dreams

Silent Lucidity: What My Dreams Are Teaching Me at Fifty-Eight

by

I woke on my fifty-eighth birthday with a song playing in my head.

It wasn’t coming through the speakers, a radio alarm, or a playlist left running overnight. It had crossed over from that porous place between sleep and waking where a fragment of dream, a mood, or a sentence sometimes lingers before the day closes the gate on the night.

The song was Queensrÿche’s Silent Lucidity.

I hadn’t listened to it the night before. As far as I know, nothing in the previous day had planted it there. Yet the chorus was waiting when I opened my eyes.

Some mornings you shrug and get on with things. On others, the imaginal world taps you on the shoulders and demand your attention.

Fifty-eight is a threshold. I have spent much of the summer writing about the space between stories, the interval after an old identity has loosened and before the next one has found its shape. Now the threshold has moved from the page into the room.

A birthday makes you look both ways: back across the life you’ve already lived and forward into the stretch you cannot see. I had been thinking about identity, imagination, will, and the ways I keep parts of myself at a safe intellectual distance. Then I woke with a song about dream control, inner walls, another chance, and learning to become the guide.

I decided to stay with it.

The instruction hidden inside the song

Silent Lucidity 1 begins as a lullaby addressed to someone frightened by a bad dream. The voice offers reassurance: you are safe in bed; the mind created the pain; the day is waiting. Then the lyric turns on a question that could hold an entire philosophy of consciousness:

Your dream is over. Or has it just begun?

The song opens a doorway in that question. The dreamer is invited back into the night world with greater awareness, able to face fear, retrace the years, and ride the movements of the mind rather than be carried helplessly by them.

Halfway through, the music makes room for a spoken instruction. Visualise the dream. Record it in the present tense. Put it into permanent form. Persist, and dream control may follow.

First comes imagination: hold the image. Then language: write it as present reality. Then form: give the experience somewhere durable to live. Finally, persistence: return until lucidity becomes a capacity rather than a lucky accident.

This sequence feels familiar. An image arrives during a walk, in a dream, through a song, or in the quiet before my phone comes alive. I write it down. The note enters the vault. Later it meets another fragment, an old memory, a tarot card, a conversation, a book. Over time, the material may gather enough weight to enter the world as a blog post, an essay, or a practice.

The song contains another voice too, the one promising to watch over the dreamer and help them see it through. I could hear that voice in several ways: a lover, a daemon, a higher self, a guardian of the threshold, or perhaps the lucid part of consciousness speaking to the frightened part still caught inside the dream.

The promise has a limit. The watcher accompanies and protects, but the dreamer still has to learn to become the guide.

That felt like the birthday message.

The gap between knowing and living

Before I touched the tarot deck, I opened my journal.

I wrote that the past month had brought a sense of consolidation, a stripping away of identities. They weren’t necessarily false identities. Many had protected me. They gave me ways to approach parts of myself before I was ready to stand inside them without explanation.

Writer, philosopher, magician, teacher, coach, shamanic wanderer: each name gave something within me a temporary body. I had recently been experimenting with archetypal invocation, deliberately borrowing a larger figure and then returning the borrowed face. Perhaps some of these identities had served in the same way. They gave me access to qualities I could not yet approach directly.

A shield can become heavy after the battle has moved on.

I have used ideas in much the same way. Imagination and will have circled my practice for years. I know the concepts. I can talk about them, connect them to books, place them inside a tradition, compare one model with another. I had already written that you can understand everything and still not know what to do. Now the sentence has followed me into my own practice.

The understanding is there. The embodiment has lagged behind.

This is one of my oldest moves. I jump to meaning before I have stayed with the experience. I explain the image before it has had time to breathe. I reach for a book to confirm what the body already knows. Intellectualisation gives me distance, and for a while distance feels like control.

