Random, Aimless and Unplanned- Stream of Consciousness Screaming, But Not Too Loud

Labor Day Weekend, 2024

Sunrise came later this morning. Your early resurrection was put on hold, at least briefly, or perhaps this is just for now. It is early but not as early as life allows.
Time is ticking and life can be escaping us, right now; unless, of course, we choose to make a move.
I have to say that this is a morning of contemplation.
Do you understand what that means?

Perhaps this is no different from the Days of Awe, which are the days between two of the highest holidays. More to the point, this is like the time of contemplation that takes place between the yearly moment when the book of life is opened and then closed. This takes place between the old calendar’s New Year and the Day of Atonement. This is when it is written, he who will lie down and he who will rise up.
My only hope is that we both rise
(together).

I find myself here, sifting through the memories of first times and first chances.
I am thinking about the first of everything, as in, the first time I encountered life altering moments or life changing memories and, of course, or at least in our case, I cannot leave out the introductions that changed the seed of my heart and the face of my existence.

I think about the first time I took a walk with my Father to go see a hocky game. I have no memory of the game itself. I only remember the walk and The Old Man asking me, “have you ever been to a hockey game before?”
I told him no, this was my first time.
The Old Man told me, “Me too,” and then he said, “I guess this is something we can share together.”

Of course, I have other memories. There were other walks with The Old Man. Like, the beach, for example. This was our traditional New Year’s walk at the beach in Point Lookout.
I’ve always wanted to share this with someone special and someone who would understand and who would honor this walk with me. But that is a different story altogether.

I like the idea of firsts.
I like the memory I have of my first movie and sitting in the movie theater as a small boy.
I like the memories I have from the first time I swam in a pool. There are more times like this. There are moments that I look back on, fondly, of course.

I am what is called a hopeless romantic. I love passion. I love the ideas of midnight hours and talks and long walks and moments that are so intimate and beautiful. But more than what most would typically expect, as beautiful as the moments are, I suppose the most beautiful or intimate part about them is they are not defined or simply limited to a sexual encounter.
No, there’s more.

I think it is safe to say that while I am admitting to having a poor memory in some regards, it is inaccurate to say that I have no memory at all.
I am sure of other memories, such as the time when I saw a pretty face for the first time.
I am sure of this.
I am sure of the way I felt, simply because of a silly joke or the way a laugh changed the beat of my heart.

There are things which I have seen that may not be so great in comparison to world travelers.
But this does not mean that I have not seen anything.

At the same time, this is all mine. These are items from my heart and all of their worth is priceless to me.
The memories of Los Angeles or the times in San Diego or anything of that sort are great. However, none of this compares to the intimate and the romantic nature or the feeling of someone’s eyes staring into mine, deep as could be, and honestly, wholeheartedly, no, nothing compares to this.
Nothing beats this!
Not the times I was in Maui without real love, and nothing compares to the sight of a sunset in the arms of someone who could quite possibly cure my deepest ills. I know you can do this.
I never knew that this could be so.
Someone could cure me with the touch of her hand.

I have lived well.
I have lived with poor decisions and lost money.
I have lost hope, faith, and yes, I have lost pieces of my heart.
I have squandered time and devalued myself in ways that degraded those who loved me and yes, I have done wrong. I have.

I owe nothing else; however, because although I have lost, and while my apologies are lost in the ether of nothingness and while I have apologized and my words seemingly evaporated like unwanted toxins that disintegrated and broken into the numbness resentment and can often surface to the level of contempt — I am still here and I am still hopeful and yes, I am still in the belief that although life can be unkind, I heartily believe in the act of redemption.
I truly believe that if a person is consistent and persistent, anyone can achieve their desired life—that is, of course, if they have what it takes to be consistent and persistent and move this in the right direction.

This is me, about to encounter another year around the sun.
This is me, looking back while laying awake in bed, of course, dealing with another nightly battle of insomnia. This is me, always, but then again, this is nothing new to you (about me, that is).

This is me wondering how often a person can hit their head in the same spot or fall down after tripping over the same thing until, suddenly, a light comes on before realizing the simplest idea, which is “hey, jackass, quit doing the same thing and maybe you won’t have all of those lumps on your head!”

Lessons, huh?
They sure are a bitch!

I don’t know if I ever had a Hollywood crush. I don’t know if I ever saw someone so beautiful that I would lose myself in them, forever, and swear to them.
At least, not the way other people have described it.
I am different.
Or as my Mom used to put it, I am “a very special boy.”

I am a poet, of some kind.
At least, I hope to be.
I am a writer.
At least, I want to be.
I am a sinner and certainly not a saint of any kind.

I have my “things” as I like to say, which distances me from perfection. In fact, I agree to the terms that label me a special kind of chaos.
I am chaotic and narcistic and forgetful and selfish.
I am. . .
I am not someone who is overflowing with confidence.
My eyes are shaped differently. So are my ears.
I have never had a great body.
I am as insecure as they come, if not more.

I have a history that is far from stellar, and I am no one to be placed on a pedestal.
However, I am all of the above and more.
I never liked the sound of my voice, which is why I cannot listen to or watch any of the videos of me.

I have said bad things to good people.
I have done good things for people who never deserved my attention.
I have missed the windows of opportunity, and I have wasted time, money, energy, and hope.

