Let's Obtain Virtuous Ecstasy.

Perfection is overrated. You're beautiful, kind, intelligent. What else have you got? Perfection in an imperfect world sets you low on the bar, and sets you up for pain, misunderstanding, and blind ignorance. Imperfection is underrated.

Let's step back.

You're dishonest. You've become wooden. Self-serving. Your world is better. That's what you've shroud yourself in. You hide in your work, your children, thinking distractions are your only savior. You give everything to your students, and then keep everything else for yourself. There isn't enough for anyone else.

Let's step further back.

You've developed what you believed is you. That infectious laughter, warmth of a working kitchen with platters of cheese and crackers, with sparkling glasses of wine...resting on the polished wooden floors that you cleaned earlier in the day, with matching earth-toned furniture. Think back to those times. Remember her back then?

Take a step forward.

These exotic days of hot, tropical sunshine, opening your heart to those who are worth it, and remember the hearts that reach out to yours, that open your eyes and made you feel like you belong, that people are still worth it. There's no one else in the world who is exactly like you, right now, as you are. You shed tears, brush yourself off, and stand back up with a smile.

Where are you now?

Sink down into deep dark depths of anger, sorrow, helplessness, and more indignant anger. You're hard, inflexible, and jaded. It's high school again, except you're more self-aware, and it fucks everything up because you know all of the blame rests on you. You're responsible for everything, and you fucked things up because you're fucked up, and you don't deserve to live. But you know you can't die because death is a gift, and you deserve to suffer in this horrible, dark, ashy world of hypocrites and assholes and passive-aggressive droids. And you crave the bite of a blade, and you miss seeing blood-stains on your shirts and the pages of your diary, and you deny yourself release. You deny it because you don't deserve it. Your self-hate is almost admirable. You wish you off'ed yourself in high school, you piece of chicken shit, and now look at you. You're better off dead, you fucking hypocritical, passive-aggressive, asshole-droid.

Where are you going?

Rising above fear, unafraid of change, loneliness, and hardship. You were made for this. You were created for this. All of this. The tears, the hate, are propelling you forward because you can't actually die. You're too stubborn. You're too filial. You don't know where you are in this overarching picture of life, but it doesn't matter. You want to do something for someone, but you're aware of your own powerlessness. You will be loving, understanding, giving. You will be taken advantage of. You will be misunderstood. You will be judged and bullied and pressured. You will be strong, unmoving, unrelenting, but flexible. You will be you, but the best of you, and you will never feel the way that you do now. You will accept the darkness in you; accept it, embrace it, and learn to love and nurture it, so that the hurt goes away, and you're left with peace and Buddhism.

GLOW.

LIFE is smattering of beats and tunes and bass notes. Contentment plays violins, and bettering yourself means drums and a bass that goes to encourage. Care about no one and your heart turns to ashes and dust and it's beautiful in the dying sun as it explodes in the pocket of our universe, and we can feel it in our brittle bones, shattering at the impact of the beats of disappointment and regret. But I won't shatter. Never shatter. Your illness is yours. Not mine. I'm infected. Radioactive. But I've overcome it, and your zombies are rotting as the world burns. ONE white, one black, and they devour you and your attempts to be human. You will never be human, petty little thing. Welcome to the new age, of fire, anger, contented peace, smooth waters, rustic winds, and sparkling tears. This is it. It's over. You've lost. And you drink yourself into oblivion. Are you lost? That's where you'll find that pathetic you and cry sand. Tears come from the soul--sand is all you can offer. LET the acid rain soothe your painted flesh and you'll see beauty in pain. Loss for words, sympathy, compassion--you've met your mirror, so drown in yourself. Full of alcohol, sex, and sin. Sink deeper. Deeper and deeper, and let blood run. AS the sun burns, I'm radioactive. No one else can be me. No one else can offer anything to you. What a crying shame. GLOW with strength and understanding, not shrouded in a cloud of marijuana to dull your senses. Pathetic. Feel the pain. Stop hiding. Stop lying to yourself. Become one with that passive little hate inside of you that you try so hard to kill. Silly woman. You're threatened, and you try so hard. So hard. But it'll never happen to you. Open your mind to bigger things. Hide in your drugs and self-chosen ignorance, quoting Buddha and God and Allah, thinking yourself spiritual, free-thinking, when your mind's dead. Your superiority is temporary. Welcome to the new age. Sad, silly woman. When will you ever learn? I, Ustanak, cower to no one, and I devour all souls which quiver in insecurity, in lies; souls unable to escape from their rotten-fleshy prisons. If you take a closer look, you'll see our destiny--lying in the mounds of dead ground. THE earth is finally dead. You will be too. And you'll be free from that sad, sorrowful self. YOU'RE welcome.

To Be a Writer.

1. Write 50 words. That's a paragraph.

2. Write 400 words. That's a page.

3. Write 300 pages. That's a manuscript.

4. Write every day. That's a habit.

5. Edit and rewrite. That's how you get better.

6. Spread your writing for people to comment. That's called feedback.

7. Don't worry about rejection or publication. That's a writer.

8. When not writing, read. Read from writers better than you. Read and Perceive.

-Ajay Ohri