Letters to Shia,

Dear dear baby boy,

You finally have a name! Yay! I was a little nervous there for a second. My “Let’s name him Bob jokes” became increasingly less funny as the vagina you escaped from became stitched back together and your innocent baby eyes searched my face for an answer. Your eyes, my goodness those eyes. They see everything and jolt back and forth in your head as if there is still so much more to take in. There is Shia, an unimaginable amount more. I pray that your eyes never lose their fervor to seek new sights and be amazed by them, the same way I’m amazed by you. Your eyes, as brilliant a work of God I’d ever seen, terrify me to know end.

The cruel nihilistic reality of life that comes when you look deep into your pupils. The yellowish tint of your jaundiced cornea, are disturbing reminders of my own fragile mortality and eternal search for purpose. Having you, no, creating you, has in turn aroused in me all the thoughts, fears, ambitions, and denials that I try to placate through the daily cycle of mundane existence that we call life. Exposing another creature to this sad excuse at “living” that I have myself fallen trapped into is, of course, the cruel punishment of existence: a person’s greatest joy come the moment they bring a tiny being of their own divine creation into the world.

I am now painfully aware of my own consciousness among this living, breathing organism called Earth. My successes, my failures, my friendships, my pains, my memories, my ambitions…my dreams, do any of them truly matter? Shia sometimes my dreams are so real I wake up in them. It’s almost absurd how real they feel to me and how painful every waking moment realizing that they are creations of my ideological perceptions of bullshit constructs created by other people before me. I wanna be a writer. Like this really really notable, unbelievable, name in history writer guy. Trouble is, I think I write like shit. I’ll write for hours and hours on end only to become so unequivocally disgusted with myself that I just give up, never to return to the narrative again. I want to make a TV show. A really notable, once in a lifetime television show where I could bring up the dramatic sequence of events  in episode 7 season 10 to a Native of the Osowabi tribe in the jungles of the Amazon and they’d say, “dude I can’t wait until next [insert timeslot], it’s going to be epic.” Problem is, I hate television. I absolutely detest it. It’s my belief that an hour spent watching TV destroys more brain cells than smoking crack, strictly in quantity of participants. The entire population of opiate addicts would fail in comparison to the Love & Hip Hop/Basketball Wives fan base. A debate in which group is more productive in that hour time slot would be a fascinating one to behold. The same can be said for my dream of creating a movie, except the timeslot is now doubled and people are lambasted with enough flashing lights to place them in a catatonic state that after a number of viewings, nobody notices is even a real thing anymore.

I’m not writing this to complain about my life, though that seems like all that I’ve done. I’m writing this because I want you to be able to find your purpose, even though I have yet to. The meaninglessness of life doesn’t mean that your life has to have no meaning. But once you find it, fight for it Shia, no matter how idiotic, or contradictory it may seem. Fight like your life depends on it because it does. Fight like its the only thing in the world that makes your heart beat. Fight for it like the universe let you glimpse into the beauty of life itself, right behind a pair of yellow tinted eyes.

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