Begin: with these reflections

I was tortured by the horror of doubt rising like a ferocious tide: I had lost all meaning and and sense of direction in every seeming aspect of my life. I was consumed by a desire to become something greater than the mundane that I had surrounded my genius with, yet at every door I was without a key. My art failed me. My words fell flat against my own ears. WHO WOULD LISTEN TO A WRITER THAT COULD NOT THINK? My talents haunted me simply to remind me of everything that I was NOT. I would rot in this vanity. Like narcissus consumed by his reflection in the pool, every day my image grew more tenacious with its maddening taunts. I WAS GOING NOWHERE.

This man was a poet. This man was a musician, even if a failed one. Hundreds stood before him, watching the beauty of a soul going up in flames. He rocked. No, he fucking rocked. He got trashed and gave shitty performances because he was fucked up. This man was an intellect; an enigma. A walking controversy. This man was an ocean of spirituality and a well of sorrow; a fountain of beauty. He always sought truth but bought his own lies. He wanted nothing more than love. He wished for nothing more than love. He went to war. And was forever changed.