What Do You Know (You’re Just a Kid) Ch. 32

What do you know?
What does anybody know?
Anything?
If anything, this journal has led me to a few conclusions which is that I only know so much. By now, since you have joined me this far, and you’ve never left me, I’m hoping that we can take this trip a little further.

Here we are, right here, at the center of our own existence. I am me. You are you and the world is what it is.
I have to tell you though –
This has been one hell of a ride.
I have to say this both loudly and clearly that I have seen ups and downs. I have felt good things and bad, and after my years around the sun and as I stand in my existence or share my thoughts of this crazy place, I have seen some and lived some.
I have drunk some and spilt some. I have eaten more than my share and yes, there were times when I went either hungry or cold and tired and lonely.
I have seen enough to recognize that life is cyclical.
So, ride the waves where they take you because no one will ever know when life will crest again or crash. When spring comes, no one knows what flowers return or which have gone away.

I do not believe that anyone on this earth is impenetrable.
We will encounter danger or hardships, pain and sadness.
No one has a cure-all or an answer that fits every question.
I don’t care about anyone’s degrees on their wall or how influential they may seem.
I don’t care about professions or anything like this because, in the end, pain hurts and joy can be redeeming.

I am no better or worse or brighter or special.
I am a human traveler. That’s all.
I am someone in search and a person who is trying to find my spot.
And I have to tell you something –
It’s not easy sometimes . . .

Am I envious though?
Of other people, you mean?
Yes.
I am.
Am I jealous sometimes?
Sure, absolutely.
I’m human too. Did you know that?
Just like you are.
I am human which means my imperfections take on every color under the rainbow, which means that this allows me the opportunity to be human, by nature, or otherwise; this allows me the chance to understand that no one has it right. No one is perfect, at least not all the time.
But we do have our moments, don’t we?

I used to look at people and pick out the different pieces of their personality. I saw them and their ways and I admired them like a person would admire an outfit; as if to say, “hey, I think I could wear that!”
I would look at people and their mannerisms and I’d try to create this, like a wardrobe for myself, as if to seam this together, like a suit, and then maybe I could have this be “ME!”
Maybe this way, I could be more desirable or enjoyable. Thus, life itself would be an easier trip or a safer journey.

I don’t know how we do it though.
Life, I mean.
I don’t know how people choose to stand up or get out of bed, regardless of the weights or the burdens on their shoulders. Some are better off than others.
But who am I to decipher between fortunate or those who would rather be someone else–or somewhere else.
As a matter off fact, I used to wonder what my life would have been like if I grew up in a different town.
Same family. Just a different house in a different town with different circles of influence and different versions of cool.
What would my life have been like?
I wonder . . .

Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?
Isn’t this what people say?
Isn’t this what we said to each other the other day?
And people look at you too. Do you know what I mean?
Everyone judges . . .
They tell you how strong you are and how amazing you’ve been and meanwhile, you’re like, “Are we watching the same thing?”
Are you in the same play as me?

I always wondered if people were sincere, especially when they tell you something nice, like wow, that outfit really looks good on you. No, really, it’s so slimming.
Did you lose weight?”
Meanwhile you’re thinking in your head, “Fuck you! I just found out that my blood sugar is all messed up and I gained 20lbs.”

But people, ah yes.
They leave their compliments in such a way that makes me wonder if we should say thanks–or should we spit in their face?
I wondered if their compliments were “just to be nice,” and meanwhile, behind your back, their applause is more like the cheers for a toddler who finally learned how to use the bathroom—or in my head, I used to think that people would congratulate me like a child, feeble-minded or slow, and everyone’s applause was like that for a toddler when they finally learned how to tie their own shoes.

I think that above all things, if we want to be happy or satisfied, or if we want to be at peace with ourselves and enjoy what we can—regardless of the good or bad things or the common-day bouts with ordinary bullshit, we have to start from within.
We have to address our belief system.
This is where insecurity and rejective thinking blurs the truths.

