It’s over…

"You could destroy all the other Harvard buildings and, with Widener left standing, still have a university." G.L. Kittredge

If the above is true, do I live in infinity?

I have always wondered this. Is the night sky beyond... farther than what man can comprehend?

Kafka's only problem far as I can tell, was his reluctance to resign.

With every writer, there is the fact that they're inherently doomed to obscurity. Whether it be today, or tomorrow. This moment, or next century. They will rise, and they will fall. For the world is destined to forget us all.

After writing 30 books, l've become completely unrelatable.

When I was young, I used to believe that intelligence was everything. That anything could be overcome with enough thinking, enough effort, and enough hard work.

Too much, or too little always proves destructive to an organism overtime.

My intellect has become obese. Too large, too copious to handle. Crushing from the outside in, it's suffocating. For its gravity is too strong, a powerful implosion of force increasingly compressing inward.

All you need is 5 minutes a day. If you can find a way to write for just 5 minutes every single day, you’ll begin forming a bubble of thought.

What school does to crush a persons creativity is called, “flooding.”

Because the pen, commands.

Within every organization, policies are written, doctrines are crafted, mandates are created, and orders are executed. Without the written word, the sword is useless. For its power is deemed null and void without clear direction.

When it comes to writing, working out is heavily integrated into the process. At the minimum, I'll cut out time to go at least twice a week. Why?

Well, because health is wealth. Meaning that if I fall ill, my writing productivity will take a substantial hit. Something of which is an absolute no, no, if I want to continue pushing my ideas out into the world.

I got the idea about a week ago to write a book called, “My Life as Time,” wherein Space, Time, Mass, Light alongside several other abstractions talk to one another and discuss/demonstrate how time dilation works. So far, I’ve managed to complete chapter one. Which basically personifies time and mass within the singularity of a blackhole.

We are trembling under the burden of success. The desire for success, the beg for want of resources, for status, and perhaps most of all: respect. I remember looking at a co-worker once, who was quite the insidious individual when he could get away with it.

I feel my story is one of triumph and expectation. The expectations were a call to adventure, a challenge to start on the journey of a thousand miles, despite the bloody callouses that have accumulated on my feet.

Artificial intelligence is the ability for computer systems to independently develop strong frameworks, knowledge bases, and ideas whose complexity surpasses the understanding of human experts in a singular or multitude of fields. However, what does this mean exactly?

If you want to be a genius, they’ll use you like one. It may be better to live a simple life and portray yourself as useless so as to prevent yourself from being used. What is a genius but a vessel for creativity?

I am an ebb of melancholy. It is sweet like lemonade, then sour like squeezed juice. It doesn’t help that I enjoy the sound of violins. The agonizingly slow rise and fall of their tunes fill my room in gentle serenades. My heart brims with their emotion and pours into my books. I am endlessly inspired, and yet I feel immortally quiet.

“The higher you climb, the harder it gets.”

At this point in my life, strategy has begun to fail me. I’ve fallen for traps, ambiguous legal snares, and institutional sieges.

It happened, they finally got me. Sitting here, no beer, full of fear…

In my little cubicle, scurrying to and from the bathroom. Acting like I’m making a difference, changing things, going somewhere…

Shifting right, then shifting left, the chains slapped metal. Crashing the cabin as the giant crates held firm. A hum from hell filled the cabin as the pilots threw the plane into a nosedive.

Holding my breath, I dive. Hitting the water, I do not swim, but sink. Down, down into the chasm of thought. Reds and pinks, violets and golds form, giving birth to a realm within. Colors shifting, worlds are born, characters are torn, pulled apart by the treachery of their environments.

A writer’s only concern is the search for truth.

As a writer, it is imperative to understand that you do not write for the current day but for the days beyond your years. Through the might of the pen, writers hold a singular ability. The power to immortalize others.

I can't stand school, but it's forced upon me.

The infantilism, stupid group projects, annoying little kids…

I'm too old for this shit. Too old to mold, too old to fool into believing strange things.

My teeth are worn, some are broken. The jaw mangled from tearing flesh and chopping meat.

The organs are old, but still working, Hearts still pumping, pushing the blood, flowing the mud beneath my skin.

It’s an open secret that writers hate each other. We nitpick, critique, judge, and sometimes quietly shit talk one another. All of this is done with class of course. Nasty little slights, strained smiles, subtle queues through body language, and perhaps in private… the occasional eye roll.

It is unusual, this enemy. It isn’t physical and yet… there it stands. So resolute in its conviction, that even time cannot wear it. Smooth to the touch, I press against it. Unimpressed, the marble slab stains white against my palms of patience. Impenetrable in its defiance, I can do nothing but wait. Wait… and wait within the hollow confines of its halls.

Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Brown, Upenn, and Cornell all rejected me. However, the real question is, do I still need a degree?

Everyone knows that the hardest part about working out, is arriving at the gym. Honesty, the same is true of writing a book. The hardest part isn’t getting past the blank page, but simply sitting at the keyboard.

Passion is term used by beginners in a field. At first they’re super excited to learn, try out new ideas, and explore a subject outside their expertise. The truth is that over time, passion erodes like rocks in a stream. It’s slow and gradual, not something that happens all at once.

A thinker is one who introspects, reviews, and contemplates the follies and successes of their own experiences. A leader is one who takes charge and makes decisions with the information made available to him at the present moment. A strategist evaluates present circumstances and extrapolates the effectiveness of their ideas into the future.

The human ego is a sword and shield. It is the protector of the psyche, and thus must be built to defend an individual's self-esteem. Without the fortress of ego, a person's concept of self can be easily made to shatter against the ridicule of others.