A few days earlier, I had been writing about prayer in the present tense: giving thanks for what is already here, even when it has not yet come fully into view. The idea is simple. Faith brings an image into focus; action gives it a place in the world. Yet I have often left a gap between the image and the act, as though understanding the principle were the same as practising it.

The song arrived with the missing word: persist.

I built a birthday tarot spread around its movement. What dream is over? What dream has begun? Where is the doorway? What fear guards it? Which inner wall is ready to fall? What watches over me? What power am I ready to claim? What gift must I bring back?

I answered each question in my journal before pulling a card.

Then I shuffled.

Come down from the tree

The first card, the dream that is over, was the Hanged Man.

There he was, suspended between worlds, seeing from another angle, haloed by the insight his inversion had given him. The Hanged Man knows how to wait. He knows surrender, patience, sacrifice, and the strange knowledge that comes when ordinary orientation is turned upside down.

He cannot walk anywhere while he is hanging from the tree.

The card did not dismiss the identities I had worn or the years spent trying to understand myself through them. Their work was initiatory. They had helped me see. The halo suggested that something had been learned.

The instruction I heard was plain: come down now.

The next card was the Page of Wands, answering the question of what new dream has begun. The Page stood alone in an open landscape, studying the living wand in his hands as if it had just spoken.

He has no syllabus, no credential, no approved definition of what a writer should be. He has contact with the signal.

A few weeks earlier, I had found myself asking, why am I waiting to be asked? The Page returned the question in another language. The wand was already in his hands.

This was the writer I had been moving towards through the weblog and the Textual Underground: a writer led by his own inner guide, willing to follow what glows before he can explain where it leads. Writing as encounter. Writing as a way of seeing. Writing that does not have to submit an application to the imagined tribunal of real writers before it begins.

The Hanged Man and the Page made a clean pair. One had completed the long apprenticeship of suspension. The other was ready to walk into the desert carrying one live piece of fire.

Giving imagination a material home

For the doorway, I drew the King of Pentacles.

I had expected something airy or mystical because I had written about meditation and spending more time in the imaginal. Instead, the cards placed a mature ruler of the material world at the gate.

The King sharpened the practice. Meditation may open the door, but embodiment keeps the passage honest. Does the imaginal encounter change the day? Does it become a paragraph, a decision, a ritual, a boundary, a conversation? Does the vision enter the body and the room? Can it survive contact with the calendar?

The vault, the blog, the notebook, the chair where I meditate, the walk, the hour I protect for writing: these are part of the magical apparatus. Imagination needs somewhere to land.

Two months earlier, another tarot spread had given me a sentence I wrote down and, apparently, had not finished learning: the way out of the head is through the hands.

The King of Pentacles suggests that command is less about issuing grand declarations to the universe than tending the conditions. Return to the practice. Give the image weight.

Then came the Three of Pentacles as the fear at the threshold. The card shows a craftsperson presenting work to robed figures who hold the plans. It landed directly on something I had written before the draw: my habit of looking to people who supposedly know the way, my desire to appear smart, and my fear that my peers will not take me seriously.

The figures with the plans form an internal tribunal. Will they approve of what I am building? Do they decide whether the work is legitimate?

There is another fear beneath the fear of judgement. If I no longer require their permission, the responsibility returns to me. I have to decide what faithful work looks like. I have to enter the cathedral as a craftsperson rather than an applicant.

Back in June, my morning pages had framed the same problem more bluntly: Can I give myself permission to live as the person I already am before the market confirms it? The robed figures seemed to be holding that question along with their plans.

The books and the chains

The fifth position asked which wall I had built within. I drew the Devil.

Before the draw, I had written about my obsession with books. I have collected them for years, loved them, lived among them, carried them from house to house. That love is genuine. Another story has wound itself through it.

Someone who reads a lot of books is smart. Being smart was one route to my mother’s approval and, in a different way, to my father’s disapproval. Books became companions, but they also became evidence. A full shelf could testify on my behalf. Finishing a book from cover to cover became a moral act. Reading challenges turned attention into badge culture: how many books did you read this year?

