There are moments in life where time appears to yield itself to wisdom. Those fleeting minutes soothe the soul with an existential balm of joy –this uncanny ability to see God in the midst of chaos. This fleeting space where love lives in this continual loop of transformation never appearing to impact those in power. There powerless repackage love as a trope for suffering while racism masquerades as faith.
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Syncopated Hustle 
Woe to the gifted minority whose acknowledgment of success comes wrapped in the paradoxical package of Impostor Syndrome. The irony of a “need to write” perverting a hierarchy already traveled on the simplicity of pens and keys now unto a destination of external validation. Fulfill the need by writing down what you have already achieved; remind the supposed fraud of his tangible existence wrought with perseverance and backed by the full faith and credit of a quasi-heretical fiat currency that, to this very day, is plenty for the fare. Fear not my friend, for we have lyrics to assuage us in those moments when we see “life through the myopic lens of a man who pretends.”
Peace and Grace, good brother. There is always the “the need to write” here but it has been has been lacking for the past six months. Working my way back into form before it gets real.
How are you good brother? If you still got my math hit me up. I got a new phone and don’t have your number.