the world-weary traveler that never left his home.

Hi. You can call me Manny.
I have many passions, and I'm my own worst critic.

     For a long time, I've been wandering through my life, a vagrant in what's supposed to be my one and only chef-d'oeuvre, hearing brilliant stories of people who've transcended themselves, only ever catching glimpses of what that even means. In these stories, great enlightened beings achieve Nirvana, or find eternal happiness, or some bullshit like that.

     As I've grown, both in age and in character, I've become less and less inclined to chase fairy tales, but there was a time in my life when I wanted nothing more than to be a supreme being capable of creating beauty from nothingness. The notion still stands, of course (a healthy ego is nothing to be ashamed of), but the caliber has been severely toned down. I've settled--if one can call it settling--for trying to master different skills as I encounter them. The goal herein is not as perverse as you may assume, dear reader (although it may be horribly self-involved):

     I want to be the best person I can be.

     I firmly believe in the notion of building upon one's identity in the most absurd, existential way. I'm obsessed with giving myself as many tools as possible and launching myself into the world, in the hopes that they'll have a practical use.

     There was a time in my early teenage years where I did nothing but read books and stay indoors and shelter myself from the world, and I never want to be that person again. I want to live my life furiously, and I'm driven by a lust for grandeur which all but guarantees that I will.

Overcompensation? Probably. In fact, definitely. But I can think of many worse ways to spend my life.

How about you?


     Model: Certified Polar Hastings.