The Devil does not make the books evil. He reveals the contract attached to them.

In the Rider-Waite-Smith image, the figures are chained, but the chains hang loose around their necks. The bondage continues partly because it has come to feel inevitable. The same can happen when a genuine appetite becomes entangled with approval, shame, status, or proof of worth.

I do not need to renounce the library. I can withdraw from the contract.

I no longer use books to establish my right to trust my own mind.

A book can become a companion again, an occasion for thought rather than a container of information. I can read by attraction, need, pleasure, friction, or resonance. I can stop after one sentence if that sentence completes the exchange. I can abandon a book that has gone dead in my hands. The number completed can lose its authority.

The wall is not made of books. It is built from the belief that intelligence must be demonstrated before direct experience can be trusted.

The watcher above the doorway

I had left the sixth journal position blank. I wanted the deck to answer without my help: who or what watches over me?

I drew the Lovers.

An angel appeared above two exposed human figures.

The Lovers and the Devil became the axis of the spread. Both cards show a pair beneath a greater being. In one, the pair is chained inside an unconscious arrangement. In the other, they stand openly beneath a blessing. Choice is no longer governed by fear, appetite, inherited contracts, or the need for approval.

The guardian appeared as the capacity to choose in alignment with what I love, rather than as another authority telling me what to believe.

That brought me back to the voice in the song: the one smiling beside the dreamer in silent lucidity, offering protection without taking away the dreamer’s agency. The daemon may not need another elaborate identity through which to reach me. It may be enough to notice what has life, what carries heat, what asks to be made, and what leaves me more present after I choose it.

Remember what you love. Choose from there.

Return to the bench, then release the work

The seventh card asked what power I was ready to claim. I had written: imagination and will, exercised consciously, daily, consistently.

The card was the Eight of Pentacles.

A craftsperson sits at the bench, making one pentacle after another. There is no lightning bolt or claim of instant mastery. Whatever magic the card contains is found in the return.

Choose an image. Enter it. Write it in the present tense. Give it form. Come back tomorrow.

The Page of Wands receives the signal. The Eight of Pentacles gives it disciplined form. The final card in the spread, the Eight of Wands, releases it. The wands are already flying across open country. The insight cannot remain forever in meditation, private understanding, or the well-organised chambers of the vault. It must travel.

This is the danger of a beautiful archive: the underground can become another form of suspension. I can keep linking, arranging, refining, and preparing while the work waits below the surface.

The underground needs exits.

Enough swords

I drew one more card from the bottom of the deck and placed it across the Eight of Pentacles. I called it the Lucid Card. Its question was simple: what will help me recognise the moment I leave direct experience and retreat into intellectualisation?

The Ten of Swords.

It was the only Sword in the spread, the only card belonging to thought, analysis, mental narrative, and interpretation. It arrived as the alarm.

I know the feeling of the swords accumulating. One explanation becomes another. One reference leads to another book. The experience gets pinned beneath interpretation. The mind insists it must understand everything before I can trust the encounter or act upon it.

The Ten shows that process reaching exhaustion. Nothing more needs to be added.

The cue for lucidity is overkill. When I catch myself explaining the encounter before inhabiting it, constructing an identity around it, looking for an authority to certify it, or reaching for another book instead of staying with what happened, I can recognise the dream.

Enough swords. Wake up.

The image looks grim, but dawn is visible on the horizon. That took me back to where the morning began: a bad dream spinning in the head, then daylight, another chance, and the question of whether the dream has ended or only just begun.

The spread began with the Hanged Man and became lucid through the Ten of Swords. Both figures are immobilised. One has spent long enough seeing the world upside down. The other lies beneath the accumulated products of mind.

No eleventh sword is required.

Crossing the threshold

I do not know what my fifty-eighth year will bring. That is part of the threshold. A doorway loses something when we pretend to know the room on the other side.

