Sure, I was just a kid. So, what did I know?
I knew plenty.
Sometimes I wonder if I knew more back then than I do now.
Who knows, maybe I did.
Maybe I had more energy. Maybe it was safer to be more hopeful.
Or, maybe I was less aware of time and how time runs out, which it does.
I can see why people say that youth is wasted on the young. Then again, I can see why people say ignorance is bliss. And I don’t want to be ignorant. I’m not even sure if I want to be young again, either. But bliss?
I could use some bliss right now.
Then again . . .
Who couldn’t?
There are more things that come to mind when I think back about the things I wish I could tell my younger self – like the word “forever” for example.
Forever is a long time.
Nothing lasts forever.
Not pain. Not joy. Not friendships. Not anything.
But when you’re young – I suppose we assume that things will never change.
And never?
Never is a long time too.
However, there are certain things that I can say will never happen to me – better yet, there are certain things that will never happen to me again.
I will never be a kid in high school again. I will never have to submit the same as I did when I was younger to an older version of authority.
I will never work for something that does not work for me again. If I do, I will allow myself to recognize this and to readjust, so that I can reassess myself and change directions or find a new fit.
Ah, but when I was young.
I remember thinking about love. I remember thinking about the aches and pains of growth. I remember thinking about my groups of friends, or my so-called friends, and how I thought this is how things would be . . .
forever.
But again, forever is a long time.
So is never and so is always.
And sure, there are things that will always be so.
Today will always be today, until tomorrow.
And tomorrow will always be ahead of me.
Yesterday will always be behind me too, which means I better do something about right now – if I want to make it count, that is.
I never knew that times would change like they did.
And I’m thankful they have; although, sometimes changes were painful. But pain allows us to notice when a correction needs to be made. Pain sets the level of urgency, unless we forget what hurt us the most, which means we can be destined to repeat our past – unless we learn from it.
I remember my first breakup.
I remember my first crush.
I remember the first time I was introduced to humiliation of being truly hurt or played like a fool and how I thought the shame I felt would always be unrelenting and forever.
I never thought that I would get over my first try at love or romance.
I swore that the pain would last forever.
But again, I never realized that forever is a really long time.
Looking back, in hindsight of course, I can see that perhaps love was not the right fit for what I thought or felt or believed.
But then again, I was just a kid, right?
What the hell did I know?
Well, I knew that love comes with painful lessons.
I knew that we have to pay attention to warning signs and red flags.
We have to note the fires we see or try to put out or we can get burned
(if we’re not careful).
I can say that my experience showed that love changes. So will our fascinations and our core and center of attraction. I can say that I have matured yet I am younger now than ever before.
I am young and hopeful and wishing and waiting.
And I am alone, for the time being. But this isn’t forever.
No, this is for now.
I can say that as I’ve grown and as I’ve aged, my tolerance has changed. My level of patience has improved in some regards. But in fairness, my tolerance and patience for bullshit is non-existent.
I suppose I can say that I have seen enough bullshit for one lifetime. But like life and like heartache, joy, pain and all the sentiments and emotions under the rainbow; bullshit is equally unrelenting and ever-changing too.
My attractions have changed. So have my passions and my focus and views of perfection because my love is imperfect. And as for the body, my love understands that imperfections are actually the good things, that curves and sways and wrinkles and marks or anything of the sort are more of special branding of what my love consists of – as in her figure, as in her hips or the way her body sways or as in the fact that I know my desires and hunger are unrelenting now because now that I am free to love who I love, I understand that my love is true to me and that my attraction is true to my taste – and I don’t have to please anyone else with this.
I just have to be happy.
But, by the way, no one ever told me these things.
Love who you love and never turn around or look back.
No one ever told me that love needs to be treated like a living and breathing thing and yes, love can suffocate and die, if not treated properly.
No one ever told me that forever is a really long time.
And this is huge.
I remember when I thought I was hurt and when I thought that the pain would never go away.
Perhaps someone tried to tell me that the pain is only temporary.
Maybe I was too hurt to listen.
But it’s true. Pain changes too.
Our association with pain and our understanding of what happens and what takes place is going to change as well.
We all advance – somehow.
Some people do not advance as quickly or as well.
But this is life.
And life is going to be different now. . .
