What’s popping, people? It’s Dante getting my morning started here in the Garden of Eden. Welcome to Fairmount Park, Philadelphia — the heart of the city.
You know, I like thinking of the city this way. Like, City Hall should technically be the heart, right? It’s the center of the municipality. The mayor sits there. The courtrooms are there. Things happen there.
But then you’ve got the subways, the bus lines, the roads — arteries. And the people that ride them? The ones who operate the buses, drive the cars?
They’re the bloodstream. They’re the nutrients flowing through the organism.
The city is alive. A chaotic, beautiful organism of order and madness.
The Micro-Interactions That Make a City
I like chatting with people on the bus. You start to see the same folks over and over again. There’s a kind of rhythm to it.
It’s fun. It’s social. But at the same time, living in the city can be incredibly isolating.
You live in a condo. A box stacked on top of someone else’s box. You ride the elevator. Say what’s up. Then scurry back into your own little cube.
There’s no real depth to it. No communal thread unless you go out of your way to find it.
That’s why I joined a boxing gym. Just so I could experience some kind of repetition — Some kind of tribe.
What the Village Gave Me That the City Can’t
Back in Zambia, when I was volunteering with the Peace Corps, I lived in Panta Village — Luapula Province, Samia District.
🇿🇲 Nshiva Ichibemba. Nfwa Ukutandala. Ku Zambia, Uku Bomba in Ichishiba. Nalalupwandi. I speak Bemba. I worked in Zambia. I give thanks.
I was a fish farmer, working with youth groups, spending my time fully immersed in village life. And I swear, I became part of the tribe — a surrogate son in my host family.
When I arrived, my host father literally presented me a goat hanging from a tree. Like, “Here you go. Kill it. Let’s eat.” We feasted all week. Sat on the floor. Ate together every morning, noon, and night.
There was no “mine” and “yours.” There was only “ours.”
Everyone Had a Role
In the village:
Mothers walked home each morning with firewood stacked on their heads, babies tied to their backs.
Men were building churches and homes.
Boys were forming bricks out of mud and sand.
Girls were sweeping floors and preparing food.
Everyone contributed. Everyone had a role.
And what blew my mind? They thrived. Even without running water. Even without electricity. Even without stoves or fridges.
They smiled. They woke up joyous. They had meaning.
What Held Them Together: God
At the center of the village: The Church.
Everyone gathered there — not just Sundays. Some went every day.
The people strove to become like Jesus. Through sacrifice. Through service.
They treated their neighbors like themselves. There were no police. No bureaucracies. No government agencies.
The family was the government. The tribe was the law. The church was the soul.
You wanna talk about freedom? It was this:
Becoming a slave to God… is the highest form of freedom.
When everyone is a slave to God, everyone becomes a servant to the good. And through that service — the entire village thrives.
What the City’s Missing
Compare that to modern life:
People piss on toilet seats and don’t clean it.
No one talks to their neighbors.
Everything is commodified and isolated.
We don’t strive to be like Jesus. We strive to “get ours.” And then we wonder why we feel alone.
Experience Is the Real Teacher
Living in that village gave me a new paradigm.
And that’s the beauty of travel. Not the touristy kind — but throwing yourself into the unknown.
You don’t need more books. You need more experience. That’s where real wisdom comes from.
What I Brought Back
Now I live in Philly with:
Running water
A stove
A deep freezer full of beef from a local farmer
Wi-Fi
Bitcoin
But that simplicity I saw in Zambia still lives in me.
And actually — you know what? Technology could help those villages, too.
They all have phones now. Airtel, spotty service, yeah — but it’s something.
If they had Bitcoin access, maybe they could:
Save wealth
Leave the village for better jobs in Lusaka
Build homes
Store food with electric fridges
Maybe tech isn’t the enemy after all. Maybe it’s the bridge.
Because as beautiful as that village life was, opportunity matters too. And maybe someone from a fish pond in Zambia ends up in a mansion one day.
1. Traditional Assets Are Defended with Human Lives
Assets like:
🏠 Land / Real Estate
🪙 Gold
🛢 Oil
📈 Equities
…carry monetary premiums that are protected and defended with:
Military force
Rule of law
Government control
💬 “The chain of custody for these assets is written in blood.”
2. Bitcoin Changes the Game
Bitcoin defends wealth differently. Instead of armies, it uses:
⚡ Electricity
🧠 Code
🖥 Computers (miners)
By storing value in Satoshis (Bitcoin), we transpose the defense of wealth into cyberspace. Now, instead of risking human lives, we just pay the electric bill.
🔄 We trade bullets for bits. War for watts.
