I was thinking about the lyrics from a song,
which say so much
when it comes to matters of the heart
or love, or about the way we mess up
or ruin love
or ruin the best things we have.
I stand here, guilty as changed
and convicted, equally and dually noted
and sentenced.
The question becomes,
what do I do now?
And sometimes
the answer is
I don’t know
I go back to the song I was telling you about
and the lyrics
The song called Tell Her This.
I was thinking about Del Amitri . . .
He’s the one who wrote it.
I was thinking about the words
“Tell her something in my mind
freezes up from time to time,”
to which this is what I have been thinking about,
especially now or recently,
or especially when I look back or reflect
on the year behind me, or the sad hours
or the lonely ones
and the ups and downs,
or the back and forth battles, when meanwhile
love is all I wanted.
I was thinking about the ideas
or the moments when I swore
that I was on such a high, beautiful,
like the beaches with palm trees and a pink morning sky,
or the moments when nothing else mattered
and no one else existed,
and then came the crash,
which dropped me to a deeper low,
to which, I understand the sadness
I understand complications of the mind,
and fully as well as wholeheartedly,
I understand the true meaning
of the word desperation
or the need to be or feel touch,
or the need to be wanted and desired,
or the desire to be and feel and loved,
or to be so connected and so protected by love
that love cannot be broken
nor could anything destroy the contents
which build the muscles
or strengthens the spine of my spirit.
And sometimes,
it is as if I am calling out to a sea of stars
wishing on the shooting ones
or asking the moon,
and hoping that somewhere,
there is an answer on its way
which is about to return and then,
I will never have to question anything
ever again.
This is the crossroads
where life and love and fear and rejection
cross paths
and leave us confused.
However, my old friend Mr. Chaos loves this part of me.
He always knows how to sneak his way in
and yes, he loves to fuck things up
or make things worse
and unfixable.
In the process of overthinking, or overanalyzing,
we find ourselves on the verge of self-absorbed concerns
which we make mountains out of molehills,
or we add problems where problems do not exist
or, of course,
this is how we start that movie
which plays out in our head,
and of course, this always ends in tragedy;
especially when we get into the concepts of overthinking
or overly worrying about a fear
or the irrational ideas,
which literally ruin our best possible interests.
I hope I am not alone with this
And, so?
Even if I am or even if this goes unheard
or unseen
let me put this out there
with hopes that the winds can blow this
in the right direction
and the universe can smile on me
and say,
“Not to worry, son,
She’s right there . . .
. . . in front of you.
I think the song Tell Her This
has it right.
I think about the way I overthink,
or the way I overanalyze the different concepts
in my head.
I think about the way
I start playing that movie out in my head
and then comes the fear,
then comes the jealousy
of literally every other living thing,
and then comes the envy,
and then comes another version of self,
which is the degraded version
or the worst version of me which, at best,
in this case, I can only be insecure and thus,
I only assume that yes,
the worst is about to happen,
which it does—when we expect it,
and yes, the shame comes back
and then comes the realization
how all of this was a plot in the mind
and once more
I cut my nose off to spite my own face.
But to what avail?
Del Amitri was right
when he wrote the lyrics to Tell Her This
I get it . . .
I understand the fears
and the weakness that comes with vulnerability.
I get it . . .
I understand the humbleness of modesty.
I understand the daringness to put oneself out there
or to be truthful
or to slow dance
and give oneself away
without protection from rejection
or the perception that says
something about me
just isn’t right.
And yes,
the shyness which comes when
you’re brave enough to be honest,
but fearful afterwards
because the secret’s out (especially now)
and so is the true exposure of self,
and how do you hide how it feels
to be so weak in someone’s presence?
Out comes the worry machine
and out comes the fear
that worries about “me”
or the undressed version of me, and my true soul,
which is this—I am small and I am only a child
afraid and eager to play
or to be wanted
and, I am hungry.
I am hopeful
and . . .
I am afraid to have hope because in the land of hope,
disappointment is the root of all evil
and the element of mass-destruction;
and in the land of dreams, I am the saboteur at times
expecting the worst because of fears
that deter me from believing that I deserve the best,
and hence,
I become the king of self-sabotage,
and while patience is a virtue, I have none left.
I am impatient and scared, and here before you,
I am openly disclosing my truth,
to which I am nothing but a man
plain and simple,
and hoping that hope will come around
and spark a rebirth of desire
and blossom this
into the soulfulness
of a good life.
Please, God.
Let this be me
I want to be happy.
I want to be the kid inside of me.
I want to be free and be hopeful
and be able to love without hesitation,
without condition, and without rage
or the hindering thoughts
that linger from my past resentments
or the wreckage from my past.
Let me go, please.
Let me see the sun come up
once more, like it does on white sands
and where palm trees hiss
as the winds blow.
I think too much.
I worry too often.
The problem is . . .
I don’t live enough
because if I lose to my thinking,
how will I find the time to live
or love?
“Tell her something in my heart
needs her more than even clowns
need the laughter of the crowd.”
I get that.
“Tell her from this high terrain,
I am ready now to fall.”
There was a question that I used to ask myself,
all the time.
Is it too late?
I think about the concepts of time
or the word “never.”
The answer to the question is simple,
and while I know there should be no reason
to believe in the word “never,”
there are times when the word “never” fits.
Understand?
For example, is it too late?
Did too much happen?
Am I too damaged and now
it’s too late to restart
or to go at this again,
and let love become a thing?
Is it too late?
The answer: Never.
Despite my past
Despite my fears
Despite my previous answers
The answer “never” is right.
Although there are no excuses,
I can only say that in my defense,
there’s a song that defines the craziness of love
and the insanity which I face
when I or my love is imperfect.
“Tell her something in my mind,
freezes up from time to time.”
Yes. That’s it . . .
But who are “we” kidding?
Aren’t we all a little crazy?
Don’t we all go through bouts
and don’t we all let Mr. Chaos in
(sometimes)
and watch as he fucks things up?
And if so, just understand
that bouts and faults and all,
I am ready now to fall.
Please, understand
and if it’s not too much to ask,
be patient with me.
I swear, I can make this better . . .
The Written Addiction 