I see now that it takes so much more to be a man in this generation of women, and femininity. Realizations come flooding out of my third eye like a cool mountain stream washing away the old glacier soil to the valleys where people rejoice the rising sun. A soft blanket of clouds drops thought like snow. Hot food and hard work mold a man, it builds calluses on his hands and his mind, while smoothing out his heart. My desire is to build a home to raise a family, to love my wife and sing lullabies to infants drifting to wonderland with heavy eyelids. I plan to read rings on trees like the fearful read newspapers. One day I'll wake up and pray for rain to fall on my crops, for grass to grow thick and green to fatten the cows for winter. Most of all, I will love; because through it all that's the one thing that keeps me going, the one reason to live.

What it means to be a man: to love, to live, to die.

I'm down to talk, whatever else happens is secondary. Conversation is the only way to connect. Chill out away from society, play music, drink sweet tea.