3. The Bottom Line
Not having to waste human life to defend monetized wealth is worth every watt.
Bitcoin is more than just digital money— It’s a peaceful revolution in how we secure value.
4. How Traditional Assets Are Defended with Blood
Let’s break down exactly how these legacy assets are backed by violence:
🏠 Land / Real Estate
Wars are fought over territory (e.g. Russia–Ukraine, Israel–Palestine).
Armies occupy land to claim and hold it.
Police enforce property ownership domestically.
Evictions and land seizures involve coercion and force.
Blood Cost: Countless wars and civilian deaths over land rights.
🪙 Gold
Historical conquests (Spain in the Americas) were driven by gold.
Armed guards, vaults, and secure transport protect it.
Piracy and looting over gold were common for centuries.
Blood Cost: Entire civilizations devastated for gold.
🛢 Oil
Modern wars (Gulf War, Iraq War) heavily tied to oil interests.
Military bases secure oil-rich regions.
Naval fleets patrol oil routes.
Blood Cost: Hundreds of thousands dead in oil-related wars.
📈 Equities / Corporate Assets
Governments protect corporations with police and military.
Wars and sanctions are used to secure markets and supply chains.
Corporate interests often drive foreign policy decisions.
Blood Cost: Violence used to uphold profit and ownership.
All traditional wealth is ultimately defended by threat of violence. Bitcoin replaces this with math, code, and energy.
This morning’s thought is real simple: Thinking is for idiots. Especially when it comes to photography.
Follow What’s Fun. Follow the Sun.
You don’t need a plan when you step outside with your camera. You don’t need a message. You don’t need to prove anything.
Just follow what brings you joy.
Street photography isn’t about saying something — it’s about being.
I’ve seen too many photographers walk around with this idea that they have to create a message. That they have to “say something” with their images. They’re wiping their lenses down, strapping on their camera bag, putting on the “photography hat,” trying to build some polished narrative arc with their little visual stories.
That’s when the work becomes mediocre.
I’ve never done that. Never.
I’ve photographed in conflict zones across the Palestinian territories — and not one second did I stop to ask, “Is this meaningful?” “What am I trying to say here?” “What narrative am I constructing?”
No. I was simply out there. Alive. Aware. Embodied. Following joy. Following curiosity.
And that’s exactly how I think everyone should shoot.
Don’t Think. Just Do.
When you go out and try to make something meaningful, you usually don’t. When you try to say something, you usually say nothing.
Thinking leads to stagnation. Doing leads to motivation.
That’s just how I’ve lived as a photographer. No planning. No overanalyzing. Just me, my camera, and the open world.
I don’t sit there studying light angles on a park bench, trying to synthesize the formal elements of composition like I’m some academic. That’s a trap. That’s when your work gets stiff. You’re trying too hard.
The Front Lines of Life
Photography isn’t a theory — it’s a practice.
I’ve spent over a decade just being in the world. Walking. Wandering. Witnessing. Clicking the shutter with instinct.
“Not up in my mind — out there on the front lines of life.”
That’s where the real juice is. The inspiration, the energy, the meaning you’re looking for — it’s out there, not in here.
Knowing Too Much Is a Problem
You wanna know what leads to mediocrity in photography?
Studying too much.
Knowing too much.
Thinking too much.
Trying too hard.
A lot of people think knowing the history of photography, memorizing techniques, and worshipping photo books is gonna make their work special.
I mean… I barely know the history. I’ve read some stuff eventually, sure. But I don’t dwell on it. I’m not falling asleep dreaming of Henri Cartier-Bresson’s contact sheets.
It’s just not that deep.
You’re a flesh creature bound by gravity with a camera. Relax.
Bliss Is the Point
I suggest this: Follow what brings you joy.
Click the shutter.
Exude your thumos.
Chase the feeling of bliss.
Be bold. Be curious. Be spontaneous.
That’s where the magic is.
If you wanna sit around wondering what it all means, cool — but honestly, I think that’s dumb.
No one really knows what they’re doing. And that’s okay.
Just go. Explore. Shoot. Feel. That’s the thought of the day.
The physically unhealthy will inevitably have some sort of mental hygiene problem—whether it’s resentment, envy, or just pure self pity and weary thoughts.
I’ve never met somebody who is physically vibrant and vital that spreads negativity.
The physically unhealthy inevitably leak some sort of unwell, unhealthy, negative thoughts.
Nearly every morning I have an interaction with a neighbor, who always says something like
Today is going to be lousy
Or just any general negative remark. But the kicker is, he lives in a luxury condo, drives a fancy car, goes on trips all of the time, but his body is weak. Yes, he’s old in age, but his form shows decades of neglect. If you neglect your body for decades, the soul will suffer in eternal hell on earth.
