about my own selfish need to write; my desire to get the noise in my head out onto paper, I think about reasons to write:

“…they were just words, but they inspired me to stand up when all I wanted to do was lie down.”

Nelson Mandela

It doesn’t get much clearer than that.

Omnia Vincit Amor

Bore, boring, bored

I think that if I were reading my blog I’d be bored. It’s all very important to me, it’s all very much interesting to me; I’m just not sure how interesting it is to anyone else that may happen to read it.

Speaking of people reading my blog, my page views have sky-rocketed lately and honestly, not too many people (that i know, or know of, in the ‘real’ world) actually know about said blog.

Strange wot?

So if you’re reading this, do me a solid and leave me a comment: I’m curious and I’d appreciate it.

And right back in we go:

Maybe I am kind of boring these days, but I am very much happy, healthy and hale.

In other news I ran 1.62 miles today, slowly, with walk breaks. But I got to run and it was absolutely glorious.

I solemnly swear to never try to push through an injury like that again. The last two weeks were so incredibly frustrating (with regard to running) that I never want to repeat that again.

I need to write this idea for a book/movie/game down. It’s basic right now but I really think it’s got potential.

I may add to this later, but for now I’m good on typing.

PS: I ❤ my iPhone.

Nosce Te Ipsum


I’m not sleeping again.

Sometimes my subconscious refuses to let me in on what it’s doing. My only clues come from my dreams, or like now my complete inability to get any restful sleep.

Except those few nights when the world doesn’t matter, when nothing outside that circle that demarcates the border of us and everything else exists.

Those nights are absolute perfection.

Tonight, I stare at my ceiling fan during long, annoying commercial breaks as I spend my late night watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall for perhaps the second or third time.

I got about fifteen minutes of sleep earlier, and i found to my surprise that this recurring dream that I used to have has come back. I hadn’t had this dream in a very long time. It’s become somewhat updated, slightly modified during it’s time away. I rather enjoyed it, sort of like a visit from an old friend.

I have so many ideas: books, stories, poems, novellas, plays, screenplays, sit-com scripts, plots for world domination (I’ve even got an awesome script for a video game half-written in my mind). I sometimes have a very difficult time keeping them straight; they bounce around, bound around; shaking the cobwebs loose, stirring up dust: in short they sometimes make a mess of my mind.

I wish I could explain it more coherently. But I suppose that will just have to do for now.

I Can Has Run?

Not being able to run is driving me insane. Just throwing that out there.

I understand the concept of rest and healing, I really do.

That said my lunarglides are staring at me forlornly, as though I’ve left them to go on some sort of immensely slackified vacation. If they could talk I am certain that the recriminations would be absolutely Hobbesian. My knee-high Nike compression socks, the socks that scream ‘I like to run!’ or ‘I get really cold, even in summer!’ are also muttering under their breath-much like my grandfather does whenever the topic of today’s youth comes up.

Okay, so maybe it’s not as dramatic as all that but it absolutely feels like it.

I refuse to step on the scale. Yeah, yeah, yeah-very girly I know.

Still not gonna happen.

I can only do so many other exercises before I just want to run. I went for a walk yesterday, it was everything I could do not to break into a jog. Ya know, just an easy canter, a lope even.

Then a full out sprint. Running with the wind blowing my hair back, while the music plays and angels sing…

I don’t have that much trouble in the ice cream isle at the grocery. I have no trouble walking past the junk food isles but forcing myself to rest long enough not to re-injure myself: hellish.



It is so hard for me to hold back, in any aspect of my life. I’ve always been a ‘go big or go home’ kinda guy, so I have some difficulty with not giving one hundred percent to whatever it is I’m doing.

I tend to put my whole heart into everything that I care about. Which, I’ve been told is endearing. It is, however, somewhat dangerous for me.

I don’t know what the experience is like for other people but I can’t imagine that it’s that much different.

That said I think that I sometimes fear giving too much more than not giving enough. I think that when I do I lose pieces of myself that I’ll never get back.

I go back and forth on whether or not that’s a good thing.

There are, assuredly, pieces of me that I have lost that I never want to see again. The good pieces though, those I hope to never lose. I never want to feel so cynical, so jaded, so incredibly un-alive ever again.

“I wonder why, I’ve never wondered why, the easiest things are so hard.”

I find myself secretly wishing I could fast-forward life and equally so that some moments would never end.

It’s a paradox, I know; it’s another thing that is very muchly what I do.

Run, Run, Run!

I’m falling apart, well a bit anyway. I could give you all the gory details but I’ll just say….ah who am I kidding, like I’d miss a chance to whine about all of my running related injuries:

Right and left hip flexors (iliacus), right knee, right hammy, left foot, left butt.

Haha yes, left butt.

Anyway I’ve added about half an hour to my before and after stretches, and my stride doctoring is on hold since right now my legs are trash and my stride is pure, heel-pounding garbage.

I honestly think that my serotonin levels are a bit low because I’ve been unable to get in enough miles daily.

Oh no. I am a runner. Yep, s’all over now, now I have to run for the rest of my forever.

I’ve made peace with it.

In other news I’m debating putting together a brief anthology of some of my early poetic work. Debating, but not super seriously. I’m a bit self-conscious about poetry in a way I’m not about my novels.

Something to consider I suppose.


“Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.”

– Oscar Wilde

I have always enjoyed Oscar Wilde’s work, his many wise(cracks) quotes especially.

He amuses me greatly, like only a man speaking to me from across a gulf, time and space, can.

I should have liked to have met him. Although like many things in life I can only assume that one or the both of us would have disappointed the other.

Or we would have been the best of friends, who knows right?