I know how I want to cross it.

I want to come down from the tree and follow the living signal. I want to give imagination a material home. I want to notice when the internal tribunal gathers and continue working without waiting for its verdict. I want books to be companions rather than witnesses for the defence. I want to practise at the bench, then let what I make leave my hands.

The Ten of Swords gives me a reality check for the year. When thought begins to replace contact, I can return to feet, breath, room, light, sound. I can write one present-tense sentence about what is here. Then I can take one material action.

Close the book and open the notebook. Walk outside. Write the paragraph. Send the message. Release the post.

The practice needs contact with the world.

The song that crossed the border with me on my birthday offered a practice disguised as a power ballad: visualise the dream, record it, persist, become the guide. The cards answered with their own sequence: receive the signal, give it form, let it travel, and wake when the mind tries to bury the living thing beneath explanation.

So this is how I enter the year:

I come down from the tree.
I follow the living signal.
I give imagination a material home.
I release the need for external certification.
I remove the chains between knowledge and worth.
I choose according to what I love.
I return daily to the bench.
I let the work travel.
When the tenth sword falls, I wake.

In sigil form:

The day has begun. The dream is still alive.

  1. ↩︎

Silent Lucidity

Hush now, don’t you cry
Wipe away the teardrop from your eye
You’re lying safe in bed
It was all a bad dream spinning in your head

Your mind tricked you to feel the pain
Of someone close to you leaving the game of life
So here it is, another chance
Wide awake you face the day, your dream is over
Or has it just begun?

There’s a place I like to hide
A doorway that I run through in the night
Relax child, you were there
But only didn’t realize and you were scared

It’s a place where you will learn
To face your fears, retrace the years
And ride the whims of your mind
Commanding in another world
Suddenly you hear and see this magic new dimension

will be watching over you
(I) am gonna help you see it through
(I) will protect you in the night
(I) am smiling next to you, in silent lucidity

I can’t do this
Visualize your dream, record it in the present tense
Put it into a permanent form
If you persist in your efforts, you can achieve dream control
How’s that then, better?
Dream control, dream control
Help me

If you open your mind for me
You won’t rely on open eyes to see
The walls you built within
Come tumbling down, and a new world will begin

Living twice at once, you learn
You’re safe from the pain in the dream domain
A soul set free to fly
A round trip journey in your head
Master of illusion, can you realize
Your dream’s alive, you can be the guide but

will be watching over you
(I) am gonna help you see it through
(I) will protect you in the night
(I) I’m smiling next to you

Consulting for the Gods

by

Last night, I had one of those dreams that lingers like smoke in the morning air—a dream where the gods themselves were in need of some good old-fashioned PR. Specifically, I found myself acting as a sort of celestial consultant, helping Zeus and Hera re-establish their rightful place in the world.

It’s only fair to admit that my dream about Zeus and Hera may have been subconsciously influenced by my recent late-night viewing of Kaos on Netflix, where Jeff Goldblum, with his usual offbeat charisma, plays Zeus, and Janet McTeer brings a regal intensity to Hera. There’s something about seeing these mythic figures brought to life in such a modern, quirky way that clearly worked its way into my sleep, giving my unconscious mind the perfect cast for a celestial rebranding session. Sometimes, the stories we watch weave their way into the stories we dream.

It was surreal yet strangely appropriate, as if I had been called into a divine corporate boardroom to help the king and queen of the gods brush off the dust of millennia and remind humanity why they once ruled over Mount Olympus. Zeus, with his thunderbolt always at hand, appeared as you might expect: regal, powerful, but a bit frazzled, like a CEO who’s been away from the office for too long. Hera, on the other hand, was poised and majestic, though there was a deep sense of frustration simmering beneath her dignified exterior, as if she were tired of being seen only through the lens of jealousy.