Oh, it’s gonna be a good life. It’s gonna be a good life. Good life for sale.
What’s poppin people? It’s Dante.
I just heard this song that reminded me of my childhood — Good Life by OneRepublic. Heard it on the radio yesterday in a shop with a friend. It got me thinking this morning:
What is the good life? And how do we actually live it?
If you’re anything like me, you’re probably a photographer, an artist, someone who likes to create. The most simple way I can frame what a good life looks like for an artist is:
Be in the flow state of production. Create more. Go out with your camera and just click that damn shutter.
This is where I thrive. Through producing. Through creating.
Vitality Is the Core
A good life is a life full of vitality. One thought I had:
The only life worth living is a life full of vitality.
We’re in our heads too much. One thing I thought this morning:
Thinking is for idiots.
When you’re overanalyzing, relying on ChatGPT or some external source to guide you, it can paralyze you. It clutters your mind. Leads to anxiety. Maybe even depression.
But when you’re clear — clear of mind, clear of body — everything sharpens. For me, that clarity comes from fasting.
Fasting for Clarity, Not Calories
I don’t fast for autophagy or health metrics. I fast because:
When I’m fasted, I’m not thinking. I’m just being.
It’s like autopilot. I respond to life with my gut and my intuition. I believe fasting brings you closer to God. It realigns the soul.
When I think of the soul, I see it in three parts:
Mind – reason, logic, analyzation
Gut (Thumos) – courage, spirit, vitality
Desire – hunger, lust, pleasure
My philosophy: align with thumos.
Cut through the noise of mind and body. Move forward with instinct. With spirit.
Not in the Matrix
You can sit and think forever. Plug into the matrix. Strap a VR headset to your brain and drift into some digital soup. But:
If you’re not out in the world expressing your will to power, your soul will die.
You need to move. You need courage. You need thumos. You need life.
I thrive on the front lines of life.
Any time I’m inside too long, I feel my soul wither. But outside — through fresh air, through texture, through nature — I come alive.
Barefoot and Grounded
I wear barefoot shoes. Vivo Primus Lite All-Weather for work. They give me the same feeling as Vibram FiveFingers but don’t look ridiculous.
When you remove your shoes, you return to a primal way of being.
Your legs, back, posture — they all strengthen. You sense more. You feel more.
Like a Hunter
Think of a hunter. He doesn’t stuff his face before tracking prey. He fasts. He marches barefoot. Like an ancient warrior in Agoge training.
By simulating a primal life in the modern world, you unlock more vitality.
It’s not about being primitive. It’s about aligning with how we’re meant to be. Physically, mentally, spiritually.
Upward, Not Outward
When you have vitality, your energy increases. Curiosity follows. Creation follows. You walk more, see more, do more.
The good life is physical, mental, and spiritual vitality.
Align your body, mind, and soul — and it points toward God.
All the modern distractions? The chase for money, status, attention?
That’s just noise. Chatter.
When you walk alone in nature, when you sit in silence and listen, you hear something deeper. You hear your conscience — or what I like to call Christ.
Christ as the Inner Voice
When you align with God:
Everything else becomes effortless.
Negative comments, physical pain, life’s burdens — you’re above them. Not in an arrogant way. But in a way where:
You want everyone to thrive. Not just survive.
The modern world wants us to survive through bureaucratic loops. But when you break out of that mental cage — and align with God — you thrive.
Play, Sweat, Engage
Get good sleep. Eat good meat. Train. Join a gym. Be social. Do stuff.
I recently joined a boxing gym. Did a technique class yesterday. Sparred with a partner. Threw punches. Sweated together. It’s physical and social.
You can’t live in the wilderness forever. We need both solitude and society.
In the morning, I work alone in the park. In the evening, I walk the city, do street photography, talk to strangers. That’s balance.
Don’t Label Yourself
People ask if I’m introverted. I’m not. I’m not extroverted either.
Putting labels on yourself is foolish.
I retreat into the woods just as much as I charge into the streets. There’s no one-size-fits-all. You gotta find your own good life.
Final Thought
These are just raw morning thoughts on what I believe the good life is. For me:
It all starts with vitality.
Increase your strength by 1% each day — and your curiosity will grow with it. Live with instinct. Trust your gut. Seek God. Embrace reality.
I don’t want us to just survive. I want us to thrive.
After returning from my trip to Hanoi, Vietnam, I found a profound shift — I needed to change. I was photographing in color for seven years, and when I returned home, I began to shoot in black and white.
