And then there is music.
There has always been music, always playing and always singing to the heart in which, at some point, I rise and fall and find myself situated like a kid in the hallway, (remember?) waiting for the bell to ring and explode through the double-doors of some unwanted institution, crazy as ever, wild too, or insane as it is with any kid alive and unwell in the middle of crazy teenage angst.
Yes, this was me.
Long haired and mad, crunching my teeth, defiantly, and biting down on a filter at the top of a Camel cigarette or the smoke of choice, Marlboro Reds, which were the preferred brand amongst my crowd of wild teenage burnouts. High as ever, and clueless, while thinking (of course) that I knew everything. But hey, this is what kids think all the time, right?
Well?
The truth is I still struggle with this.
But I don’t really know anything.
Do I?
That was me and this was my teenage crowd; the burnouts who, at best, were all anxious and rebellious and searching for a clue as to how to live or how to die.
We had no idea about real life.
But we thought we did.
We were trying to express ourselves by comparing the scars from our teenage battles, or beatings—but, if anything, who was I really?
Hurt and scared?
Petrified and worried that perhaps some out there could see the truth, which was that I was a target and easily taken and once — I was violated in the worst way possible, and I wondered, “could anybody tell?”
I’m sure they could.
I’m sure they knew.
I was obvious, or so I thought.
I was misguided and lost, like a black lamb, who became the black sheep and, somehow systematically, I found myself amongst the lost ones. Thus, I chose to run with the hopeless hoodlums, and those who went unkept by the shepherd.
A statistic, that was me, and a number in a column and a marginal error who went missing in action, and nearly a casualty, I nearly drowned due to the mischief of mild insanities and scotch-whisky bottles which were stolen, of course, and I held this like my secret in a little silver flask, which nobody knew about (except for me).
Music—
I have always found myself here.
I found myself to be described by songs.
Music spoke when I had no voice.
And I’m sure I’m not the only one.
This is where my anthems came from.
This is me. Can you see?
Practicing what I would say to “her” in the mirror but my words never came out the way they did when I was rehearsing. Either that, or I lost my nerve.
Or I was out of my head.
And yes, love, lust, sex, outrage, and despair, or even the desperateness of depression or the angst of emotions which come without words or the ability of description—this is where music came in (at least for me).
It would be inaccurate of me to say that I, myself, am a musician. However, I make music in my head. I replay the anthems of my life that range from the days of my youth, up until now.
I replay this music from then to the times when I wondered about life or love, or if I’m being honest, I play these anthems in my head when I wonder if life or love is even real—or could it be?
I have these anthems in my mind.
And you —
of course, you touched on one of them without even knowing.
But please, before you turn away, allow me the moment to unravel, or to undress this bandage which has been wrapped around my heart for as long as I can remember.
Or maybe longer.
I make no excuses.
I offer no rationalization for who I am, or who I was, or in the cases of what I have done wrong or at the times when I was dishonest or unfair or otherwise—I offer this as means to understand, but not to justify the ends—and more, I have sworn to be nothing but honest here.
So then let me start here.
(with this)
Even if I am unforgiven or unforgivable or damned to all hell, or if I am nothing more than emotionally arrested, tried, convicted and incarcerated to a life of lonesome prison—I have no defense nor do I offer one.
But I’m here.
Aren’t I?
However, as a means to state my case or in an effort to stake my claim, and in the efforts to find myself whole again, or at least halfway redeemed, I am here.
Good or bad. Welcomed or rejected.
I’m here anyway.
And I see you.
I see you through different eyes.
I think it is important that I tell you this.
I see you through the eyes of my past and yes, I see you through the sights of my mistaken ideas or thoughts and feelings. I see you through the eyes of my regret, and through the visions of my need and so on. I see you through my hopes to have and to hold, for richer and for poorer, or in sickness and good health, yet my fears of “self” and my bouts with symptoms from imposter syndrome, or in addition, I admit to my stains that come with the undeserving ideas that spread like wildfire in the mind of insecure nature.
Yes, I see you both perfectly and imperfectly, which is perfect because in the end, at least I can see you.
Whereas, I am aware of the rarity of love or finding “the person,” or the “one love,” who is indefinable and indescribable by simple words. Simply put, I am also aware of the complicated worries which shake the trees in the Garden of Eden. This is otherwise known as Paradise, and I am aware how delusional thinking can cause the fruits to drop—and leave the trees bare or otherwise, unlovable and barren as in fruitless and incapable because of an aftermath or the wreckage of my past.
