I want to go back . . .
I want to think about
the way summer is about to explode
and the first weekend
of the unofficial start of the season takes place
and life was still young enough
to be wild.
Life was free enough and crazy enough
to be out somewhere,
as in, out east on Long Island for example
and while yes,
I admit that back then came with its own challenges
and I admit to being in the middle of too many difficulties
and the various casualties of young adulthood; still,
I was still fresh to the world, and yes,
the charade was thick and the world was different
then but—at least my back was straight enough
that I could stand back up.
I was able to get up a little more quickly than
the way we do now,
which is slower because the miles beneath our feet
have aged our wheels
and age has made a change to the knees
and the heart too.
But, as for the heart . . .
well?
The heart is still pure.
My age has not changed that.
Perhaps I might be hazy or jaded
or perhaps I might not be able to
snap back as well.
But that is not the case when it comes
to the case of my heart.
No, my heart is still pure,
at least I want to believe it is.
My heart is still young.
And so are my dreams,
which are still youthful and bright.
My visions are as bright and colorful
as an opening day to a seasonal sport,
and the world was still free to celebrate.
My heart is still equipped and able
to celebrate with marches and the bands and parades,
which are the same as the ones
that took place in our youth,
all loud and vivid with color.
I know that this is still me,
deep inside.
I know it is.
I know that I am still young inside
and that my eagerness to touch and feel
and to experience and to laugh or to run and play
is no different from the way I was when I was young.
I am the same as I was when I was young enough
to love and know what it means to love fully,
or not fully and unconditionally, at least I knew
there was a time
when I could love as crazy as a man in the wild.
I want to hope.
I want to run as fast as I could
and be this way, which is no different
from when running wild was second nature to me
and it was fine enough to live as we were
without overthinking and over-questioning everything,
and the jealousy models were less of steel and
more of clay.
Yes.
I was wild. I was crazy.
I was a man on the prowl and on the hunt
and hungry as ever, eager to bite the fruit of life
and to savor the nectar
and the juice of life
or to be as I was, when I was nothing short of
insatiable and equally unstoppable.
I want to be the way I was (then)
but now, and looking back,
I want to be more of a mix between the two.
I want to mix the ambitions of my youth
and the yearningness
with the understanding and the education
that I have earned over the years.
But more, I want to go back to a time
when I was able to cancel out the whispers of insecurity
and to stop the noise of misheard features
that either shook me from my truths
or disturbed my senses to the point
that I was unable to keep my heart pure
or the steadfast needs to seek and achieve
or to go, be and do.
Why can’t I just let go?
Why can’t I just relax?
Ehy can’t I just enjoy the moment?
I know why.
It’s fear.
Fear is the answer.
I believe this is the answer because, to me,
I can see why my youth was unafraid of the future.
What future?
I say this because I expected there to be a million tomorrows;
however, now that time has settled in
and age has shown its face
as well as its share of disappointments,
I realize that the growth of my tomorrow
can be poisoned by weeds
and that my days are limited
and that time is running out.
I don’t want to miss the grand finale, however,
I also don’t want to miss out on today
because I’m too worried
that my tomorrow will never happen.
(At least not the way I want it to)
It has to be
that I have to get this straight.
I have to get out of my own way.
Not you
Not anyone else. At least,
not as this pertains to me.
I think about the oddly impertinent things
that take place in my head, which I admit
there are things that keep me up at night.
And I admit that my thoughts can and will betray me
(if I allow them to, or if I feed them wrong food)
however, I know that deep in my heart,
I know that I can love and I can dance
and I sing (even if its off-key)
and I can run and move and I can hold and hug
and kiss and laugh and, in fact,
I know that I have all the ability
in my heart and within my lungs
to both beat and breathe life into the world
and into the heart
of my most beautiful affection –
or to the object, thereof.
I know that I can be suave.
I can walk down the street at night
with my best outfit, and walk with a little bit of a lean,
happy as can be, because in my heart
I know the love I have is equal
and returnable and desired
the same as I desire my love,
itself.
I know that troubles come
and hard days can last a while
but nothing can outlast my heart.
I know that somewhere in my heart is still me,
the wildest part of me,
which is good
because I know that my desire is not only for love
or for the wildness of some great night
or bedroom episode,
or some kind of sinful quickie, hidden away someplace,
in a bathroom or in some closet
or somewhere that no one else
dares to make love.
No . . .
This is so much more.
I know that I am still here, or in here, somewhere.
And I know that this is still beautiful
I know that my beauty is not dead
nor is yours and nor is the world
because nothing is ugly except for the hopeless ideas
which I tend to feed
in fear that hope will not be as hopeful
or life will not be as beautiful
And yeah,
I want to be beautiful
I want to be the only one . . .
I don’t want to share my side or my love
or have to compromise my affection.
I want the world and the moon
and the sun and the stars
and all which I combine because, above all,
I want to be young again,
even if only in my heart, because then
I will have undone the different articles of age,
and I will have unaged and unraveled
and unwrapped the most pristine part of my soul,
which, of course,
I have kept this in store,
for you.
And yeah,
I know.
I write a lot about love
or the absence thereof.
However, I write about this
to get my hopes up
to get ready,
to get set,
and to go . . .
So that one day, my dream is not a dream to me.
No . . .
This is my way to make my dreams
become my reality
and rather than write to you in the morning,
I can just
roll over to nudge you
and say,
What would you want for breakfast?
Or, you can answer with an action
instead of a word
and roll into me,
or on top and say . . .
You . . .
Now, if you ask me,
I think this would be the best
kind of morning
Ever!
The Written Addiction 