The most profound thing I realized in Hanoi was how happy and lovely the families were. When I would walk around the lake on the weekend — when the street closed down — I saw all the beautiful families with so many children. I felt like I was missing something in life.
Like I was just an outsider, despite being out there in the world, on the front lines of life. It felt like I was purely in a state of observation, and I was yearning to become what was in my photographs — or to live a normal life like the families around the lake.
Descent Into Pain
Then came intense emotional pain and suffering — mourning, crying, breaking down with my mother on the couch. It felt like the world was a prison.
I remember walking out into the hallway of my condo, looking at the vents, inspecting the air conditioning systems — just staring at the dust and gunk buildup — thinking:
“You’re not supposed to spend time inside. This is just an unhealthy prison cell. It’s so unnatural. So strange.”
When I looked out my window at all the buildings, they looked like perfect little prisons. The offices were cells. And when I walked through the mall, it looked like everyone was trapped inside glass cubes — like prisoners.
A Lifestyle Shift
I went through the depths of hell:
Speaking uncomfortable truths
Overcoming past traumas
Removing toxic friendships or any relationships that didn’t serve me
Quitting the news and all media
I began rebuilding from the ground up:
Wearing barefoot shoes
Relearning how to walk
Training my body with more intensity
Daily fasting
100% carnivore diet (no breakfast or lunch)
I stopped sitting down
I started living a primal lifestyle — walking from sunrise to sunset every single day
I also:
Started reading ancient philosophy and the Bible
Spent my days in solitude and isolation
Walked every day to the cliff that overlooks the Schuylkill River Trail
My time in nature reminded me of my childhood — playing in the Wissahickon Forest, where I spent hours alone, building teepees with sticks, bridges with stones, blazing trails, and exploring the unknown.
Recording the Journey
I started writing.
I started filming videos where I spoke candidly, almost like real-life stream-of-consciousness street philosophy — recording not for others, but as a way to learn.
Part Two: Easter 2023 — The Return to Church
April 2023. Easter Sunday. I woke up and everything changed.
The world felt like a playground. I returned to church for the first time since I was thirteen. One mass — that’s all it took. I knew the truth of Jesus. I felt the spirit return to me.
I was so happy to be back in a community, to sing songs, to read the Bible, to be surrounded by beautiful people and beautiful things.
I started praying regularly. I reconnected with my faith. The world began to feel new again. Like I was a child. I was reawakening my Catholic roots.
One thing that stood out to me about mass was how they say the prayer to Saint Michael the Archangel at the end. This is a prayer that I never learned as a boy in Catholic school. And I didn’t know about Saint Michael the Archangel. 
I went on a bike pilgrimage to the miraculous medal shrine in Germantown.
Rejection from Within
When I began returning to church, feeling joy again, and openly sharing my love for Christ — I expected celebration, or at least peace.
But instead, I was met with strange resistance — not from strangers, but from those closest to me.
Somebody in my family told me Jesus wasn’t real — that there were no carpenters in Jerusalem because “there was no wood.”
Two Years in Solitude
I spent nearly two years in solitude, hiking the woods, walking nature paths, spending most days in silence.
My conscience — Christ — began to speak to me.
It told me to leave my meaningless job and return to my roots.
Leaving the System
I had started working as a photographer for the City of Philadelphia. But after a few months, I felt empty. It didn’t feel meaningful. I knew I was here to do something more.
The moment of clarity came at a banquet.
Everyone was feasting and praising each other. It felt like hedonism. Like everyone was wearing a mask. And I sat there thinking:
“Does anyone actually deserve an award? What are we even doing here? Are we just stealing money to do nothing truly helpful?”
It felt like sin.
I knew I couldn’t participate in it anymore. Something in my soul told me: this is not it.
Going to Rome
I listened. I left everything behind and went to Rome.
There, I prayed daily at Chiesa Santa Maria dei Miracoli, a church dedicated to a Marian miracle.
I drank from the miracle well at Chiesa di Santa Maria in Via — only because it was in the best location for street photography. But my intuition guided me there, without any plan.
I visited Castel Sant’Angelo every day. I tried to memorize the Prayer of Saint Michael the Archangel, a prayer I first encountered in Philadelphia, because I never learned it as a kid in Catholic school.
The Rainbow and the Dragon
On a day trip to Paris, I had a dream:
A clouded dragon chased me. It transformed into a rainbow in the sky.
The next day, I stumbled upon a sculpture of Saint Michael the Archangel in Paris. He stood above two dragons. A real rainbow appeared in the sky above the sculpture.
I returned to the church in Rome and told the priest what had happened. He gave me a Miraculous Medal — a symbol of protection, grace, and Mary’s intercession.
