Justin Razor and the World

I never imagined that I'd be writing this here in Hawaii of all places. I was the kid who wasted his potential, the wunderkind that sullied his genius through the pursuit of prestige and neglect, the prodigy that nearly failed out of high school pitifully. Now, a little over 3 weeks from my 26th birthday, Ive stepped back to reflect, as anyone of above average meaning and consciousness is apt to do. At 17, I would fantasize about traveling the country playing cards, busking, guitar firmly in hand, and writing, producing a sustainable living with my words. Less than a decade later, Ive made $1000 in less than a week off of an investment of $100 in the poker rooms of San Diego, had my poetry published in a variety of online magazines, and have recorded music with independent artists in 3 different states. Ive traveled the world and been inducted into the famed Order of Magellan. In short, Ive done everything my detractors deemed outside of my reach. If this seems self-aggrandizing, i...

The balmy air warmed my already ruddy cheeks. Sweat streamed down my clenched face, glistening in the nocturnal illumination. My heart pleaded with me to grant it a moments rest. Just when its plodding became unbearable and I nearly gave in, however, my spirit would seethe. Weakness was the original sin, conpletely unforgivable. I could slack off and stray, even claim to forsake. But to abandon, that offered no hope of absolution, no hint of repentance. Defiantly, my arms pumped and my thighs seized, flexing powerfully and catapulting me forward. I sprinted through the roughest sands these picturesque beaches had to offer me. The homeless, the vagrants, hobos and hippies were blurred until they were mere afterthoughts, cheering me on as I fought through my pain the only way I knew. Stubbornly carrying on while trapped firmly in fatigue's filthy clutches, I collapsed in the tide. The beauty of Hawaii is that it truly is paradise, not unlike my beloved San Diego. I reflected as I lay...

Study. Forever. Undeterred yet annoyed, I shut my eyes to the world and venture into the first of my memory palaces. A relatively shoddy appearing hotel in Chula Vista, CA manifests before me, welcoming me home if only in spirit. The Golden Gate Bridge rises from the concrete miraculously, a veritable anomaly amongst the urban detritus. An ex-girlfriend's mother jumps down from the newly erected landmark and scolds me, before tripping over a tent housing Shin the Conqueror, a character from one of my favorite anime series. This odd scene unravels before me just as Noah Calhoun from The Notebook crashes through the cheap plate glass entrance door. This cavalcade of chaotic comedy may seem outlandish and ridiculous. That's entirely the point. This random, unbelievable scene has helped me remember that on form SF-153, the retention rate is 2 years. Coded in a personal, intuitive language I understand intrinsically, Ive become a potential Ken Jennings. Welcome to the the Art of Mem...

Freedom is my goal, it always has been. Freedom from the chains of economic servitude, the ability to fly unencumbered into the stratospheric heights of my grandest musings. To work for pleasure rather than necessity, and to never again force myself to endure stifling conditions in the name of the Almighty Dollar. The moment I discovered investing and the almost fantastic magic of compound interest, I was floored. Here was my ticket, my key out of the shackles that seek to enslave the common man. Then again, I am no common man. Its my belief that the world at large has been orchestrated to sap men and women of their energy at an early age, thereby snuffing out any premature rebellion or burgeoning talent. Before the military, when I toiled in factories for low pay and endured the tedium of assembly lines, this realization began to dawn on me. The man who would become my mentor, a large, robust black man in his early 30's I only ever knew as E, was a sight to behold. At 19 and 140...

This music massages my ears seductively, fatigued as they are from constant badgering, both external and internal. Every morning, from around 0700 to 1100, a group of racuous construction workers congregate at the eternally unfinished pool just outside my solitary confinement cell of a room. This prodigious orchestra then begins to perform their chaotic symphony. Brash hammers on sturdy mahogany make sufficient drums, and the infernal whirring of power drills become reprehensible replacements for a Fender Stratocaster blazing through a colossal wall of Marshall stacks. Unhinged and angry, I jump from my bed and slam the window closed with the finality of a judge's gavel. Of course, by this time Im well rested and jolted awake, adrenaline coursing through my enlivened body. A quick morning workout robs me of 20 minutes, and, after a brisk shower and some yoga to relieve the localized pain of exertion, its a relaxing jaunt over to the local farm for my morning tea. Another refreshing...