While at a dinner party last month, Fake yapped about music unleashing his creative juices. “I don’t listen to music for pleasure, but only for inspiration to write,” Fake said. “I need to be in that mindset where I hear a melody, feel the melody, and then have a sickening urge to tell a story about it.”

I openly listened to his artist-speak regurgitation. But I considered myself a quasi-writer, and Fake was creating a perception that writers are conceited and weird. He gave all writers, quasi or not, an odd if not a bad name.

Artists speak similarly of psychotropic drugs releasing the grip on their imaginations, and needing to be in a state of intoxication to create art. (I am basing this solely on movies.)

I have used music to remember details of past events, because experiencing sounds or smells sensed at that time can unlock those memories. And I have experienced drunkenness leading to idiotic ideas. But nothing more.

Last night I attended a Linkin Park concert. Two drinks flowed through me, achieving a pleasant, mild awareness. The lead singer, Chester—covered in tattoos and a sheath of sweat—screamed Linkin Park’s hits as well as new treasures like “In My Remains.” I felt the beat. The fist-pumper in front of me was switching from her right to left hand, gypsy girl danced away her energy, and super-awkward-jumper dude twitched to his version of rhythm. Surrounded by those “artists,” my imagination captured a concept that has been floating around me, and for the first time I felt like a real artist and writer.

I have transformed into a new person, a change that began towards the end of college, accelerated after my book released, and reached Mach 5 when I achieved my best Michael Phelps imitation. I am not very religious or spiritual, but the baci bracelet that has been tied around my left wrist has led to mystical lessons. I was on the verge of feeling whole.

Recently, one of the people I’ve felt closest to, SZB, had been distant and nonresponsive. I was tortured, always placing myself in one of her many pairs of boots and trying to see the world from her perspective, thinking of ways to get through to her. Not understanding led to me feeling cracked. SZB was unknowingly the only missing piece to me feeling whole.

I believe I know SZB better than she thinks I do. I perceived that I had become toxic to her in a way I’ll never understand. But I respected her sense of wholeness as I had hoped she respected mine. So I finally asked if I was sensing the truth. If so then I would leave her be.

Though I maintain hope that SZB and I can connect again someday, I wish for her to feel whole as I do now, even though I ached as if a good friend died. For now, I have no wandering pieces of myself. As life goes on that may change, and I would look forward to the challenge of collecting them.

Perhaps my Organic Sense of Wholeness is the Secret to Life, the One Thing, the Key to Happiness. I have considered ways to share my story through speaking in order to inform and inspire, and this may be my calling.

Achievement begins with accepting yourself completely. Strive for a goal, preferably one you can measure. Accept those characteristics you cannot change, so long as that isn’t due to laziness or stubbornness. Superesteem will follow. Some people will not accept those characteristics; will not accept you. But that is ok. Consider this: Justify Nothing, because they can’t crack your wholeness.

Use your imagination next to discover what pieces of you are missing. Attending a free rock-climbing trip and wearing a cultural bracelet will help, but aren’t necessary. Music and hard drugs are, though be careful because the latter may crack your state of living.

Finally, collect those missing pieces. What follows is your Organic Sense of Wholeness which cannot be cracked, even if cancer or unemployment or gonorrhea tries to.


Postscript: To justify my current mystical weirdness, I declare that I am jacked-up on Colombian coffee and have been listening to Linkin Park. Now, back to sports!