The Rasta sits in the darkness of his soul beating heavy the drum to the rhythm of his heart. Sitting alone, bare feet, dreads hanging low… the rhythm sings the vibrations of all and to all; a universal language.

"Tis true, I only speak of de trut, mon. I and I is but de same as you and aaaalllllll of de werld…
We is all but one, mon. And dat ting dat we be tis of love. It be so irie."

When I write I feel one with all things, and yet in that same moment, I am alone and still never existed. I am but a vessel which carries the words through. The universal rhythm beats language as my heart beats true and the words flow from the spawning of an idea to the conception and birth of meaning. The conclusion is in the union of minds, connection of souls. Understanding. The drum beats louder.

I am both humbled and in awe and inspired, as I have created… and yet it is life, God and the universe that have been the creators. All of my words, all of my stories are the truth to all, from all, by all. I am but a drummer, beating my drum… my heart, my soul.