Since that trip, I have been overflowing with joy, love, and abundance.
Finding Purpose Again
I found a job I absolutely love — working in horticulture, spending my days in the park. I feel most connected to God here, most at peace in solitude.
I started reading the mystics:
Saint Teresa of Avila
Saint John of the Cross
Because deep down, I knew:
I am a mystic.
The experience in Rome confirmed it. And I wanted to understand.
Since then, I’ve made creative breakthroughs in photography and art. I am now at eternal peace.
Rejection and Radiance
Living in the truth of Jesus, through his moral teachings and acts, I noticed something strange happening:
People started to hate me in public.
Random strangers would say mean things.
Others would be drawn to me with kindness and open hearts.
Some people freaked out at me for no reason. One person is now even banned from coming into my workplace because of how hateful he was. Even at church, someone told me I’d be a better Catholic if I stopped eating meat to lower my carbon footprint.
I stopped going. I didn’t like the fear, guilt, and shame.
However, many people were receptive and loved me. For instance my bus driver visited me at the horticulture center for a tour because we built strong rapport.
Another time a stranger sought me out while walking in prayer in the morning in the park and told me how I inspired him when he wakes up in the morning to just be grateful for the sunrise and another day.
Becoming a Disciple
I no longer subscribe to the Church’s dogma or tradition.
I simply consider myself a disciple of Christ.
The Amish and the Jesus Man
One day, I walked along the river trail and ran into an Amish man and his friend — a man dressed in a tunic with long hair and a beard like Jesus.
They asked me a strange question:
“Have you ever told someone the truth, even though it made them uncomfortable?”
I said yes — that was the very moment I began my awakening.
They asked me to follow them, and I did.
We walked to the train station, where we saw a homeless man. The Jesus figure put his hand on his back, lifted him up, and took him inside. The man was obviously suffering — possessed or diseased or on drugs. But what I witnessed was almost a miracle.
He brought the man into the station, gave him his phone, allowed him to call for help. Then we entered an open area, where he pulled out a songbook. And me, this Amish man, and this Jesus figure — we just started singing as people lined up for the train.
Part Three: The Amish Bible Study
I had a few more encounters with them. They would come to the city and sit on benches, just talking with people waiting for the train about Jesus. I observed them. I spoke with them. I was intrigued.
Then one day, they invited me to a Bible study in Lancaster. I made a spontaneous decision to go. We drove to an Amish home on a random farm in the middle of nowhere.
I ended up in the basement of that house — surrounded by excommunicated Amish people. They had left their community because they no longer felt the church’s teachings aligned with Christ. They believed the dogma and traditions were too extreme — not grounded in love.
I shared my own story. Told them how I also felt out of place in my church. It felt good to be with others who understood. To just sit together and share.
We:
Sang songs in harmony for 30 minutes
Took turns reading a passage from Revelation about St. Michael the Archangel visiting the body of Moses
Went into small prayer groups and prayed for one another
Then I went home. A profound experience.
Easter 2025 — Self-Baptism
The night before Easter 2025, something strange happened.
Everything I do is unconscious but also conscious — like I’m just a big kid operating on a subconscious level.
I lit a candle. I got into a hot bath. I thought of Nicodemus and how Jesus told him to be born of the water and spirit.
I remembered talking about this with the Amish — wondering what it truly means to be born again.
In the bath, I had a profound experience. It felt like I was purifying my soul. Like I gave myself a baptism.
3:33 A.M.
I woke up at exactly 3:33 A.M. Something sacred in the air. A synchronicity I can’t explain.
The week continued, back to routine.
A Soul on the Bus
On my bus, there is a beautiful soul who often sits across from me. Where I usually stand — drawing on my iPad, going through photos, making notes, reading, praying the Rosary.
And when I say “beautiful soul,” I mean soul.
Because the first day I saw her, over a year ago, I thought:
“Gray-eyed Athena.”
I experienced anamnesis.
Something struck me — like I remembered her. I saw beyond her physical appearance. It felt like soul recognition. Something ancient stirred in me.
It was beyond any primal attraction. It was a mirror. A tuning fork in my heart. Like the presence of God in another soul.
Synchronicities with Her
I walk the city more than anyone. I know its rhythms and patterns — light, motion, nature, people.
And I kept seeing her — again and again — three times randomly in the month leading up to Easter.
Something stirred in me.
So I asked her for her number. I asked if she wanted to go to look at sculptures at the Rodin Museum.
She said yes — and told me she comes from a family of famous artists.
She was busy until the summer, so she postponed it. Still — I felt incredible that day.
I went into the sunlight and felt like I was basking in God’s light.