We know this – at least we know this from an intellectual standpoint. However, emotions do not travel down the pathways of logic, strategy or intellectual understanding.
No, not at all.
I remember my first breakup.
I remember the devastation that followed.
And the fights too . . .
Man, those were brutal.
I never thought that I would get over the pain. I never thought that I would forget about the shame or the humiliation of what happened, or about what was said, or what took place.
I swear that at moments like this, I could have taken anyone and beat them to the ground.
I swear that rage is far from a friend. And perhaps pain is not so friendly either.
But both pain and rage are excellent motivators.
I know this for a fact.
I came across an old poem of mine.
The poem is about breakups and the arguments and sentiments which, at the time, I wrote this about the process of my resentments.
I wrote:
The space between us is best described as winter,
cold . . .
and when you speak,
I can see the smoke rising from your breath
(even in summertime)
because everything you say is cold,
like now
when all is below freezing
and your words are frost-bitten
and lonely.
I hear what you say
But I should learn not to argue
or engage, or try to banter
back and forth.
I should learn to understand about the silos
which is where you launch your missiles
of self-consumption.
I should listen with a different ear
because this helps me to realize
that even though our distance is relative –
as in the space between us, or the absence of warmth,
like the empty chamber of the bed,
which is where no one goes before they break up
because,
God help me if there’s an accidental touch of legs
in the middle of the night
(You know?)
For instance,
two bodies can stand within inches of each other
and feel as if they are still too far apart
to get back to where they were.
Yet in the same breath,
we could split the world in two;
divide everything in half
you take one half and I’ll take the other –
We could split
we could draw a line in the sand
like children do when they get mad
or take their toys. . . .
and go home.
Or better yet
We could be on opposite sides of the planet
and it still,
we’d still be too close for comfort.
Oh, and by the way,
I’ve always admired your way of self-preservation –
Your spin is certainly self-serving
or perhaps you would prefer to use the word
“Justified!”
And that’s fine . . .
but the way you shine pieces of evidence
and refine them into moldable truth,
I swear that when it comes to your character assassinations –
this is nothing short of artwork
or crafty.
But I should learn by now,
never argue,
Not to engage
because no matter how you polish the stories,
… nothing will make us true or right
because in the case of hearts against hearts
and love canceling love –
There is no right or wrong . . .
just different versions of the truth
as in my truth – or yours.
One day, I suppose
perhaps. . .
the winter between us will be less homeless and cruel,
and who knows, maybe the cold will subside enough
where we can be civil, if not
almost human about this.
Perhaps at some point,
the way you look at me will not seem as hostile
or hurt or outraged
and perhaps the way we speak
will be filtered like the unpleasant photographs
we change, just so we can look better.
Maybe one day, the need for self-preservation
can subside to the fact that none of this
is about right or wrong anymore.
My side or your side
What’s the difference?
Or at some point, who knows?
Maybe we can think back or look at what took place
and we can think about this honestly
and with less accusations.
But for now,
the space between us is best described as winter –
Cold . . .
But I’ll have to learn better.
I’ll have to understand to never argue
or not to engage
because I see the cold chill between us as a warning…
it lets me know that winter is on its way
But winter is only a season
and no season will last forever,
especially this one.
~
I used to think that I would hurt forever. I used to think that I would hate forever or that I would never be able to forgive or forget. But forever is a long time and eventually, I forgot about the things that hurt me back then – until I was reminded.
No one ever told me that a time is going to come when I will heal and think back about the things that “used” to be so important to me, which they were (at the time).
Only times can, will and do change.
So will I and so will you
and so will this moment too –
be forgotten about, I mean.
I used to walk the beaches in wintertime.
I used to see old pieces of driftwood or parts from something that was washed away, at sea, and landed upon the shores.
I used to see them and wonder where they came from or what they looked like back when they were whole.
I suppose this is what happens with age. I suppose I was whole when I was younger.
I suppose that age and all that happened took bits of me, one piece at a time, like tiny bites with every loss.
I suppose this is why I journal too –
I come here to be whole again or to feel young and resilient.
And maybe this is why I love the beach in wintertime; it’s to remind me that I am still alive, and far more whole than, say, a piece of driftwood that’s alone . . .
or washed upon the shore.
The Written Addiction 