Photo by Aaron Burden / Unsplash

I sleep from 5am-11am everyday. On mornings where the sun barely makes it over my garage and peeks through the slits of my blinds, I get dressed up and head to the park for a workout.

A light 15-minute walk. Music keeps me company; Phoenix, Gucci Mane, Lana Del Ray, and Lupe Fiasco are on repeat. A mix. Gucci reminds me, violence is the answer; Facts! Phoenix let’s me feel free; I’ve never danced so much to any artist(s) before. Lana Del Ray defines my dream girl; enjoys being manhandled but loved from afar; It’s how I love, no apologies. And Lupe; positive thinking; everything works out; power to the people, what people? Ma people. Me people. Mi people. Mo people. Mu people. My people? Sometimes. Y people. Then I realize those artists embody my life: love, freedom, progress. It’s all I have going for me really. It’s all I know.

I reach the green fields of Marine Park. Once I step on the grass, the a gust of wind that traveled 8 miles from the Atlantic Ocean brings a salty air into my lungs. The scent of the sea always rejuvenates me.

I no longer have a set routine. I may jog for a few minutes, do some pushups in different variations, pullups if the bars aren’t ice cold, squats, jumping jacks, back pedals, whatever.

Blah blah blah. Inbetween.

Nighttime. I sit at my kitchen table with my iphone, some form of food and music lightly in the background. And I write. I love music, always have. The stories, raw emotions, love, hate, defeat, death, death, death, violence, drugs, love, success. I have stories.

So I write.

Clifford Genece

Clifford Genece