>I Would Call This "I Guess This Is Growing Up" But You Might Mistake It For Lyrics From A Blink-182 Song.

>So quickly we lose sight of things. It takes no time at all to lose everything you have worked for; it takes no time at all to forget the motivation which burned our hearts with passion what seems like years ago though may be mere minutes, hours, days. Goals turn into dreams, dreams turn into reaches, reaches turn into former flames, the ex-girlfriends of ideas (if you will). Passion falls by the wayside for "getting by."

Appeasing people replaces pleasing people.
Somebody sparking conversation over coffee turns into just something else to blog about.
I watched a video of a man speaking at a conference on how education saps creativity because we have been instilled from the time we could speak with an ingrained sense of hatred for failure, and what he said has begun a similar thought process for me. Learn math or you're a failure. Pass physics or you're a failure. Successfully read and comprehend King Lear by yourself for the final exam or you're a failure. Just about every moment, with the exception of a few breaks here and there, from the time we are 4 to the time we are 22 or 23 is spent chasing a very expensive piece of paper that has BS (read into it what you will) or BA on the top of it and puts us one step closer to getting a job at a desk with an impressive selection of neckties hanging in our closets and a weekly prescription to keep that stress-induced acid reflux at bay. A modern student of English will look at that previous sentence and note that it could be a run on, and not realize that I employ Middle English syntactical devices in my writing when I get on a roll because that's how our language was invented.
We spend all that time and money to become the people we swore as kids we would never become.
Picasso said "All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." We take the pens out of the hands of kids when the ink on the paper becomes unintelligible and we arrest people drawing social statements in spray paint on abandoned buildings and we allow music to be degraded to literally the most embarrassing quality in the long history of the art and call it popular. Uniformity is not just encouraged but enforced with art school dress codes and religious dogma and this ridiculous necessity to have a pretty house with a nice table and sleek curtains and vacuumed rugs and a place for everything in our ever-expanding freezers. We even have the phrase "social norm." With this compulsion to be "normal," as it is, clearly, the ultimate aim for anybody wishing to fit into the society, we see the "abnormal" as a problem to be solved. A kid in class won't pay attention to the lecture presented to him and instead doodles on his desk, so we prescribe him Concerta rather than find him an art teacher.
I once had this overflow of ideas and words and expression... this music constantly dancing in my head and through my fingers and onto a page or a track or into the void of space, existing simply to exist... but it is dwindling. I now compile lyrics or make chord charts or request checks or pack up my boss's office when I could be locked in a reverberating room with a guitar and a notepad and a Bible to produce original music for an exponentially expanding church. I scroll past the 7 finished tracks out of 13 for a rather innovative concept album on my way to the music I listen to to focus myself to attempt to learn statistics. Meetings take precedent over motion and I find that the day is not long enough to get the things I need to do done, launching myself into an unflinching struggle to stay on top of things (which I have never been good at in the first place)...
All I can think of is how God created everything in its place for a reason. He gave birds a sense of awareness for the physical principals of drag when flying in a flock. He installed echolocation for bats and dolphins, alike. He created humans to think and to be creative and to exist in His image... which is an image of creativity. Look at your life and tell me that you are not squandering it.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.