With Both Eyes Open
I’ve been waking up earlier lately. No alarms. Just instinct. Usually it starts with cigarettes, black coffee, and music. Rain, maybe. Sometimes Sleep Token. Sometimes Miles Davis. Sometimes silence. I sit, smoke curling around thoughts sharper than the skyline. I plan. I observe. I listen. Not to the world’s noise, but to the internal compass that keeps me on the road I chose—difficult, sometimes lonely, but mine.
There’s a kind of solemn clarity in brutally honest contemplation. It reminds you who to answer to. Not the crowd. Not the critics. Not even your ambitions. But to the people who raised you, the people you love, and the life you’re bound to live—even if it doesn’t shine always.
Where Beauty and Ashes Meet
I post little things sometimes. A nature shot. A street sign from my hometown. A song layered in emotion. There’s even an ashtray in the frame—public property, couldn’t move it. But I left it. Because it’s honest. Because beauty and ashes coexist. Because perfection was never the goal—truth was. Clarity costs more than ignorance, but it will keep you clean. Quiet suffering, without the luxury of denial.
This won’t be an echo chamber. It won’t be some curated performance of morality or intellect. It will be what I see. What I know. What I’m still trying to understand.
And So I Write With Both Eyes Open
If you’re reading this hoping for a clean narrative, I can’t give you that. But if you’re looking for something real—something human, something principled, something prepared to go the distance without losing soul—then you’re in the right place.