All Good Shit Must Come to an End.
Well.
Losing my job with JRS?
It’s not the end of the world.
In truth, I’d just about had enough of sitting around playing mental solitaire,
trying to keep my body and mind occupied despite the peaceful surroundings.
Anyone my age would know — losing a job at this stage in life is a hard blow.
The chances of finding another decent one? Close to a miracle.
I’ve still got two kids in school. Rent to pay. Car payments to meet.
Add all that up and you’ve got the kind of pressure that can turn a man of faith, reason, and goodwill…
into a walking time bomb.
And that, I reckon, is worth investigating.
Because this is what shapes a so-called terrorist.
Not religion. Not politics. Not poverty alone.
But a perfect storm of injustice, exhaustion, and betrayal —
by man and by the Almighty Himself.
Yes. I said it.
Sometimes the anger isn’t even at man,
but at the God who shaped us in His image —
and then left some of us to walk this world bruised, kicked, and gasping for grace.
I’m not blaming anyone.
Not even myself anymore.
I’ve made mistakes, sure. I’ve taken a few wrong turns.
But enough is enough.
I didn’t walk this path, climb these mountains, and wander these forests just to fade out quietly.
And like bloody hell if I’m going to exit this life with my tail between my legs.
This —
This is what it takes to become a terrorist.
An angry man, screaming one last time into a world that’s refused to listen.
Now all that’s left is a cause.
But of course…
That’s just my mind talking — spinning out in panic, painting worst-case scenarios.
It’s always done that.
And if I were still on drugs or drowning in drink,
that spiral might’ve turned into something destructive, even violent.
But I’m older now.
Not necessarily wiser, but old enough to pause.
To remember those who look to me — my kids, my friends, even my inner self —
And know that I still owe this life something more than noise and rage.
As a good friend once said,
"Don’t sweat the small stuff — and in the end, it’s all small stuff."
So what the hell am I trying to say?
Why am I rambling here on a Friday morning,
kids off at school, a solid mee goreng in my belly,
a good crap behind me, and the road to the University ahead?
Because the show must go on.
Because art is the only form of self-justification I have left.
Because without it, my existence might feel like a waste.
They say it’s the climb that matters, not the peak.
That it’s the journey, not the destination.
And sure, I’ll buy that.
But dammit, the peak is still the peak.
It’s where we scream our final scream.
We plant the flag, take a breath, and leave something behind.
Life is a blank canvas.
And I’ll be damned if anyone’s going to choose my colors for me.
No one can force my hand, erase my dreams, or mute my expression.
This canvas — this life — is mine to paint with blood, sweat, and tears.
And when the time comes…
I will scream.
A scream that shakes mountains and stirs tsunamis.
A scream that echoes into the heavens and sinks to the lowest hells.
A scream that says:
“I was here. I lived. I didn’t go quietly.”
Call me not a man if I fade without leaving my final cut.
#CheeseburgerBuddha #LifeAfterJobLoss #RageAndReflection #SpiritualBurnout #ModernExistentialism #TheStruggleIsReal #FatherhoodAndFaith #ArtAsSalvation #TheShowMustGoOn #BlankCanvasLiving #CreativeSurvival #InnerRebellion #ScreamOfTheSoul #FromDespairToCreation #FinalCutLegacy
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