I remember back when I was young.
The adults in my life or the authority figures, the supervisors, bosses, or whomever we can list as someone who believed that somehow, their opinions were more experienced and valuable, and therefore, their knowledge superseded mine—and when it came to them and their opinions, I can remember them saying, “Of course, you think that way. You’re just a kid.”
You haven’t even seen life yet . . .

Now, I have to be fair about this.
Yes, there’s an obvious truth to this.
Yes, I was just a kid and my lack of experience was blinding. However, the value of a young mind and what we see or what we know is truly priceless.

Our kids are like a sponge. They learn more than we imagine.
They gain information from all that they see.
For example, do as I say and not as I do.
I love these crazy contradictions.
I love how nobody recognizes what this leaves behind.

Here’s an example:
Don’t drink and don’t smoke.
But what do adults do?
They drink plenty and they smoke too.
Right?

I remember sitting with some of the older kids from the town. They were the crazy ones and the outcasts.
They were kids with a status or a dangerous name, which made them safe.
I remember listening to them talk to each other.
I remember their stance and special leans against the wall, or how they stood, walked or talked, like some hotshot gangster or as if they were rebellious as ever, like a madman, wild and cool, or like some badass who is quick to fight or inflict pain. No one could hurt them. No one could scare them because regardless if an army approached, they would be quick to defend themselves and punish anyone who stepped up to the plate.

I watched them and how they were—or should I say it would be more accurate to report that I studied them.
I took mental notes on their comments or the way they carried themselves, as if to be healed to pain, as if absolved from fears, or as if nothing could hurt them, or as if they were some kind of heroic, anti-hero, or like something out of a novel or a character on the movie screen somewhere.

Before I go on, I understand that this is subjective.
However the core is relatable—such as the need to feel or want to be liked or to be someone or “something” so stellar, or so amazing and miraculous that life’s little faults and flaws could never touch you.
I wanted to be like that–sharp like a razor and beautiful, like a dove.

I remember watching one of the older kids . .
I saw them roll up a joint and tell me, “You better never let me catch you doing this . . .”

Of course, this was more like a chaotic tease. This was more of an attraction than a warning or a moment of sincere endearment; as if to say, hey kid . . . I’m really just as insecure as you are.
Just don’t tell anybody, okay?
And see this here? This image? These jeans and the t-shirt, or my denim jacket, which was a thing for us at the time, or as it relates to the older kid from my town; when it came to the rest of his appeal and approach or his look—all of this was nothing else be a suit that was sewn together out of fear.
This was an outfit or a disguise. This was a coverup of some unfortunate truth, which is to explain that just like me, he didn’t want to be picked on or kicked around either—get it?
Since he was bigger now and since I was smaller, he passed the torch that was passed unto him because just like he was warned to stay out of trouble, and just like I needed a suit to cover myself with, he was warned too, just like me and he was teased just the same, which in this case—the warnings had a different impact.
They were an attractant.
Not a deterrent.

Everybody knows, deep down, that everyone has a secret.
Everybody knows that everybody lies sometimes or that we change the details of our truths, just so that we can placate the pain or live with ourselves for one more day (until tomorrow) or so we can decorate life so that we can pretend a little longer or at least maybe this way, we can rationalize our excuses as to why we wear a suit or a disguise.
Maybe this is the honest truth as to why we hide our truest beauty.

So, in an effort to dispel the myths of my plastic armor and to remove my superficial and exterior shell; and as a mean to disrobe or to remove the articles of my so-called protection, I am going to expose myself and my truths. Right here.
Right now.
I am going to expose my youthful dreams and my hopes and fears.

I am that small boy.
I am him (still).
I am that grown child still worried about my worth or wondering about my place in the circle.
I have the fears which come with imposter syndrome.
This is a matter of the mind that suggests, at any given point, I will be revealed or exposed and humiliated as a fraud. This is a fear that someone is going to come around and expose that I don’t know what I’m doing. This is that fear that someone will pull my curtain back and reveal me as someone who is vulnerable and weak.