Music—
She calls me.
I can hear her.
I can feel myself when the notes hit and the music plays.
I can feel my emotions in the lyrics or when the chorus repeats itself, as if to repeat the intention, to add an exclamation point and say here—this is it!
I can feel justified or rationalized.
I am one. I am right.
I am wrong.
I am free.
I am trapped.
I am listening . . .
And above all, I am here.
Nothing took me away.
You never lost me.
I go to the anthems of my life.
I go to the songs that date before me.
I go to the mixed-tapes from my youth and I go to the times where I’d hide myself somewhere, alone, listening to something soft, which was either unlike me or unlike the person I wanted to be—which is soft, I mean.
I never thought I would admit to these things—or to being soft.
But I am.
I remember a sunset on the verge of something like a crazed onslaught of unwanted life. I knew there was going to be something awful underway.
How can something cure me?
Could anything?
I swore that I was going to cut through the flesh and remove the systems and toxic lies that kept me sick.
Do you want to know about crazy?
Try sitting in a car for nearly an hour and while looking at the window of the home where you live and think that the bay window is like a projector showing a move or a film, and that was what life was like—I was just a witness, not living it but watching, and then I thought, “what would have happened if I just chose to live instead of being too afraid to go right instead of left?”
I could have lived any given moment.
But the music—she knew all about me
(like you do).
I am wounded no differently from anyone else.
I’m just honest about it.
I think about the song Sweet Thing.
I think about how I always believed that this is what love must be like.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m dynamite and I don’t know why!”
That’s what love is.
I think about a song that I would never openly associate myself with because, well, I never saw that softness or vulnerability was a safe trait to have—however, there is a song called True Colors. I can say this now (but never before) that when I was so down and so far gone, so lost, and yet—there was something in me that wanted to burst. I wanted more. I wanted to build and grow.
I wanted to cut through the outer layer of flesh or to be out of myself, unafraid and unaffected, and I was amazed that there was something so beautiful in the lyrics, which suggested that someone like me, a wretch, a sinner, an ugly and an angry soul, infected and broken like jagged glass, and somehow—there was someone who was brave enough to sing what I wished that someone would always say—that someone like me is beautiful and someone (like you, and only you) could see me this way
(as beautiful).
I am amazed.
I am swept away, as in off my feet, yet I am afraid as in terrified—and like another song, Time After Time, I have to quote:
“If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me, time after time.”
Or how the next part sings, “If you fall, I will catch you. I will be waiting. Time after time. “
This is me—hoping for the chance
to be there for you, because I will be waiting.
Ah, I exhale, and I sigh in a mixture of emotion and memory and relief, and with slight despair, I move on with the syrup from my words, which are as thick and as true as true can be. Then, I fear, perhaps I have revealed too much—but either way, we’ve both come this far, despite what’s happened. And somehow, we still come here, back again.
There’s something else . . .
“When the wind is blowing in your face, and the whole world is on your case, I can offer you a warm embrace—to make you feel my love.”
To make you feel my love . . .
I can say that no words from any song has ever moved me as much as these. I say this tearfully and slightly embarrassed, like a child who never danced or a boy who never kissed, and on the verge of my first try—admittedly, I’m afraid to do this wrong or that I will be bad or too awkward. Therefore, kissing me will be nothing more than uninspiring—or flat and just unfavorable.
Perhaps I am only moving forward as a man on the verge of true manhood, tested and tried, and since (or if) this is my time or if this is my turn, then perhaps I should take advantage.
Let me try again.
Let me follow the music.
Let me be inspired, like how the anthems of my life inspire me—or like you, or how you inspire me and God, I still don’t know you found me again.
I know that not everything is good.
(right now)
And I know how this is on me.
Not you.
But I am here.
I’m right here.
Accepted or rejected, loved or even otherwise.
Even if you hate me,
I’m here and yes, if you fall, I will catch you—
I will be waiting.
(time after time)
Oh, and one last thing.
If we do find a way to pull off our trick, and if the waves calm down and the road smooths from this point on, you better believe that yes,
“There’ll be hell to pay, in Heaven.”
I swear this much is true.
The Written Addiction 