I suppose the future can start once the past is gone. So, what does that mean?
I suppose that means this moment is more important than we think.
So, here I am world, just waiting for the next big thing to come along and grab me by the hand, and off we can go at the drop of a hat. The two of us, maybe out to sea, somewhere; but hey, who knows?
The world is big as ever, infinite too, or at least it seems that way to me, and that means anything can happen. This is big.
Huge, like life, which is bigger than the both of us, which is bigger than the here and now and certainly bigger than the nay-sayers or the bullshit people who sit and grumble and do nothing but eat their lunch in the breakroom while chomping at the flesh of different character assassination.
You know the ones, right?
These are the critics and the ones who tear down the artist for trying to build or create. They are the people who flourish in the failures of those who stood up to try and take a shot, but they missed and fell — but at least they didn’t fail because at least they tried.
What would a critic know about that?
What would a critic know about opening up their own soul and putting it out to the world, to have it ripped to shreds or celebrated by some small or obscure scene? What would a critic know about a kid who stuttered when reading out loud—and how would they know about the victory that comes when I made something stick, despite their bad review?
There are very few people in this world who will understand how to celebrate you.
And there is only one true person who can do this in such a way that alas, you believe them more than you believe in the Earth, the ground, the everlasting sky, and even The Great God, Almighty.
There are only a few people in your life who will celebrate you. The rest of the world, well, let’s just say the words, “not so much,” and move on because . . .
There is always someone out there with a thought or a joke at the expense of someone else. There will always be someone eager to point out the cracks and the flaws of someone’s life.
This is easy and safe too.
Sure, this is easy.
Do you know what isn’t easy?
This.
Getting up every day.
This is a bitch!
(sometimes)
Do you want to know what else isn’t easy?
Putting this out there, every morning, no matter what – in sickness and in health for richer or for poorer, alone or in your company—I still come here. No matter what.
If I am booed off the stage or cheered.
No difference.
Same, same.
I’m here.
Like, as in, every day.
Then again, it’s like I was saying when this began:
I suppose the future can start right now.
We have to allow the past to be where it is and the moment to be here, as in right now, and yes, we can take off, the two of us at the drop of a hat.
But ah, the army of one. The fight and the battle of individual madness and the proud turning point of the moment when we realize that hey, I can walk away.
I don’t have to fight like this anymore.
I can stop this. I can apologize and make my corrections.
I might not be received and I might not have the desired outcomes, but I can still work for this and no one can stop me.
Not even you.
I can stand up and turn around and I can do this without looking back or without checking to see who notices, or who cares. I could leave the rest of the world aside and realize that I don’t have to impress anyone, ever again. Now, as in right now, I can reach out for my dream, even if I can’t touch it, I can still try.
I will say this here and now.
Sometimes, the fight is worth it.
There are certain fights that are worth having.
But yes, my technique needs to improve.
I need a better plan and a better strategy.
Some fights are worth it like:
The fight for my life is worthwhile to me.
The fight for my country and freedom is worth it to me as well.
The fight for love or the fight for what’s true and the fight for the one and the only thing that sets me apart from the rest of the world—and yes, I say this is you and this is worth fighting for.
But, of course, not all fights are fair.
Not everything that’s fair is tolerable either.
Life’s a bitch!
(Que, no?)
See?
This is what no one talks about when it comes to the compromise of battle—everyone has to feel a little pain. We all suffer. Nothing is ever pain free.
Or should I say nothing worthwhile is pain free.
No one ever sees the value of being lost.
No one realizes the wealth of our falls or the value of what it took to get up and keep going.
Even if we swore that we couldn’t take another step—and somehow, as lost or as tired or as pained as we were, somehow, we made it out to the other side.
This is worth fighting for because this is what makes us heroic.
I refuse to give up or surrender. I understand the battles ahead of me and I get it, not all things will come easy. I understand the waters can be rough. While I may not be a great captain, I can say that I have maneuvered through rough times before and I’ll do it again too.
I am someone who believes and at the same time, I am filled with doubts and questions. Then again, I call this being human—that is if I am human at all, or at least real.
I have never seen San Francisco.
I’ve not seen a lot of things or places. At the same time, I have this sentiment in my heart or should I say that I have ideas or perhaps I could call them my burning desires. Yes, I can say that my heart beats and my world revolves around the idea that through it all, somehow, we made it out alive.
Just the two of us.
We made it and we ended up, exactly where we are supposed to be, which is here in the waystation or the otherwise purgatory, which is only momentary before our paradise becomes real.
I see no shame in walking away. However, there are some things which I am sorry, but I cannot simply leave or walk away from them.
My heart, for example. I need this.
My dreams. I need them too.
My passion and my desire, along with my intentions, and my aspirations, my hopes, and my love are all rolled into this one elaborate and simple thing, which is something that I cannot simply cut off or walk away from. And that’s this
(You).
I am not a soldier, like a marine or anything of the sort. But I am here to fight back, as if to fight to the death; moreover, I am here to fight for the right to live, love, laugh, and learn with you, if you’ll allow it.
I admit to my losses. I admit to my battle wounds and both my visible and invisible scars. I admit that I have used poor judgment, and I have said unkind, mean, and immature things. I have manipulated. I have negotiated poorly and admittedly, I have said things in haste or spoke harshly, which was out of pain, of course, but excuses are just excuses. So, therefore, I remove them and plead guilty as charged.
I have fought unfairly.
Yes, I have.
And I know what they say and that all’s fair in love and war.
I don’t know what’s fair anymore.
I don’t know if all’s fair in love and war.
Life isn’t fair.
However, I have not resigned nor surrendered my post nor will I walk away, ever again, because I see no reason to make my worst mistakes twice.
I still have to much heat in my heart and the fire that burns is equal to the love I feel, which is why I cannot walk away, or allow my fears to keep me sick.
So, it is morning time, world.
And the sky is gray, for now.
But the sun is still up there.
I admit that it’s a bit humid in Purgatory this morning—but at least I know that my Heaven is here on Earth—and despite my crazy life, this is why I’m still here, and still fighting because in the world of craziness and complaints, bitches and bastards, you are the one who causes me to look for the sun . . .
even when the clouds get in the way.
Remember that.
The Written Addiction 