What makes someone great? Is it what they do or who they are?

From afar, it’s easy to recognize what somebody has done. Epic trips on dem socials, the perfect partner, the body, the ostensible good life. But are they any happier when alone?

You wanna be a legend, be a legend in your own heart.

I have gray in my beard and hair to my shoulders; I guess the gray hairs mean that this kid is getting older. I think there’s wisdom in the gray. I like the salty wizard vibe, and maybe all there is to do is own it. Let shit happen as fate would have it—it’s a miracle to be here at all.

Still, I’m human in our modern world—isn’t it too soon for the color to fade? I’m sick of worrying about what seems so vain; it’s not what I post that’s the real me; it’s what I create into obscurity—loose notes and empty files—the universe receives our unburdened heart.

Got my ear pierced with a sapphire-colored stud. I didn’t know when I got it that for a Virgo like me, blue sapphire stands for intuition. I guess it was meant to be; what do people see when they look at me?

What does the sun see when I roam the city streets or I’m lying on the beach, shedding tears?

Last night I cried on the beach. I feel blessed to cry while listening to crashing waves.

I’m hard on myself; I don’t know why I’m still in pain. I smoke a J to feel better—it broadens my mind, brings tears to my eyes and opens the sky. At times I feel lonely, even though I’m always talking to my family and friends. Why can I write certain things I find it hard to bring up with them?

It’s hard to admit we don’t know what’s going on. It’s hard to admit I’m falling behind. But is it falling behind if we’re slow to post online what we think makes us exceptional in other people’s eyes?

It feels like I’m not made for our society. I just wanna do my thing. I wanna be great. Different. Successful—of course I do.

It’s because I’m scared. Scared of mediocrity. Scared of dying without giving everything. Scared of failure and scared of success; scared that I don’t know what to do, because I don’t.

All I have is what I feel, and it feels good to say I’m scared.

Why am I scared of being normal? Normal doesn’t mean failure. Somebody who’s content—truly content with a “normal” life—might as well be a paragon of greatness.

Still, I look in the mirror and expect more. I’m not satisfied. I compare myself to my friends. Other people my age making money. But who knows what they go through. Maybe the ones who seem to have it all are the ones struggling the most, trying to keep it all together.

I want to be a good person. I try to include others. Not pass judgment. Help where I can. Is that more important than anything else? I think so.

I want to be healthy, whole, on my shit.

But I’m not so innocent, not all the time anyway. I hunger for nights lost in dark places with other sweaty shadows. Those dark places draw emotions from me like the moon draws the sea.

I can’t live in the light forever. I need the darkness, the madness; I want to be desired; I want somebody to hold. I love New York, yet there’s so much going on, it feels like I’m missing out if I don’t party while I’m young. But going to the bars the last couple of times has made me feel disappointed; ashamed, even. I go home alone and it’s like I’ve failed as a human being.

I know that shit means nothing. Maybe it’s just not my scene. I love to rage when the time is right, but I’ve made the best connections when sober living life. Surfing. Traveling. Dancing. Talking to a stranger at a park.

I’m thirty. I still feel so young. There’s this doorway into a higher realm of being, one of calmness and strength, grounding and clarity. I feel caught in the liminal space in between. Maybe that’s why I’m home.

I’ve been surfing, writing, running, spending time with friends and family and watching the World Cup. It’s been such a good trip.

Right now I don’t have New York City to walk around, but I have a car in LA. I’m grateful for a car. It’s fun to roll down the windows and breathe the sea air. There’s nothing so sweet. Play music as loudly as I want and scream the fucking lyrics. It’s one of the few places where you can scream as loud as you can and not feel insane.

Maybe we are just insane. I know I am.

Being back here in Malibu does something to me. I need to be alone to cry like I did by myself on the beach about all these things I can’t understand. LA conjures old emotions but it brings out new ones too, of gratitude and the warmth of being held by the place that I come from and the people that I love.

I get up early and the world smells like jasmine. I make some coffee strong and work on my book before the day rolls away.

It brings me so much joy to create.

Less explaining, more dancing.

I’m on the road, and the car smells like coffee and surf wax with my board in it. Everything’s a little sandy; sunlight pierces through the slate-blue clouds. I’m going to meet my best friend surfing.

Not knowing where I’m going, but knowing where I am, we’re kids on a Saturday morning and this is who I am, this is my life and I fucking love it. Jack Johnson blasting on the radio makes it all okay. There’s no rush, nowhere I have to be but here.

The water’s warm, the waves are clean, the mountains shine behind me, life is good. I’m so blessed to be here, so blessed for my family and friends, so blessed for every breath, this body, and this mess in my mind that’s an adventure to untangle.

The need to be great is really a need to feel loved. Those who can sidestep this insidious race and embrace the marvelous mundane are the great ones.

A morning like this doesn’t cost a thing, but it takes understanding what’s important—what’s real. In the ocean, all the bullshit fades away. Success is to feel like a kid playing.

Being great means taking a week, a month, a lifetime—to just chill at the sea, not needing anybody to know you’re truly happy.