These are not threats

Just lies in hope's twilight.

Currently I'm reading "Never Eat Alone" by Keith Ferrazi. The man simultaneously makes the case for and against "the natural." Someone with his dedication is quite unique, and while he may prod the impetus existing inside those with the interest, I am certain the world remains divided by those born to lead and those born to follow. Greatness lies anywhere but is it really possible that an originator can be revealed in the brush of mediocrity?

I want a Bentley. If I can't have that I want a Ford Mustang. I want to make money and enjoy the process. I am never so great as I am in a strange land. At home I'm beloved. Abroad I represent opportunity, or at least I'm learning to. Finite and Infinite potential exist in the polarities of perspective and who's perspective is quite intriguing. Other people are game changers . . . well. When they apply themselves they are. Engaging circumstance is an indication of your traction in this world, regardless of the discomfort. Ferrazi wrote a book because it was truly in him to do it. Not simply a dream forever to become. He's one of these others that our internal projections tend to bounce off when we're tuned into a path of progressive living. Thought, it's easy to swing it into self-help and leave it there.

I'm operating on a fine line and I'm doing it badly. But it's in my nature to struggle with faith. I do it while whittling away at a blog in mid distraction of a show reminding me vaguely of every high school day dream I may have had about righteous confessions of love i had for this girl or that girl, full with chorus, dancing and live musicians sounding the charge and pulling whomever she was, my way.

I'm writing now to keep it all fluid, but it feels anything but. Ugh.

On to other news: I'm in Philadelphia considering a future in presentations and relationships and hotels with cheap everything and luke warm meals. There's money here and a chance to write and a lot to stretch thin in the interim. I walk around pretending to be George Clooney, except hispanic and not a celebrity. There's nothing in popular culture I care to regurgitate to make this simple practice a worthwhile investment for anyone but myself, unless of course you like the self-speculating mood you may be overtaken with in strange environments while trying to change the future of your legacy.

There may be better places for this, but until I get my act together and begin accepting the truth of the seven circles of submission purgatory (I've butchered a reference and I don't care), this is as good as I care to make it. Should a reader ever go retro-grade on the history of this miasma, I'd be pretty interested in the side-effects.

Ah well. Dreams.