This place I am from, breeds dreamers, believers in the making of fantasies. I wonder some days if it makes us crazy. Yet I look around at Hollywood, and I realize I have been born of dream makers. Not my parents but my surroundings. We equite life to art, and art to the imitation of emotion. This pen is my tool, my life, my therapy, my vision. Yet I have lost my belief in dreams because the practicum says that doing what you want when you want is not prosperity. Yet if it is healthy and beautiful why can’t it be possible. I am running from nothing to believe in something. I t sounds like washed up words behind million dollar unknowns. The risk you place at the table of opportunity is not a heavy wager to success is it. Yet the wager on the actual possibility of the opportunity is great. A high roller style risk. The bet of everything placed on the actuality of nothing. If your talent is the bet what amount would you wager, how much would you risk. I am afraid of nothing dangerous, but so fearful of anything meaningful, always have been. Here in the height of building me… I find less belief in my dreams. My pockets heavy with the sorrows of the past those place chips outweigh the white chips that are full of promise, full of relief from the grief of mistakes made, of bad days turned into impossible mistakes. Can’t build on wrong, can wager on lessons learned, but no home can be built on that shaky ground. The risk is to high, the tide to rough, the waters to deep. Will I lose the bank roll, placing wagers on belief, will I drown in a sea of regret? Will I forget the lessons learned beneath the harsh sun of the presence. Is there a story here to tell. In my jail I dream of redemption. Yet in that moment I realize redemption is not a game of stakes, but a game of will, a game of skill. There is no bet at the table, the cards won’t be drawn, this game is about what you know with what you got.