For some reason, I looked up the significance of the date. May 8 — the day Saint Michael first appeared.
Déjà Vu and a Witness
Later that day, I ran into a photographer I know. He’s a 60-year-old Muslim man. We always walk and talk.
I had told him about her before Easter — how I needed to speak to her.
So when I told him I finally did, we were standing outside the Victory Building, and I remember feeling the flash and the feeling of déjà vu.
I told him that she works in education at this school nearby.
He said:
“My son is graduating from there this year. My younger one is going into 9th grade.”
“The school’s moving — just a few blocks from where you live.”
That moment shook me. I don’t remember the last time I felt déjà vu like that. It felt like I was inside a dream I had already dreamed.
Confession of the Poem
Eventually, I sat next to her on the bus.
I told her that before I even spoke to her, I had named her Grey-Eyed Athena.
She was a muse for me during my creative transformation — from color to black and white photography.
Because every time I saw her, I entered a creative frenzy. A million ideas. A burst of spiritual energy.
We started talking about religion.
She told me she studied religion in college. Studied abroad in the Middle East — places like Jordan, learning about Islam.
I told her about my time in Jericho, sleeping on mosque floors, learning Islam firsthand.
She told me she grew up Quaker, I told her I grew up Catholic.
When I asked what she believes now, I said:
“Spiritual and religious are kind of the same, no?”
And then she asked what I am now.
I said simply:
“I am a disciple of Christ.”
When she got off the bus, she turned and stared at me from the street.
It felt so profound. Beyond lust. Beyond romance. A spiritual connection.
Like seeing beyond the veil — literally seeing her spirit.
A Night of Pain and Revelation (dark night of the soul)
June 3, 2025 — I went to the boxing gym and had an intense agility workout.
I ate afterward, but didn’t take a hot bath. I was too tired. Fell asleep.
Middle of the night — I woke up in excruciating pain. Could barely move.
I got into a hot bath. And in that suffering, I was called.
Something inside me said:
“You need to give her the poem.”
Unattached to outcome. Just share it.
Despite knowing little about her. Despite how strange it might seem.
It wasn’t romantic. It was spiritual.
June 4 — Agape in the Garden
I walked into the garden.
I was thinking of Jesus. And suddenly, I began to weep.
I collapsed on my knees, laying in the grass as sunlight touched my skin.
My eyelids were watery — light turned to white.
I opened my eyes and began laughing with joy.
The birds, the flowers, the trees, the bugs…
It was all too beautiful.
I said in prayer:
“I don’t deserve any of this, Lord. I don’t deserve this love. I don’t deserve this beauty.”
I wept like never before.
June 6 — A Mystic Confirmed
Two days later, I went to the park with the gift I had prepared for her.
I ran into a former monk.
I confessed everything — told him my experience of Agape.
He said:
“Maybe God is calling you to be a Mystic.”
I shared my entire spiritual journey with him.
He then said:
“Do you know what the Gospel of the day is?”
He told me:
John 21:15–19 — the restoration of Peter.
John 21:15–17 – Breakdown of Love in the Greek
The Greek Words:
Agapāis me? – Do you agape me? (divine, unconditional love)
Philō se. – I philia you. (brotherly love, affection)
Line-by-Line Breakdown:
First time:
Jesus: “Simon, son of John, do you agape me?”
Peter: “Yes, Lord; you know that I philia you.”
Second time:
Jesus: “Simon, son of John, do you agape me?”
Peter: “Yes, Lord; you know that I philia you.”
Third time:
Jesus: “Simon, son of John, do you philia me?” ← This is the shift
Peter was grieved because He asked this the third time…
Peter: “Lord, you know everything; you know that I philia you.”
What It Means:
Jesus first asks for divine love — agape, the deepest, highest form of love.
Peter responds with philia — affection, deep friendship, but not quite divine-level.
On the third time, Jesus meets Peter where he is — switching to philia, acknowledging Peter’s current capacity for love.
Peter is grieved not just because Jesus asks three times, but because Jesus steps down to his level.
The Message:
God meets us where we are—but still calls us higher.
I then told the monk after explaining my story:
“If you have good news, shouldn’t you share it?”
He smiled and said:
“That’s what Gospel means.”
I had no idea thats what it meant…
Transmutation and the Poem
One evening, I went out to dinner with some friends. The topic of women came up — but I didn’t resonate with the conversation.
I told them, “Honestly, I’ve been on semen retention for four years. It’s transformed my life.”
I shared how I’d been seeing this soul on the bus — how it wasn’t lust or romance, but something deeper. And I said:
“You know, when you feel love or longing, you can transmute that energy into something creative.”