I have lied to the best people in the world. Literally, the best in the world.
I have betrayed people as well as degraded them and worse, I have done this to myself as well.

I understand the different volumes of self-destructive behavior, and with my faults and all, I do understand the beauty and the value of sitting with someone, special as could be, and being blown away because, quite honestly, I never knew a woman could be “that beautiful.”

I am not all bad or evil.
I am only imperfect.
And that’s not so bad . . .

I have not seen much.
But the best that I have seen is not limited to the sights of being in an airplane, sitting in business class, and watching the plane lift in the air from a window seat.
No, the best that I have seen is not in some exotic place and no, the best that I have seen is not while I was living with a higher flow of financial success.
No, the best sight I have ever seen is when a door opened up, and there she was, literally smiling—and there it was that I swore I needed to have her.
Right away . . .

I know about my firsts. I know about my first heartbreak, which is perhaps the reason for so many of my failed attempts at love.
I know what betrayal feels like, which might answer why I have betrayed others.

I am not here to excuse myself nor do I have time, nor will I waste your time with excuses.
I have none. I have no defense.
I have nothing to defend myself for, at least not at this point.

I am here for this moment, to randomly and in an aimless attempt to reveal myself in a stream of consciousness—I am not thinking. I am not aiming to impress.
I am not writing with an overthought on any of the words above or the words that follow after.  

I am writing this in the form of streaming consciousness, and to attest, to confirm, and to act as witness and to testify that yes, “you have stolen my heart!”

I don’t think that I can take it back now. I don’t think life works that way.
I believe that there is only one true soulmate. I believe now that you have my heart, and whether you return this in unison or not, and whether my heart beats, works or refuses to beat again in a figurative sense, I am alive in the same regards, otherwise, I am equally lifeless, depending upon one choice.
Will you have me?

It is Saturday morning.
I can say that my life is far from anything that relates to puppy dog kisses, fairy tales, and rainbows—but whatever I am and whether I am allowed to feel the warmth of your redemption and loved equally, or whether I am to be loved fully and wholeheartedly, and whether I am destined to find my way to the distant shores of some ‘far-away dream,” like, say on the island known as Isla Espiritu Santo, where we could go to fulfill our vows on the beach somewhere, with only the officiant, and us to say, “I do,” and I do too . . . and whether I am destined to go at this alone, and never love again, and be unhealed from what hurt me and bleeding on people who never cut me—I will refrain now from the outpour of my heart and I will let my words rest here.

If I am “to be,” then I am “to be.”
And this happen, if fate decides.
This will be what destiny depicts; however, without a word and without a plea, and without the understanding that when love is left unsaid and unlived, then love dies in the vacuum of despair. If this is so, then please allow me this scream. Let me have this roar with hopes that somehow, the universe is listening.

It is another day in this part of purgatory. We have been here for a long time.
No?
There will be a mix of sun and clouds and moments of thought, moments of silence, and bouts of indecision. But what else is new?

At the same time, I don’t want to wait “for this life to be over.”
I want that feeling of having that slow dance.
I want the dream.
I want the life.
I want the in-person, visceral experience of loving someone so deeply that nothing would ever make me sick or hurt me again.

My so-called “yesterday” is gone, and thus, in the postmortem of my regrets. I look around and I can think of a million tragedies. I can think of everything that went wrong and consequently, I can overthink and spend hours on what might, can, and will go wrong again.
Or—
I can take another approach.

I can allow the sun to take its place in the sky. I can lay and rest and let my resentments slip through the eyelet or the porthole, which separates the top and bottom of an hourglass.
While I cannot turn the hourglass over again to restart my life, I can choose to start now and decide to end the battles in my head.
I can stop the fights that never needed to happen.
I can end the travesty now.
I can . . .

I am only a man.
Perhaps I am not worthy or deserving.
Maybe I have more to learn. Hence, this is why I am not ready for more.
Maybe I am unteachable or, perhaps I need to remain teachable.
Maybe I am not destined for the life I assumed.
Maybe there’s somewhere nice to get a good cup of coffee and a warm, chocolate croissant in purgatory.
Maybe . . .
Maybe I am supposed to re-see this world around me and unlearn.
Or maybe I am wrong—

Maybe this is what happens when we lay awake and think too much.

I really don’t know.

I can say that I don’t know when I had my first peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
I don’t know when I ate fast food for the first time or Taco Bell . . .
God, I love Taco Bell.
I don’t remember what it was like to see my first movie star—and I’m sure there was a first time for that (or for anything).
I don’t remember the first time I ever danced with another girl.
But I do remember the first time I saw your face.
And I remember the first time I saw your face again, years later.
I love the idea of how the room changes when you came in to it.

I might not have a great memory. I might not have a filter, or an “indoor” voice and I might not be as classy as others in this world.
I might have a bad accent.
I have bad habits, for sure.
And to be clear, my love may be as imperfect as a pile of broken glass, but each shard represents a million ideas, and every piece of me, whether my edges are sharp or dull, or unremarkable—they’re all I have and if you see anything you like in them, they’re all yours.

You stole my heart.

You can’t give it back.
Why bother giving my heart back anyway . . .
if it doesn’t work without you?