The Asymulator

Sometimes you need to come in real loud and fierce, with all the fury of a violently erupting volcano—wrapped inside a hurricane—that’s slinging molten hot lava wads the size of ten Ford F-650s.

And sometimes you gotta be all soft and covert. Like you’re some kind of super-stealth mutant hybrid cat-ninja that is cloaked entirely with nano-carbon tubules and wrapped in a complete vacuum where no sound escapes.

If you can’t operate in both tactical modes at a radically superior level, then your abilities have a gaping weakness—that of inadaptability.

I don’t know who started the practice of rigidly sticking to one’s modus operandi as if you don’t evolve as you gain life experience. Like if you ever changed, your entire physical existence would turn into a lackluster soundless and smell-less fart that no one knew happened.

Well, fuck that.

You’re more than that. You are anything you want. You’re a metaphor for quantum possibilities. You’re  on mute and max volume at the same time. You’re a one month old puppy and a smashed bottle in a bar fight. You’re the tofu and the rock. 

Like my neighbor, Mr. Lee once said, “To obtain great strength, empty your mind. Be formless. Be shapeless. Like water.”