I’ve discovered how much an AI company pays a writer per hour to teach it how to become literate. Actually we want AI to be in the top notch of Highly Proficient, not just Literate. The pay ranges from $20-$100 per hour.

Here, as I type, you are close.
(you are just on the other side of my sentences).

You are watching my face
trying to figure out where words
come from.

Which words really matter? Creative to meticulous. The ones that, together in a phrase, have multiple meanings—double entendres—depending on how they are read. I'm a freelance copywriter and a poet. I'm an online marketer and an editor. I'm a social media junkie and a web site blog developer. I'm a blogger and a journalist.

I wrote why am i here? already when my peace sign spoke. It was hiding then. Now as the leaves have dropped, it's louder. But now you can see it, even in a photo.

I am here still, just covered in a blanket instead.

How do you go through your days with vibrance, where each moment matters... It's an art form and one that requires a dedicated eye to presence.

Presence in the current moment, where the eye to what matters opens up. Wide.

In between the letters is a place. To imagine what occurs—as a word is formed, as a choice is made—is to be a step closer to being in that space.

Sentences are made of more than words. Ideas, described. Pauses, illuminated.

You are the memory I have known all my life. You float on a cloud, sometimes white, other times invisible. Clouded, yet not. You are me. You surround me with invisibility—a strength that shields.

Your blog is your place for thinking, and then typing what you think. It's your news source and outlet for relaying whatever you've got to say, and putting it out there. Even if no one reads it—let's hope that's not the case—your blog is a collection of all of your thoughts, organized chronologically and categorically. 

Dream, I tear you apart in pieces to unglue what you've become adhered to in search for wholeness. You are a bridge, and are far from broken now.

I surrender now to you. To you, and to the powers that be that will make my dreams come true in a second once I let go. To you I speak…

It‘s obvious to me that creative words come from the heart and the soul of life, which when flowing freely come sporadically. It is what’s in the silence in between moments.

Sometimes the words don’t come—well only the ones that no one wants to hear. These are the times when I need them the most. It’s when I desperately wish I could write a wonderful book just for me to read, so that I will believe that it’s possible to touch another being in this moment.

Write with me
... as if I'm writing you
... as if I hear only your voice.

The writer is a person whose faucet of words continues to flow. There is no on/off switch. But, the writer—an author of freelance ways of the mind—can also take a nap. A good nap. And in that slumber, words dancing (or not), there is an inflection that breathes through inactivity that produces the artistic work.

Having said that, wouldn't you rather have your content most visually appealing, and expend the effort in doing so? Awkward shapes are not very inviting to the eye, which is inherent in unjustified text, from sentences to paragraphs. Shouldn't copywriting standards adhere to the creation of beautiful and effective copy?

This bridge encapsulates a journey into the unknown somehow. To walk out onto this bridge into the fog along a treacherous cliff along old cobblestone seems precarious to say the least. Yet, it draws me in. If I were faced with this bridge in this moment, I would surely put one step in front of the other and venture out onto it.

Any iPhone owner who sends text messages has learned with practice that the auto-correct feature, which is usually turned on by default when you get your phone, is not always your friend. After using it for awhile it supposedly gets to know you with its artificial intelligence.

In my search for wholeness, I get a cue as to what I avoid in life when I watch what it is I try to withhold from others in my conversations. These are the truths which I hide even from myself, since I clearly lack confidence to orate them. The fear is controlled by my unconscious. These are the inner truths that point to my fear of being who I truly am.