Song to Myself


Well, so it had to happen, barring the carcrash anomaly or the premature cap in the ass, etc: I’ve hit the big 3-oh. Yes, it be my day of birth, albeit 30 years prior. Sagittarrius to my core, I love spicy food and traveling, whatever the profile happens to say. I think I’m supposed to feel something, it being a certain type of landmark in the process of aging. I think that I’m supposed to be reflecting on what my life has (not) been and start panicking about where it’s (not) going. But really, the superficial notation of years has less to do with it than the cumulative fruition of struggle. I’ve come a long way from begat baby, and while I haven’t exactly risen from out the ghetto, it still feels like an accomplishment to be reaching some kind of standard of maturation. I’ve been writing creatively nonstop for more than half of my current life (17 years). I’ve been running for 12 years—until now. I have been hitting the djembe skins for 10 years. I have been bombarding world wide web sensibilities for 5 years. And while I haven’t written a symphony or invented a way to accumulate mass amounts of money, I have loved and befriended and altered the generative shape of the noosphere in certain indefinite but nonetheless cumulatively critical manner. Yes, I do so believe. I have achieved some kind of minor accomplishment simply by continuing to be myself. Sigh of relief. While still maintaining that steady focus on kaizen.

Every day is an opportunity to develop, to learn, to grow, to expand, to love, to reach out beyond the surface structures of tepid understanding and straw nuzzle down deep into a divine mystery that is everything that is beyond myself.

I’m proud of myself. If any motherfucker out there has got some beef, I’m ready, in a reserved and ninja turtle-like manner, to take them on. I’m not frightened of a wilderness forest at night, and I’m not afraid of an urban jungle at night. And I’m not afraid of the darkness of the inner flight. I’m 30, and my life is exactly where I would want it to be had I planned it out in any conscious manner. No more, no less. Keep on keepin’ on.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

4 thoughts on “Song to Myself”

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