If it wasn't for living in a bubble all my life, the fundamentals of past promulgations, incumbency of rules, regulations and modules of rigorous lessons about how life should be lived as instructed to me by my parents and society, I'd have lived a different life cycle. Instead of riding on a unicycle I'd have been riding on a tricycle.
My bubble was an unrelenting recipe, refueled by educators and parents, stuffing me with genuine factotum guidance. The recipe was fluffed with periodic pinches of piquant leavening. The genius ingredients consisted of 1 overflowing cup of racial prejudice, 1 level cup of morality, 1/2 cup of ethical duplicity, 1 tablespoon of piracy politics, 1 tablespoon of religion, 1 teaspoon of tactile suffering, 1/2 tablespoon of stupidity, 1/4 teaspoon of education, 1/4 teaspoon of character escapism, 1/4 teaspoon each of rivalry, rebellion and reinvestment.
Within that emotionally formulated bubble, offshoots of historical supportable data that life was a gift of installments of responsibilities had harnessed me as a retained object, a reverberation of my parents indoctrination into culture and society, replenished by that historical recipe that had turned me into a puppet, a human robot vibrating, echoing and dictating my future.
The archaic ideals kept me hogtied, they laundered my creativity, and when I'd tried to puncture the bubble, intolerable migraines launched tangible guilt barriers, mental blockades that held me captive within the confines of antiquated archetypes. I'd suffered for over three decades until the notion of individuality spiked my attitude on July 4th, when I broke the orbital bubble recipe while walking along the Boulevard de la Croisette in Cannes, France.
The mission I'd been on had ended two days previous. The woman I'd escorted from Athens to Antibes was happy to be home. On my second day of walking the boulevard I'd observed other strollers moving in and out of shops, restaurants and hotels such as the Majestic, Carlton and Marriott Cannes, in their expensive designer attire, also in flip-flops, shorts and tank tops, or dresses, heels and suits. They all were dressed to kill their admirers. How could they not be dressed to kill while in Cannes?
Think outside the box I'd been told innumerable times by associates, friends and acquaintances. I knew that was impossible, because thinking outside the box one still had the same thinking processes that would terminate any creativity. Besides, innovators were always trying to think outside the box, and magicians were always extracting beautiful women from inside restricting boxes.
Magic, that was the missing ingredient inside my bubble. How could anybody live enjoyable, fulfilling lives without pieces of magic? In one soul-expanding tenth of a second I thought I was dead, and in that transparent slice of time I formed one complete life-changing idea; the box was imagined. The box was an intangible bubble my parents and educators placed me in. I'd been living under a dome of obsolete dogma, political principles that kill people, philological views that cripple creativity, doctrines of religious beliefs that constrained thinking, and other limiting canons that provided foundations for emotional recessions and educational depressions.
Standing on the corner of Rue Chabaud and Boulevard de la Croisette in front of a Louis Vuitton fashion boutique, on that particular 4th of July, I examined my attire and my three skills: listening, observing and learning. The invisible bubble I thought I was inside of had vanished. My Nike hiking boots, khaki shorts and Beatles imprinted black t-shirt represented my lifestyle, yet I was observing the color coordinating shoes, handbags and barrettes women and girls were wearing. The men were altogether the same; color coordinated loafers with pants and shirts. And the gold and silver jewelry floated around their extremities.
The angst inside me had crested and dissolved. The credibility gap that had plagued my life had finally dispersed.
On July 4th, the 185 day of the year, I declared my independence from my bubble, that day was the the Aphelion, the point when the earth is farthest from the sun, Fourth of July, Independence Day, commemorating the adoption of the Declaration of Independence on July 4th, 1776, declaring independence from the Kingdom of Great Brittan.
The glistening azure Mediterranean across the boulevard, the blinding blue overhead, auto exhaust fumes, a bird chirp here and there, conversations unnecessary, and a litany of supplications of boxed lives and free nature resonated inside my brain. At that moment, without hesitation and with exuberant delirium I'd decided to add one more skill to my growing talents. And that would be writing. I'd write reality fiction novels, emotional and physical events from my experiences.
How could I go wrong? I'd almost been killed at least six times by Greek and Turk soldiers, attacked by a knife yielding madwoman, restricted and beat upon by callous orderlies in a hospital, addicted to morphine via a medical doctor, deceived into becoming a mercenary, propositioned by money in exchange for marriage, sexually abused by an older sister, emotionally stared by a hardened mother and ignored by a philandering father. Why wouldn't I write reality fiction that intensified emotions and that could bring solace without complacency to readers interested in educating themselves about the world in which I'd lived?
Bertrand Russell, the British philosopher, logician, mathematician, historian and social critic determined man to be, "the product of causes...his origin, his growth, his hopes and fears, his loves and his beliefs, are but the outcome of accidental collocations of atoms, that no fire, no heroism, no intensity of thought and feeling, can preserve an individual life beyond the grave, that all the labors of the ages, all the inspiration, all the noonday brightness of human genius are destined to extinction in the vast death of the solar system, that the whole temple of man's achievement must inevitably be buried beneath the debris of a universe in ruine...all these things, if not quite beyond dispute, are so nearly certain, that no philosophy which rejects them can hope to stand..."
Thus, I write novels, and arguably, they are entertaining if not educational.
At a young age I'd decided not to inspect the world of growing and changing while I idly watched time pass, and not have traveled and experienced firsthand social and cultural exchanges in politics, religions and morals. Consequently, I've traveled around the world and lived in fifteen countries, written tough reality fiction splashed with urban, ubiquitous, multi-layered adventures, highlighted with investigative reporting, strident photography and razor-sharp realism. I'd also co-won the redroom.com 2008 Memorable Summer Read Writing Contest.
Please put on you explorer hat and travel around my redroom.com room. I've mingled with celebrities and mercenaries, millionaires and indigents, intellectuals and brainless. Living is full of unrecognized and missed opportunities, have you fallen into an abyss or are you living?
Do visit my website: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BM7U4O