I am that boy who wanted to explore or play pretend.
I am that boy who wanted to laugh or say silly things and make funny noises, but the other kids told me how this wasn’t cool anymore—to play, I mean, or act like a stupid kid or to pretend.  
I am that teenager who loved the moments when I was brave enough to walk away from the crowd. I am the awkward teen who found a moment of redemption and enough courage that I went off on my own little adventures.

I am that kid, confused still.
Sitting on the roof of my house. Watching my little suburban world, like a confused spectator or as if I were in a movie with subtitles that spoke in an unknown language.

I am truthfully that young boy who wanted to love and to feel love and yes, I incorporate this with the love I wanted to feel as I grew older.
I am that young man who wanted to love so much and so greatly and to feel something so huge and out-of-sight, or out-of-this-world, that by merely calling this love would do nothing but minimize the glory of how wonderful it would feel to be so vulnerable–as if to be so in love, for just one person that when my love approached or approaches, I am that beating heart.
I am that well or source of life, sprung because the gravitational pull I feel towards my life is indescribable, cosmic, or otherwise unmatchable.
I want to see my love and be the one who exploded or burst at the seams, and thus—eruptive as ever, I am the person who wanted to experience this overwhelming flow, like a wild river, raging to meet the sea; or like an avalanche on a mountain of emotion, crazy and chaotic of course, but equally peaceful and beautiful. I want this
My love is more beautiful than the sea, the sun, the stars, and the moon. To me, even the Heavenly Angels above would smile down at me and say, “Have at it, son.”
She’s the one!

I have always wanted this.
I have always had this in my heart but i never dared nor had the courage to share this as freely as I am now.
What did I know, right?
I was just a kid, isn’t that right?
And I’m still a kid.
I’m a kid with 51 years of experience.
I have been drug and alcohol free for 32 of those years.
I wish I could say that I was free from other things, like the fears which kept me from actively searching for the things I have mentioned above.

I have seen violent things.
Unfortunate things too.
I have witnessed fear at its truest definition.
I have seen life and I have seen death.
I know what blood looks like.

I have been blinded by emotion and rage and yes, I have been blinded by insecurity.
I have also been misguided by my bouts with rejection, shame, and to clarify my intentions—my aim to reveal this is not to be brave as much as it is a need.
Understand?
I need to free myself from the unwanted weights of my life.

I am revealing my truth because the truth is — I want more than my youth.
I want my truths back.
I want to be able to cry or show myself as authentically as possible.
I want to do this without a mask or any kind of decoration.

I want to smile without the worry that my teeth are not perfect or that my grin might be slanted or seen as crooked and unsightly.
I want to be beautiful.
I want to sing and dance without the worry for the sound or the rhythm in my voice or the stutter in my step.
I want to celebrate—not like a child who learned to tie his shoes but instead—I want to live, love, laugh and learn like a soul in this world.
I want to be entitled to all under heaven, and rather than cover or package my truths or tattoo myself or pose like a big shot or badass, or lean against that wall or speak like an ex-street kid who cuts with a knife—I want to love like a wholesome child, and pure as ever, without threats; and more, I want to live as truly as I dreamed when I was young.

I still wonder though
Why do we hide these things?
Why do we guard our beautiful details.
Why do we keep our dreams and desires a secret, like a caged bird with beautiful feathers, and rather then let them fly, why do we keep these items in the dark or only bring them to the light on rare or special occasions?
Why do we only do this when it’s safe and when there’s no one around? Better yet, why do we always seem to do this when it’s too late to set our birds free?

I have this child inside me.
I have been meaning to introduce you to him.
His name is Benjamino.
That’s what The Old Man used to call me when I was very small.
He used to call out Benjamino . . .
I would be in my crib and I would answer back, Daddimino, because he was my Dad.
He was Pop, my Father, or the one who I always refer to as The Old Man.
That’s him. . .

I’m going to go into details about this soon.
But not just yet.
I have to finish this first.

Benjamino –
Ah, the things I would say to him now
(If I could)
If I could go back and tell him anything –
I’d probably say:
You can play now, kid.
If you want to.
No one is around to hurt you.
Besides, you have me
(and I have you)
So . . .
Do we really need anybody else?