For me, that became photography. But in this case, it became a poem.
I named it “Gray-Eyed Athena.”
It was never meant to be romantic — but an offering of divine love. A reflection of God.
Giving the Agape Gift
So I attended mass on Sunday for Pentecost, and then on Monday I started my walk and headed towards the park. I had the gift of agape in my bag—carrying it almost as a metaphor, a symbol of divine love.
The first person I saw was the girl from the bus. She was sitting on the bench. I went up and spoke to her for about 30 minutes, and at the end, I gave her the gift: a poem and a framed photograph I had taken of a pigeon flying above City Hall.
The next day, at the elderly art camp where I work at the Horticulture Center, I saw two ladies sitting down and said hello. We started talking, and I asked where they were from. One of them said she was from Mumbai, India—Bandra, specifically.
I was shocked. I had literally been there. I only have one photograph from that trip framed and printed in the break room at work: Bandra Fort, with a bird mid-flight. It’s an iconic image.
I ran back, grabbed the print, and gave it to her. We hugged. Took selfies.
It was surreal—because just the day before, I had given a framed print of birds in flight over City Hall to the girl on the bench.
And now, I met someone from across the world, from the exact neighborhood I had visited years ago, and just so happened to have the perfect gift for her too.
There must be some archetypal truth to The Divine Comedy— the way Beatrice guides Dante through Paradise. Not as a lover, but as a mirror of God’s light.
Maybe we really can find Beatrice in this life— not to fall in love, but to be called upward by love itself.
That’s what she was for me. A divine mirror. A spark. A nudge toward the eternal.
What’s popping, people? It’s Dante — out here this morning in the Centennial Arboretum, making a photograph of this wild tree that caught my eye.
Half of it is dead. The right side is completely dried out, decaying. But the other half? Vibrant. Alive. Bursting with green leaves, blooming like nothing’s wrong.
And I just stood there thinking — damn, that’s life, right?
We’re all split like that tree.
One side of us is decaying, hurting, grieving.
The other side? Still pushing forward, blooming, striving, catching light.
There’s this duality I see everywhere — life and death, pleasure and pain, light and darkness.
As a photographer, this is what I look for — patterns. Patterns in nature. Patterns in light. Patterns in human behavior.
Whether it’s the way the light falls on the sidewalk… or the way someone gestures to hail a cab, there’s this constant dance between order and chaos. It’s always there.
And as humans, we’re flesh. We cut. We bleed. We feel sorrow, pain, greed.
We’re imperfect. We’re finite.
But weirdly, that’s what makes us divine.
It’s the simple fact that we’re here on this earth temporarily that gives it all meaning.
The fragility of life is what makes it powerful.
This morning, after my prayer to Saint Michael the Archangel, I thought about his name.
Michael means: “Who is like God?”
That hit me hard.
Because I do want to be like God. And I know how crazy that sounds in the modern world, where people laugh at anything spiritual, where the divine is ignored, where we’re told to be small, stay in our lane.
But I’m asking —
Am I allowed to strive to be like God?
Not in an arrogant way. Not in some fake, almighty sense.
But in a real, humble way — where I recognize:
I’m flesh.
I will die.
I mess up. I fall short.
But I also carry the divine signature within me.
Look at your hands. The creases in your palms. The flow of blood through your veins. The breath you’re taking right now.
It all mirrors the patterns in nature — the lines in leaves, the roots of trees, the branching of rivers.
We are not separate from the natural world. We are it.
The divine isn’t some lofty thing in the clouds — it’s embedded in your skin.
And if that’s true, then maybe we really can strive to live like God.
I think about Jesus Christ — God in the flesh. The Logos. The Word. The Reason.
If Jesus was the divine made flesh, and we are made in the image of God, then following His way — the ethics, the love, the courage — is how we embody the divine in everyday life.
Be Like the Tree
Rooted in the dirt. Reaching for the sky.
Our roots are sunk deep in struggle — sin, lust, greed, hunger, pain. But our branches? They stretch toward the heavens, toward light, toward truth.
That’s what trees do. And that’s what we’re here to do.
This world wants you to dim your light. To play it safe. To just get by.
But I refuse.
I was made to shine. To evolve. To fall and get back up. To sin and repent. To create and express and strive.
We don’t live forever. But our soul can echo through what we leave behind.
Through art. Through photography. Through love. Through becoming.
Don’t shy away from the divine.
Wake up. Feel the breeze on your skin. Listen to the birds. Be grateful you get to breathe, to touch, to see, to feel.
And create. Use your light.
We are flesh bound by gravity — who cut, who bleed, who feel sorrow, pain, and greed… but we are also like God.
