Jake Holder




I started writing Losing My Mind in America when I was living in Peru. I wrote it in both the third and first person, to illustrate the waking up of my consciousness...


Jake grew up in a perfect household in the suburbs of Texas, America—a loving mom and dad, two older brothers, Sunday school, team sports, good grades, friends, smiles and even a white fluffy toy poodle—and there were no signs of the creatures from the underworld encroaching into their family fabric. But, when his healthy curiosity for the things that toggle reality’s foothold, implodes, he finds himself to be a human-off-of-land, treading in the ocean of his balloon-headed delusions.

After the LSD and the mental hospitals, I felt something inside of me. It urged me to question my existence and ask myself, “Who am I and what’s my place in the world?” It was something like the voice of Old Man wisdom, trying to guide my ship to shore. I was young though, my healthy curiosity had long since imploded, and it hadn't ceased because of the scars on my forearm. Instead, it'd accumulated itself into a tick that'd demand I see it for what it had become, or else…

Fresh out of rehab, Jake was spiritually endowed with heroic courage, and vowed to take the journey to the underworld—Peru. He'd volunteer as an English teacher and wander into the Amazon Jungle to meet a medicine man who'd use a potent brew to cure him of his underlying woes. Being cured though, had its downside: Invincibility. And invincibility had its tilt—dissonance. In came Alaska, the streets of Hawaii, and the growth of the tick into a monster.

The Old Man would try to get through to him. “My friend, better you open your eyes than to run in fear of your shadow.”

Sometimes he'd listen. Others, he'd be too far floating. It would take a miracle to bring him back from the dead, and into the present moment.

As I sit here today, in China, my fire burns with the fuel from my moving past, but it does not suffice for me to sit back and observe. I must participate in the music of life through the act of creating, lest I go back to the place from which I came. 


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