I tried to commit suicide nearly two decades ago. Actually, I made several attempts to off myself. Back then, I was diagnosed as being impulsive by a team of psychologists, trying to get me out of the Navy; it worked. In retrospect, I was most likely suffering from the lack of maturation whereas my gamma-aminobutyric acid neurotransmission remained in an embryonic development—I was simply a foolish individual, struggling with depression issues and winded up getting medically discharged from the military. Be that as it may, I gained a great deal of life experiences within a relatively short period following my discharge, albeit grueling. However, during those brief stints struggling to make ends meet, I came to the realization that I wanted to live after all. Only after one is faced with their own mortality do they truly gain an appreciation of the life their given. Still, the problem with being young and stupid is that a person goes through a brief period making questionable decisions, altering their trajectory in life. Fortunately, I strongly believe we're guided by a force of divine omnipotence. And, with the powers that be, we wind up where we're supposed to be all along. Regardless of my reckless decisions, I was guided on a path that inevitably led me to a talent I was oblivious about. In hindsight, had I misplaced just one of those events back then, I might not have found this passion for writing today. Although I've made absolutely zilch from writing, I'm rich! I know. I know. That statement made zero sense logically. I threw away a career, which would've set me up for life, not to mention a plethora of life experiences gained traversing across the globe on Uncle Sam's tab. I have no proof or anything to show how writing has enriched my life. One thing is certain, though—I'm content with the outcome. Perhaps, being at peace in all facets of one's being is all we could ever expect, especially living in a tumultuous economy riddled with uncertainty. When I was younger, wallowing in self pitty over some broad who didn't give a crap about my feelings, I had no healthy outlets to release these frustrations. Whether it was large consumptions of alcohol inconjunction with narcotics, which led to suicidal tendencies or having one night stands with random strangers, I was a hot mess of self destruction to say the least. Today, I'll just write a book or a poem, reveling in the misery for all its splendor. The irony of it all is that the words I put on paper have had a profound effect on other people across the world, and they've thanked me for saying what they felt inside—maybe I found a purpose after all.