They were in a strange place—both physically and metaphorically. In the dream, it seemed as though they had been forgotten, or at least, sidelined by modern culture. The once awe-inspiring Olympians were now fading myths, their stories relegated to dusty textbooks or blockbuster movies that reduced them to caricatures. It was my job to help them reclaim their rightful throne, but how does one go about rebranding the king and queen of the gods?

As we sat around a large marble table (because, of course, there were still nods to the classical in the dream), I could feel the weight of their presence, their aura of divinity and ancient power. But there was also vulnerability—an openness to the idea that they needed a new strategy. Zeus leaned in, asking, “How do we become relevant again? How do we reach people in this era?”

I started to think about their essence—their timeless qualities. Zeus, for all his flaws, was still the archetype of leadership, authority, and power. He wielded lightning, yes, but more than that, he symbolized the cosmic order, the balance of the universe itself. I suggested that maybe, instead of trying to compete with new gods of technology and entertainment, Zeus could lean into his role as the keeper of balance in a chaotic world. In times of turbulence, people still seek leadership and order—qualities Zeus had in spades.

Hera, sitting tall beside him, listened intently. When I turned to her, I felt a pang of empathy. Hera has often been painted in a harsh light—jealous, vindictive, forever chasing after Zeus’s infidelities. But that isn’t the whole story, is it? She’s also the goddess of marriage, commitment, and sovereignty. I suggested to Hera that she could reframe herself as the protector of sacred bonds, a figure of resilience in relationships—not just romantic, but familial and communal. In an age where connection feels tenuous, Hera could become a powerful symbol of the sacred bonds that hold society together.

They both seemed intrigued by the idea, but still uncertain. It was as if they could feel the pulse of the modern world, chaotic and fragmented, and wondered where they fit in. I reassured them that their stories still mattered—that mythic archetypes are never truly forgotten, just waiting to be reawakened. People still long for the divine, for symbols that help them make sense of the world. Zeus and Hera, in their complex, sometimes messy divinity, still had much to offer.

The dream continued with us brainstorming ways to engage the modern world. Social media for the gods? Perhaps not exactly. But the idea of stories—mythic stories that speak to eternal human experiences—felt like the key. The gods don’t need to change who they are, I told them; they simply need to remind people of the role they’ve always played. Zeus isn’t just a figure of power—he’s the embodiment of cosmic justice, of the inevitable balance of life. Hera isn’t merely a wife chasing a wayward husband—she’s the symbol of unbreakable commitments and the sacredness of human relationships.

As I woke up, the dream faded, but the essence lingered. There was something deeply resonant in the idea that even the gods need to re-establish themselves from time to time, that even archetypes must be reimagined to speak to new generations. Zeus and Hera were asking for help, not because they were powerless, but because the world had forgotten their place in it.

I couldn’t help but smile at the dream’s absurdity and profundity all at once. It seems that even in sleep, I’m working to revive the mythic imagination—helping old gods find new life in a world that has, perhaps, grown a bit too far removed from the stories that once guided us. Maybe, just maybe, we’re all due for a little reconnection with the divine, whether we call it Zeus and Hera or simply the parts of ourselves that long for meaning, balance, and connection.

the muses i belong

by

The days blur together, as if time is just a suggestion, bending and weaving with each passing thought. I can’t tell whether the dreams are spilling into the waking world or if the world is simply dreaming me. This morning, I woke with fragments of a lucid dream still clinging to my mind, as though they’d never fully left. Kate was there, and so was someone else—maybe Devon, maybe not—but it felt more like the muses had come to play again, and I was one of them. We watched ourselves, three muses in the half-light of a hotel room, playing at creation, conjuring worlds from nothing more than whispers and a flicker of desire. There was something eerie about it all, a tension I couldn’t place, like waiting for the punchline of a cosmic joke. Kate, in her pyjamas, seemed oblivious to the impending shift, but I sensed it—the arrival of something shadowed and haunting, lingering just beyond sight.

