The Mind of Vertiago

The Curse of the Passionate.  Urgency takes my breath away. My heart continuously burns. I was told to get off the boat. Somebody once told me about God's timing. The perfect timing. He said that God's timing often matures the person before delivering the promise, ain't that beautiful? Like Joseph who had dreams of leadership but spent years being betrayed, falsely imprisoned, sold as a slave. If he had become powerful before the refining process that delay brought about, would he have been the Joseph that we know? I think that's beautiful. But you know... something told me to get off the boat. What I love about time is how consistent it is. It does not waiver for any circumstance no matter how wonderful or disastrous it is. No matter who is born or who passes on, it stays on its journey and does not make excuses to pause. I love that. I hate that. It sells you dreams that it stretches on forever and ever, ultimately giving room for mediocrity to exist today. It tells y...

There was once a time I spent the entire day in silence. The war... the silent war was loud enough. It was a Sunday, 2025. I spent my morning routinely going to church, being blessed with a powerful message by such a well-spoken man of God. What a beautiful experience, an experience that never fails to renew my mind. But I must tell you, it's in the atmosphere of worship where something happens: a purification of the heart. It is truly an unbelievable experience. Immediately afterwards, we went off to have a quick breakfast, and you want to know something that I love? The sound of birds, man, and how they merge into the silent atmosphere that only sunny mornings offer you. I stepped outside, and was blessed with the most beautiful view I've ever seen. The sky was perfect. There's just something about Sunday mornings. The roads were quiet, giving way to nature to perform its duty of reminding man how much of an artist God is. God is great. What particularly stood out was th...

Consistently heartbroken.  The broken pieces of my heart continue to shatter into even smaller pieces, and it's my fault. Is it naivety? Is it hope? I don't know. But what I do know is that I've gone through different forms of death, and it is my fault.  I'm being taught this lesson, and it's been going on for years. Hypocrisy makes the pitiful look foolish, and I keep being fooled. I tried creating the narrative in my head that humanity is damned by it's cruel nature, that humans are inherently wicked and deserve nothing but misfortune, but my self-sabotaging heart just can't accept such. It seems to be okay with being struck down again and again The curse of the passionate.  I saw what they were doing to you, and I felt pity. I stood up for you and fought your battles. Equal standards of living for all regardless of race, gender, sexuality, nationality... okay okay Benjamin, slow down, that's unsustainable. Alright then, equal access to opportunity reg...

I watched you die in my arms. I witnessed it all. I saw them torture you with absolute disregard for your soul. I watched as they took pieces from you. Everyone who passed by said nothing, as if blind to what was happening. They let you rest but only enough to curse you with the strength to suffer again. Each time you stirred with a trace of life, they dragged you back to the edge of death. They wondered why you didn’t die. How you didn’t die. But your refusal to cross over only thrilled them. It gave them more time to strip you of your honor. Until one day... I think you had enough. I watched you die in my arms. I witnessed it all. And I’m sorry.

Every now and then, I find myself willingly going into my dark room of memories—sitting comfortably, counting each scar on my body. The hope that my fresh wounds will ever fully heal begins to fade at the sight of my old ones. Some scars date back 20 years, still as visible as the ones created just three years ago. As I count them, I’m usually struck by a flashback of the event, but at first, my heart struggles to recapture the emotion. My memory resists the idea of reliving the pain. Is this what healing is? No. I stare at each scar and remember each moment as if it happened just a few hours ago. And like a lightning bolt striking a high mast during the greatest storm, here come the emotions. Shit. I wish I hadn’t gone through that. Regrets. People often promote the idea of living life with no regrets. But I’d argue that regret can be the greatest teacher available to anyone with a conscience. He delivers tough lessons that strip the ego bare. He outlasts the five stages of grief and ...

A chip on your shoulder, a heart on fire & teachings of forgiveness is an interesting combination. Do you want to know what I hate? I hate how easy it is to hate. I hate how resentment is always in the neighbourhood looking for the person that will let him in. He walks around with such a relatable story that makes it difficult not to invite him. Such a peaceful guest, if you don't pay attention to him you won't even remember letting him in, he simply just exists in your presence, until it is time to be fed. I ran. I didn't know what to do so I ran. I took everything that I had, picked up every teardrop and ran. Fear was pulling me by the shirt as I saw him in the distance. I could hear anxiety's whispers. So I ran.  I hate strength. I resent you for assuming that I'm strong enough to carry this burden. You watched me as I suffered and pretended that you understood what I was going through. You promised me that I will be alright. I resent you for that. You told m...