I spent my twenties in pursuit of quick distractions and shiny new pasttimes. It seemed so easy to just get by believing in the truth of my own youth. I assumed that my ability to adapt and get along would lead me to opportunity and an American dream. A dream that seemed so ready for everyone else. Meanwhile I was obssessed with anger and resentment instead of how to live. It was my true hobby, the creation of my crumudgeon veneer. I had grasped and gleaned ideas and concepts and regurgitated them as my own; if you lacquer an opinion in enough vitriol most won't question it's validity. An assholes verbal shillelagh. I ran from dreams and opportunities for fear of failure. More accurately i ran for fear of trying and failing. Most think the coward fears. In reality what the coward fears is the failure of his own abilities. When a circumstance can end in judgement true fear is created. When one can see an opportunity and there is only the image of failing, cynicism is created. Of course it also refined my eye. I honed my ability to dissect the weekness of others and focus on the potential pitfalls of any given situation. I became a ninja of doubt, the ultimate assassin of success. My mind sang songs of defeat, rhymes of neurosis grown of that time. My body is weakened and undermined by the alcohol and nicotine that bolstered the minds lies. It is not the body i knew. It lied when it said i saw truth. I used to play music. Now I listen. My feet used to move swiftly, now i stumble in my dreams. Yet when i cook there are no lies. The doubt culls. There is fire, there are my hands, my eyes, my tongue and the truth.