I’ve been getting lost in other people’s dreams lately. It’s as though their ideas are enchanted portals, and I can’t resist tumbling down, abandoning my own path to chase the shimmer of their magic. Each new rabbit hole feels like it holds the key to something—a piece of the puzzle I didn’t know I was trying to solve. But every time, I find myself deeper in someone else’s story, my own practice slipping like sand through my fingers. It’s curious, this pull towards other people’s dream worlds. They seem so full of wonder, as if I could inhabit them and forget my own. But I know now, it’s time to reclaim that space for myself. I need to stay grounded in my own story.

Driving up here, the road stretched before me like a ribbon unraveling toward the horizon, and I thought about NovelCrafter. It struck me—what I want isn’t just another tool. It’s a way to weave magic and reality into something whole, a speculative memoir where the boundary between fantasy and memory dissolves. I see myself writing it: part magical realism, part the absurdity of daily life. Maybe I’ll write about today, how I felt the tug of the fox’s sly gaze as I passed the edge of the woods, a reminder to stay alert and agile. Or how the Tower card fell from my deck this morning, its crumbling spire whispering of upheaval, destruction that leads to clarity.

But here’s the trick—those foxes, the Tower, they aren’t just symbols anymore. They show up, uninvited, walking through my day like they belong. The fox darting across my mind, the Tower standing tall in the back of my thoughts as I drink my coffee. It’s always there, reminding me to break free. “Don’t cling to the past,” it seems to say, “or you’ll miss the magic unfolding before you.”

I recall the dream again. Kate in her pyjamas, ready for bed. I watched, waiting for the ghost. I knew it was Halloween in the dream—it always is when these hauntings happen. But I never saw the ghost. Maybe that’s the point. Perhaps the ghost is my own, something I’m waiting for—something I’m afraid to meet but also too curious to avoid. I half expect it to show up later today, while I’m meditating or walking barefoot through the grass, grounding myself. Grounding is essential now; without it, I’d be swept up entirely by the dreams of others. It’s so easy to follow their muses, their ghosts, their towers. Yet I keep reminding myself that the real work is here, on my own path, not in chasing shadows.

Even now, I feel the muses whispering—”What if you combined all these pieces? What if you made this liminal space your own?” I could see it: the fox becomes my guide, leading me out of rabbit holes and into the deeper forest, where paths aren’t so easily marked. The muses follow, tugging at the threads of my thoughts, weaving them into stories of wonder and surrealism. There’s a beauty in this in-between, where nothing is solid, and everything shimmers with possibility.

But I can’t stay in the dream forever. I need to pull it through, integrate it, let the images live within my work without consuming me. Stay grounded, I think. The Tower might fall, the fox might run, but I’m here, feet on the earth, pen in hand, ready to craft my own narrative.

I have to remember: the world may be full of magic, but it’s my magic that matters now. Every symbol, every myth that emerges in my dreams or on my tarot deck is an invitation to explore, yes—but also to integrate, to make it mine. My life isn’t just a story waiting to be written; it’s already unfolding, here and now, with each step forward and each breath taken. I am the dreamer and the dream, the writer and the muse. And the ghost? Maybe that’s just the part of me I haven’t met yet, waiting patiently in the shadows, ready to step into the light.

the little hidden door

by

The dream is a little hidden door in the innermost and most secret recesses of the soul, opening into that cosmic night which was psyche long before there was any ego-consciousness, and which will remain psyche no matter how far our ego-consciousness extends. Dreams are the facts from which we must proceed.

Carl Jung, The Meaning of Psychology for Modern Man

Dreams are wild things and don’t always lend themselves to easy interpretation. I’ve embarked on a journey to explore the mythic imagination. I’m excited to see what treasures I might find and what new magic I can learn.