“Yesu” by Yo Maps is a powerful Zambian gospel-influenced song that expresses deep gratitude and devotion to Jesus (Yesu). Here’s a breakdown of the song’s meaning:
Main Theme
The song is a thanksgiving and praise anthem, where the artist reflects on how everything he has—love, wealth, job, peace—comes from Jesus. He acknowledges that without Jesus, he is nothing:
“Bushe finshi fimbi ningafwaya nga teimwe?”
“What more could I want if not You?”
This line repeats throughout, reinforcing that Jesus is enough.
Chorus Meaning
The chorus is both a rhetorical question and a declaration of contentment. The speaker is saying:
What more could I desire besides You, Jesus?
If I didn’t have You, I’d have nothing.
Verses Breakdown
“Mwabwela mwampela ichupo nalekabila” You came and gave me a marriage, I had given up. → God provided when the artist had lost hope.
“Satana mwanyanta” You crushed Satan. → God gave victory over spiritual battles.
“Mwabwela mwampela ichuma nalekabila” You came and gave me wealth, I had given up. → More blessings followed.
“Nenchito ninkwata” I now have a job. → God has restored and uplifted the singer’s life.
“Mwabwela mwandwila inkondo nafililwe” You came when I had lost battles. → Again, divine intervention in hard times.
Spiritual Warfare & Triumph
“Abalwani balyesha nokungwisha” Enemies attack and try to bring me down.
“Basanga nalikosa ngechumbu chamishila” They find me strong like a boiled root (unyielding). → This simile means he’s resilient because of Jesus.
Key Message
Yo Maps is saying that Jesus has been his provider, protector, and strength, especially when he had lost everything. The song’s vibe is humble yet triumphant, with a chorus that feels like a prayer of devotion.
Conclusion
“Yesu” is a heartfelt Zambian gospel song about divine provision, gratitude, and spiritual resilience. It’s a reminder to place your trust in God, even when life seems hopeless—because with Jesus, you already have everything.
What’s poppin’, people? It’s Dante — walking down Chestnut Street in Philly with the Ricoh GR III, shooting high contrast black-and-white small JPEGs. The best setup, no question.
And today’s thought? Release your inner daemon.
🗡️ The Streets Are a Battlefield
When I’m out here photographing, I’m not just walking. I’m unleashing Saint Michael the Archangel. He’s guiding me through battle. The streets are the arena, and I’m here to conquer — not people, not the world, but myself.
The street is a canvas. Light is the medium. The daemon is the brush.
I don’t walk these streets looking for something to shoot. I move. I follow that inner fire, that gut instinct, that primal pull. It’s not rational. It’s not calculated. It’s spiritual war — and my camera is the sword.
🔥 Motivation = Movere = To Move
Let’s break it down. The word motivation comes from the Latin movere — to move. Simple. If you want to be motivated, start walking.
Don’t sit around waiting for a spark. Don’t scroll through Instagram or flip through photo books hoping something hits. Just get your feet on the ground, breathe in that city air, and throw yourself into the chaos.
🎯 The Flow State Comes From Instinct
True inspiration isn’t found in stillness. It’s found in:
The blur of people passing by
The scream of a siren
The harsh light bouncing off glass
The feeling that something’s about to happen
I don’t overthink my compositions. I don’t stand there paralyzed trying to line up the perfect frame. I just press the shutter when my daemon tells me to.
“Nine times out of ten, your gut will beat your brain.”
It’s about flow. It’s about channeling that ancient force within — that part of you the modern world tries to kill off with comfort and overthinking.
👁️ The Daemon Is Real
Socrates had one. Nietzsche wrote about it. And I believe every true artist has one — that inner guiding voice, that strange divine instinct that whispers: “Go. Now. Shoot.”
Maybe the modern world has sucked it out of most people. Maybe we’ve become too rational, too tamed, too tied to our schedules and screens. But the street doesn’t care about any of that. The street is alive.
“When I’m out here, I feel my daemon moving. I become light. I become rhythm. I become unstoppable.”
🌀 Meaning in the Mundane
What’s wild is — I can walk the same street every day and still find something new. Because the daemon doesn’t run out. It’s not a battery. It’s a spirit. And as long as I’m in motion, it’s burning.
I find joy in the mundane. I find purpose in the repetition. Every day becomes a new chance to slay the dragons, float through the zombies, and photograph the truth — again and again and again.
🎙️ Final Thought
You don’t need permission. You don’t need a plan. You just need to release what’s already inside you.
So the next time you hit the street — don’t just shoot. Summon your daemon. Let it guide you. Let it move you. And let it create something eternal out of the fleeting chaos of urban life.
