No matter the guise; no matter the government; no matter the cause: I am there.  I am there with my smile and my promises; and you listen as I talk.  I talk and continue to speak as the blood runs from your ears and tears role from your eyes.  I will speak.

The words will float at first, and then as the heaviness begins to sink in they will turn to stones.  They will burn your skin, but you will cease to not believe.  They will burrow like a tick; they will crawl with unrelenting fervor and as they eat away at all hope: I will speak.

My eyes look at nothing; my mind thinks no thoughts;  I am empty and that is my strength: the void that was my humanity was given away long ago.  My suit is clean and my hands are dirty.  My shoes are polished as I step over the remnants of my integrity and all of our possibilities.

My law is my master; my words are my weapons. I have a heart of gold.

There is danger in every crevice, in every corner, and I feel it in my bones.  Security is my goal, the ever-allusive safety that I am promised by those that would keep me safe.  I will pay the cost, not because I must, but because the darkness of ignorance suits me.

I need a weapon; I need a camera;  I need to know that the weapons of evil or quelled by the lights of heaven.  I need to know that all is well as I sit in my room alone with my fears.  Change must be ceased; progress must be stifled; smiles must be turned.

As age creeps up, as all things do, with a menace in its eyes and evil in its heart, my right is safety and my liberty is an illusion.  Death, the ultimate enemy, must not win and just as security against the devils of the world must be strengthened so must the security against the abyss that I imagine.

I will pay the price, and will force you to do the same.

Within the books of philosophy are the secrets of all knowledge and wisdom that make us human.  I know that they are ignored for the fanfare of glitter and shiny toys and yet I persist.  Some call it a waste of time and energy but I must learn to smile and crack a joke at my own expense or be taken as arrogant.

I revel in science, but am not a scientist.  The analytical is paramount, but I am not a business man.  I follow words as if they are a rare and beautiful animal but am not a poet; logic not literature.

With the shadows dancing on the walls I point out the wooden puppets and yet I am the fool; I will accept this, but only with time.  I must find warmth in loneliness and comfort in the dark fortitude of Truth.

The ideas dance in my head, connected so clearly by the logic that bounds us all.  The ideas are clear but the terms are vague and misunderstood; misused, philosophy is a weapon of enormous magnitude and dismissed as a toy by most.

I am that person that sits silently in a corner, perhaps a glass of scotch in one hand and a book in another.  I have given up on the world of society and it on me.  But that is OK, only because it has been so for thousands of years.

I have sold my soul, it is true, but I did get a good price.  I will sell it again at a profit.  I will sell yours if you let me (you will, you know); I can guarantee a good price for such a clean item.  Everything can be for sale, you must know this by now.

And if it is not for sale, well, then it is worthless because it is worthless to me.  I have no qualms because I have no imagination. I will admit that, but I do have a talent for seeking out the stench of money.  After all, it is only business.

Progress is profit and product must move; this is a universal law.  I can make sure that you can afford it; that is not a problem.  I can’t afford bowing to the virtues of morality, but I can afford buy them.

I am the buyer and seller; I am the deceiver and the saint.  I make laws to sell them and break them for profit.  It is not for the good that I do this, I am not a giver of necessities; I sell liberty and justice.  I am the bottomless pit of greed and economic gravitas.

The price is too high; the cost is too great, but only for you.  I will sell until the end of time and then I shall sell that too.

With my words I will change the world; their sounds wafting through the universe.

The forgotten artist, the academic bard.

Simplify sentences; state the truth.

Pen to paper.

Thoughts.

There is a place that I have not seen, a place that I have not been.  There is always another mountain, another road.  The backpack collects no dust and the tent never sits unfolded.  The car is a tool, the motorcycle is better, the place: outside of the typical.

Curiosity never killed the cat, but it has changed the life of all adventurists.

Too many hours within one zip code, or perhaps it is simply the horizon the beckons?  It is genetics, this curiosity, the drive to change, for change is (after all) the only consistent.  But as ironic as it may seem, it is the consistency that matters.

Do not make the mistake of believing in your dreams; adventures do not have consistent conclusions, foreseen consequences.  The adventurist will learn this…sooner or later.  This is part of the adventure no matter what your belief is about the trip.

The platitude for the adventurist to remember: everything has a cost and a benefit, but don’t be so sure you know which is which.  Enjoy the adventure and pay for it with your past.  The sun will set and where will you be?  This is the question in the back of every adventurist’s mind.

I am that which my country demands; I am loyal and thankful to no one.  The flag on my shirt and on my truck are not symbolic: they are sacred as is the tribe that they demarcate. There is no respect here, but only pride and the righteous indignation of those who belie my beliefs because my beliefs are my country.

I have not chosen, but was chosen; I do not understand, but am certain; I have done nothing, but expect everything.  My nationality is my soul and those who disagree are my mortal enemies.  The world stops at the borders of my motherland and I will defend her with my life if necessary.  I will die for that which does not exist.

I know nothing of Thomas Paine, my history is the rocking chair upon which I sit.  I owe nothing to anyone but yet, my country needs me.  I abhor society, but they are my kin.  Contradiction is not possible in the country of my thoughts just as change is the witch that brings evil upon my family.

I have made my bed, I have made my choices, and I will stand in the path of progress.  Semper Fi.

I am that of which I am; that overlord of the word, the rhetorician of knowledge.  I only exist in the sound of my own thoughts, those wily things that come from no where and disappear just as quickly.

I am blind but yet I see; no method will end my madness, no undone thought exists in my head.  The bricks by which I build my fortress are solid, secure and filled with certainty.  The wall goes up of its own accord as I watch, comforted and alone.

It is my conversation, my domain that matters most and yet no one realizes that I need their ear, their understanding, their acknowledgement, their accordance.  I will speak until the goal is reached, the need is met.

No physics, no logic, no rational, no moral, no epistemology, no aesthetic, no consideration, no methodology, no expertise, no reality, no fact, no knowledge, no Truth will ever overturn what I have created.

I speak louder; I fill the air with words.  And yet deep down, I doubt.

I am an individualist, and have lived life that way intently and consciously throughout the years.  For an individualist, reliance upon others is often seen as a form of failure, as a weakness, as lazy.  I know this because I have felt those things and judged others as such.

I have picked up the shovel and dug the hole with my bare hands.  I have demolished and built; I have fixed and destroyed; I have learned and I have taught; I have created and dismissed.  I have been against the wall and solved the puzzle.  I have done these things as the individualist that I am: with no thought to ask permission or no intention to ask for help.

Women have jested that I am a man and that we are simply that way.  But they are no better than I.  Individualism knows no boundaries and we recognize each other, we individualists and we recognize those who wear the mask of individualism.  They are the worst: the miscreant liars of loneliness, because the fakers of individualism; they are weakness behind the mask of strength.

The thieves of strength rely upon their masks to undermine the secret of individualists: that we need and desire help; we need others in order to be individuals.  Where else would I have learned the trades and arts that I know?

Whom else would answer the questions I have about the tools and ways that I have come to rely upon but from those who have recognized that being an individualist means learning from the silent and still waters of experience and time.