Not finishing what I set out to do in life before dying is not my greatest fear, no not having someone to pick up where I left off is.

To be progressive is to have the courage to try to see through the fog of doubt that blocks the path forward, make out what is yet to come, in a journey where others focus their gaze on what is and what was.

Making impossibilities possibilities is but the very purpose of progress.

Most of humanities, our species history was a struggle was against the climate, simply trying to survive the elements, to carve our societies, to tame this this world and make it ours. Yet now the greatest challenge of our time, will be the struggle to save the very same climate that killed our ancestors. Tragically ironic isn’t it?

Men have always died. In dying they take nothing, so it was a man gives, what he leaves behind that defines him, each man building upon his predecessors legacy. Long forgotten ancestors left us an identity, a name. In taking a name Forefathers pass on lands and property.the men of this era are no different. In being given wealth and lands they ought to aspire and build, leave behind a world, a better one.

For many its a new year, a chance to reflect upon the past to start anew afresh. Not for me so much, just another sunrise amid many seen and hopefully many to be seen. The desire to reflect and to change should not to be tied to when a number changes every 365 days , rather that impetus for that should be daily. What good have I done today? What wrong have I done today and improve upon for tomorrow? To ask oneself those questions does not take a year, but a mere moment or day. Even the sun that gives life to this earth arises new everyday and yet man feels to do the same much less frequently. How is it that man has forgotten that his life maybe measured in years, but is truly lived and experienced in moments, hours and days?

When a man reads history its in ink, but when he is making it, its written in his blood, sweat and tears.

Strangeness should be greeted with curiosity and attempts at understanding, not instant hatred and condemnation, this is what separates fools from scholars, societies that will progress and societies that will become relegated to history books.

Even something so simple as a seed, shrouded in darkness of the dirt it is planted in, finds it way to the sun, So how can man expect to not find what he seeks in this life, even when he faces the constant darkness of his own fear and doubt?

As a painter to stains the blank canvas with paint, the writer that stains the blank page with ink. Every now and then a different sort of person is born, the kind who manages to stain reality with his dreams, and in doing so, make it his creation.