Words give life and power to ideas, people, events.. Stories tell of life’s day to day experiences People hold on to stories to help describe themselves. Does holding into painful stories and reliving them help us or hinder us? Do the words of the pain in that story continue to have power?

Hey guys. Nothing too heavy but, man, do I feel defeated today. I just can't with this fucking world today. I am so sick of having to pay for a society that is actively trying to do away with me. Why do I have to give a shit for every special interest, left wing, indigenous or rainbow nazi group on a soapbox while my beliefs and core values are summarily dismissed or, worse, actively persecuted? Fucking tired.

Kissed By God… There are times, days, moments that something so beautiful or special occurs that is indescribable. The feeling of unbelievable joy, a view worth as many words ever made but you can’t speak one if them… The feeling of grief or let down that just cripples you … To feel such indescribable things are gifts…

How much truth you can handle about yourself dictates success…? Is that a real thing? What are the gifts of that perspective?

For the longest time, I wondered what it really meant to forgive someone you no longer talk to. I used to think forgiveness required a conversation, an apology, an explanation, or some kind of final moment between two people. Maybe I thought I needed the other person to understand what happened before I could truly let it go. But I’ve learned that forgiveness doesn’t always require another person. Sometimes, forgiveness is something you quietly do for yourself. Last evening, I met up with an old friend who, at one point in my life, wasn’t the best friend to me. There was unnecessary turmoil, conflict, and a lot of emotions surrounding that period of our lives. It wasn’t easy. There were things that hurt, things I didn’t understand, and feelings that took time to process. And yet, somehow, more than a decade later, we have remained in touch. Over the years, the relationship became cordial. There was no longer the same intensity or closeness, but there was respect. Sitting across from each other over coffee and ice cream, I realized something. I had forgiven them. Not because what happened didn’t matter. Not because I suddenly believed everything that happened was okay. And certainly not because I had forgotten. I had forgiven them because I no longer wanted to carry it. There is a difference between remembering something and living inside of it. I can acknowledge that I could have been difficult at times. I can own my mistakes and the ways I contributed to situations. But I also recognize how much I’ve grown since then. I’m proud of the person I’ve become and, particularly, proud that I can sit in a difficult conversation without allowing old emotions to take control of me. What surprised me was realizing that my old friend may still be carrying some of those feelings. There were questions about why things happened the way they did. Questions about the past. Questions that, in some ways, I had already stopped asking myself a long time ago. My response was simple. I’m not mad.