Harmony is foreign to us. Given all mortal possibilities and limitless opportunities, we choose greed. We speak of natives and naturals, expatriats and ironclad patriotism. We divide by state lines, align to banners and prophets to perpetuate our ravenous hunger.
In God we trust; in each other we suspect treason first, use reason as the second line of defense. Battle-hardened and mettle-tested, mere survival is a treasure that we glorify as victors at the top of the current chain. We align resources against each other, the Art of War our manual for supremacy.
We idolize our gladiators, build vast castles to watch them slay our enemy.
Thumbs down, so say the masses. Life is sacrificed for our amusement and crusade. We cheer loudly with violent spittle, sport the heralds of the winning side. They say,
“Better luck next time.”
But there is no luck involved with these human conquests, no mercy, no conciliation, no humility,
No harmony. I think most intelligent people have a shallow understanding of the concept of equilibrium. True harmony is an exercise of balance and moderation, a restricted spectrum of highs and lows. It is a unique discipline that humankind sacrificed to climb the evolutionary ladder.
An efficient conquest requires appropriate resources and tactics. Once, we employed these skills to stabilize a planet that was wild to our advance. Once the natural world was controlled, our expansion was guaranteed.
Across peaks and seas, plains and savage terrains, we pushed our dominion.
“As God wills it”, they say with holy blades and ironclad crusades, crafting human refugees with every assault and absolution. Generations forget the past and the sacrifices in the name of Benevolence, Scripture becomes policy, harmony is compromised for compliance. Mytholaw creates extremism, elevating gladiators to princes and politicians. We become the beast and the sheep in a common field.
Endless war is assured; the conquest for the Grandest prize given to a Word that keeps our armies marching:
Lulled to sleep by the disharmony, we accept and respect the ruler that shakes in greeting with one hand, and breaks hope with the other. Nothing good can come from this savage slumber. All of the generations of evolution has led us to become slothy soldiers in someone’s else’s war. After all that we’ve achieved and endured, there is one  lesson we can’t seem to learn:
The real battle is within, not in the fleecing of another mortal’s skin.


This obsession with art and creation is rooted beyond the start of my memory. My Mom and Dad tell stories of how I was moved up from Kindergarden to First Grade when I was a boy because I was filling up the classroom walls with my work. I’m sure they romanticize the details, but it is true that I moved up a grade at a young age due to advanced competency in communications. I was able to channel well.

I remember creating a book about dinosaurs when my age could be counted on one hand. Construction-paper covered stories about superheroes when my age could not yet be counted on two. The pictures and stories, the scenes and the landscapes kaleidoscope inside of me. I do my best to capture what I can,

but I mostly miss the best stuff. It is my duty to capture the fast-passing light, and translate it into life, for the future, for the present, for the past.

I’m not prideful. I don’t gloat over the fact that only once in my life was I not held back, that my true brilliance was recognized and applauded. The succeeded years were mostly spent being tortured by my gift, carrying a creative and monstrous burden that often set me apart from those without

drive and vision,
fire and fearlessness,
purpose and passion,
voice and diligence.

I’ve always been devoted to my craft, often sacrificing everything I am and everything I have for creation, expiring all for the thrill of giving birth or being born again, which I have done with regularity many times in my lifetime. It is how we learn to be like water, to understand the dynamism of the universe. The present is a zero-sum game, where the walls are all that matter. My past is littered with brittled husks of lives, shed with every new version of me. Their decay blows as dust in the present of this life, captured as ghosts in a reality that I can’t seem to escape from.

I’ve learned not to run. The ghosts stalk for a good reason: I need them, as much as they need me. They require audience, whether they are the reflections of a path not taken, a pain-response mechanism in the form of a poltergeist, or just a reminder that my end is coming, sooner than I want or expect. Some find fear in the face of the dead;

I find my galleryhead.