Dreams offer a passageway to the mythic imagination. The challenge is remembering our dreams. They are often fleeting. The demands of the waking world quickly fill our minds with the day’s mundane but necessary thoughts. Practical stuff has no room for dreams. The dream world swiftly retreats back into the subconscious mind. There are times when we are aware that we have had a dream, but the details are vague, if they are there at all.

Enter the dream journal

A dream journal is a journal where you write down your dreams as soon as you wake up. Keeping a dream journal can help you better understand yourself and your emotions by considering the meaning of your dreams. They offer clues as to what is going on with your inner life and personal growth. They are also a way to create new ideas and solve problems in our lives—and sometimes help us make decisions about things we would otherwise be too afraid or stressed out to decide on our own.

I keep a dream journal from time to time. I seem to do this when I’m actively working on my mental or spiritual growth. The metaphors and symbols that appear in our dreams are potent guides.

Here is an example from one of my dream journal entries:

In this dream, I was walking down the high street in Southam on my way back to see someone. I was walking and thinking about starting another podcast. I didn’t want to start a “live” show because people don’t listen live, they prefer podcasts. I was thinking maybe I could start a Marc Maron style podcast. In the middle of my thoughts while walking, I noticed there were a lot of slugs on the pavement. Big brown slugs. I took a closer look and realised that they were actually slugs morphing into snakes. I thought I was imaging the slug/snakes were following me. It wasn’t until one of the slugs became a full on snake that I realised they were actually after me. This one snake in particular drew a bead on me and started coming directly for me. I walked faster, but it was gaining on me. I had a sudden flash of inspiration. If I walked onto the busy main road and the snake followed me, it would get turnover by a car. Just as I stepped backwards off of the curb, the snake struck. I jumped awake.

Date of entry: Tuesday, April 7, 2020

Considering the timeframe, it’s easy to see that this would have been my subconscious processing covid and the pandemic.

As a confirmation, here’s what the dream dictionary has to say about dreams that involve snakes:

Snakes commonly symbolize fear or transformation. Dreaming of a snake is a sign that you are afraid of something in your waking life, or it could be a forewarning of changes to come… or

A snake in your dream may represent something in your life that is unpredictable and out of your control. You are afraid of the unknown. Snake refers to hidden threats: Because snakes are sometimes hard to see and are slithering in bushes, they are also symbolic of a hidden threat and/or a betrayal.

I think this is a fairly easy dream to interpret. I have other more complex dreams in my journal, but I’ll refrain from sharing those just now. But I will let you know how my dream journaling goes over the course of the next several weeks.

Do you keep a dream journal?

Do what you came here to do (and dream a little too)

by

Listen!

If you’re not doing what you want to do in this life, it’s on you. We live in a time where you can just about make a living doing anything you set your mind to provided you have the heart, the stamina, and the patience to succeed. If you’re willing to hustle and by that I mean, you’re willing to do whatever it takes to succeed, then you can make your dreams a reality. This is a pep talk for me as much as it is for you.

Note: the some of links in the following paragraph are NSFW or around small children.

And here’s why I’m saying this. If people like Blue Tiger, Bruce P. Grether, Other Elias, and Vanessa Marin can make a living as masturbation coaches, then anything is possible. I’m not trying to take anything away from these guys, in fact, I applaud them. Imagine telling your friends and family that you’re about to set up a coaching practice centred on masturbation. Enough said.

So no more excuses. Do what you came here to do!

Alright. Let’s get the weekend started.  I made this playlist for you. And actually, it’s very apropos to the previous topic. It’s a playlist about dreams – the wild kind, the fun kind, the dark kind, and the aspirational kind. As Tupac would say, you can pop this in your iPod, sit back and smoke a beedi to it (or drink some Gin) and day dream about how you’re going to change the world with your mission.

I’m driving down to Bristol this evening. I have some family stuff on Saturday and then I’m either going to go on a little urban adventure or sneak off to the Brecon Beacons for a little mountain air.

Enjoy your Friday night.

Peace,
Clay

Oh yes and here’s a new poems for you.

Lost

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