Kamal Ravikant

“What’s it like being a nine year old girl?” I ask. We’re in a Sushi joint in downtown Sebastabol. More Organic you-name-it stores per square foot than anywhere I’ve been. When you drive into town, a sign: Nuclear Free zone. This is the Vermont of California. Her little brother gnaws happily on his chopsticks. She…

In Chemistry, you learn about electrons. The orbits they inhabit. But the most fascinating part is how they jump orbits when excited. One moment – excuse the blatant simplicity – happily circling at one level, doing their thing. Then instantaneously, a level above. Poof. Disappear. Appear. How it really happens, no one knows. But it…

I don’t know the exact time of my birth.  5 or 6 am.  My mom remembers dawn breaking outside the window.  When I press her for more, she gently reminds me that she was occupied at the time. Fair enough, mom. There I was, pulled out, all tiny and screaming.  If you were to translate…

When I die I want you to climb the highest mountain you see. As you set your ice axe upon the peak and plant your flag, think: he should have done this. When I die I want you to call my mom each day tell her how magical she is. I want you to make…

I haven’t written in a long while.  No daily practice, no ten minutes a day.  No true sentence.  Why?  Because I’m afraid.  Afraid of going in deep, of digging out the truths, of what it takes to write that true thing again and again and again. What I forgot was the result.  The gift you…

(I cut this piece from Live Your Truth because it didn’t fit the narrative arc.  It’s 100% true.) I don’t remember when I first started reading James Altucher‘s blog, but I clearly remember the first time I met him.  San Francisco, Thanksgiving weekend.  Sunday.  He and his wife, Claudia, were in town and we’d set up…

I set out to write a very different book – what I’ve learned about productivity, health, fitness, creating.  How to be your best on the outside.  Instead, this book rose.  About discovering and living your truth, the foundation within.  If you work on that, the outside is a natural byproduct. More so than the last…

Hard Rock hotel, late night, walking back to my room.  Pass photos of famous musicians, stop and stare at them for a while.  Kurt Cobain.  You can see the pain in his eyes.  I look at others, similar.  Do all artists have to suffer?   Part of me resists when I ask the question.  I…

The tools have changed, but the process hasn’t.  You sit, an empty page in front, whether it’s pixels or paper or parchment, and you fill it with feelings, with emotion, with life.  There is magic here.  Real magic. The world quietly asleep outside the window, the clickity-clack of the keyboard, whatever music I’ve got on…

He does not exist anymore, except in my imagination.  Memories arising when I least expect them.  Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of him and I feel such a fondness.  I wish I could spare him the pain I know he’ll experience. But I also know the love he will as well.  The amazing things he’ll…