If It’s Done With Love

Can I become debt free?

Financially, mentally, spiritually?

Or will I always have a debt? Is that what connects us? Is that was intertwines our fate?

If I lived selflessly, I would have to renounce my desires, my interests, and live a life of servitude. I would be debt free, because I would give and take nothing in return.

If I created the life I want to have, followed my heart, evolved my dreams, realized my potential, then I would be in a state of persistent debt, because I would be taking, taking, taking. Selfishly.

So which is the path?

If I believed in fatalism, I would say that I am already on the path of Selfishness. I want to become somebody. Change the world. I want, I want, I want. I have already been taking from a young age. I am already in debt.

But is there an inward door I need to open? A door of giving selflessly. Unconditional existing. Ego disintegration. Debtless living?

I don’t know!

Let’s call me, me. Let’s call the rest of the world (anything that exists outside the realm of my body) the other.

What is my relationship to the other?

Right now, it’s a sort of

“It’s your turn to give”

Towards the other.

If I gave all the time, I would have a relationship similar to any relationship I’ve ever fucking had. I don’t get anything back. I get taken advantage of. My heart is wrung and then left dry.

I am learning to accept life as it comes.

Giving is good, but so is accepting.

What good is giving, actually, when you can’t accept what’s given?

That’s what I need to focus on. Accepting in comparison to taking. Giving in comparison to spilling forth.

If it’s done with love, then it’s done well.


The Sound of Song

I am the sound of my guitar, like a woman weeping at the park for her lost love. Yea, I am sad, lost, but deep down I am relieved to be alone. Yes, the love I lost was sweet and filled my spirits, but in the end, it was gone. For me and my music, there was no love to be found as, perhaps, this woman at the park found him. My love was one inside.


Ah, how misleading all of this is. Perhaps, I will choose a better metaphor.

My music is…


Yes, I have it!


I am the captain of a ship and her name is Song. Aye, she rocks me to sleep upon the sentient waves of life, the happening days of life, the unpredictable yet applicable winds of time. Oh, how my Song captures the waves of life and the winds of time, yet exists outside of both. Exists outside of life and time because I created her. She is my song. And in that, she is life and time, for I am but the froth of the waves blown in the wind.


What can poetry capture, but the metaphors of a metaphor? Is everything so translucent?


Ah, I sit back in a hammock under the creaking decks of my ship and I play. Here, alone at sea, I can sing. Only when the last shore has been faded away and become horizon can I sing. I am alone, but I am found. Is this amazing grace?


It sounds like pity, and yes, sometimes it feels like so, but mostly it is the timelessness of silence that draws me in and holds me in the swaying motion of the hammock and waves. Aye, it feels lonely, but best to feel alone than to be somebody I’m not. Oh, how it feels like laziness, and so it may be, but I am working for the Song and the Song works for me.


Is it worth putting into words and sending into the sea like a message in a bottle?

I Am a Singularity

If you listen to somebody enough, your thought pattern takes on their speech pattern. And if that speech pattern is violent and harsh, then your thoughts become so.

I have witnessed this in myself.

I have seen since the beginning of working at the mill that I have been sinking into the thought pattern of those that i work with. And when those that I work with are always shit-talking, I begin shit-thinking.

You can fight it.

You can decide not to listen to it.

But eventually, because it is your own thought pattern now, you begin to act on it. I have become less loving and more harsh. I have taken upon myself an exoskeleton because this world dislikes the gooey people.

And I am gooey. Whatever you say will stick to me and take form around me. The innocence of what I was is buried 6 feet beneath this sludge. Then it dries and it cracks. And that has become my exoskeleton. That is what my identity as Drew Overmier has become.

I have to continually dig out of this muck, scraping away from the inside, and some days, when I’ve been away from people long enough to scrape and scratch and dig, I poke a hole through the surface and I see the sun. And it’s beautiful. And I can breathe. And then it is quickly covered by somebody else’s shit. Somebody else muck. Because we think that giving away our muck is how we get rid of it. We are like wildfire, thinking that if we spread we will go out.

Maybe if I could clear myself away from this muck once and for all, I could learn not to be so sticky. So gooey. And I could love freely and be innocent and whole.

But that will not happen at the rate I’m going.

I will mostly die in this exoskeleton made of other people’s speech-patterns. And nobody, nobody is going to let me out, no matter how much I try to imagine it. No matter how much I want somebody to come along. No matter how much I need for it to happen, it hasn’t yet so all evidence goes for me to say it won’t happen ever.

So I’ve become used to being a golem, an unformed creature. I’ve decided to view my innocence that is scraping its way out as a void instead of a thing. A black hole. A singularity.

And that gives me hope. This means, whatever you throw at me will, yes, stick, but it will also be consumed in the vast compression of a singularity, a black hole. And it is only a matter of time until you have no more shit to throw at me. No more muck.

There will come a day when my inner peace, my constant struggle to compress and digest, my singularity, my black hole will free you from your own exoskeleton. And then, on that day, we will both be free.