This comes after a long night, which means this entry will be sappy, of course.
But there will be no apologies. Not for this anyway.
Perhaps I will apologize for what I have overlooked or took for granted. Maybe I will apologize for my shortsightedness or for the times when I saw the glass as half-empty instead of half-full.
But like I’ve been telling you, this is all part of a trick, which is not a trick to fool or to deceive but more, this is a trick to overcome the crazy bouts that come with insomnia and the unrelenting thoughts that linger until about 20 minutes before the alarm rings to get up and get out of bed.
Either way, this is from the heart.
All of it.
I love to watch boats move out to sea. I like to stand on the beach and look out at the ocean because this is my place of peace. This is my moment of truce and as my place of worship or my sanctuary; this is where I come to offer my worship and confess my sins because, to me, as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever.
Amen.
I like to think about the time when I walked along the shore, watching distant ships come in from ports unknown. Ah, the beach and how it was empty. The colors of morning wove into the underbelly of the sky.
I swear, this is beautiful.
I remember.
I remember the clouds, like strips of long and dovetailed feathers, clinging to the pastel shades of the new sunrise. Purple and orange hues take on the horizon and then gently lift before giving their way to absence.
I can still hear this in my thoughts—if I listen.
Or similar to my first poem about love, or as it was to me, about the unknown features of love or the unforeseeable, or with regards to the unpredictable nature of love, I can recall where I was and what I was thinking at the time or my last walk along the beach.
I can recall this the same as I can recall the mood and the lighting, the reason, and the intentions behind my first, real poem.
I recall thinking about the choices we make. I have always been fascinated by this. I am fascinated by the idea of how timing can switch the spectrum and change our points of view.
Or, as far as karma or the predestined will of the universe, or with regards to love or the unknown or the fragile truth that fear can be insurmountable and vulnerability can be frightening, I recall my dedication as well as the procedure of my hope. I recall the sentiment of my dreams to which, of course, I wondered if ever or in the events of life, would I ever come to find myself at a true level of comfort?
Would I ever be chosen?
Could my hope and desire be enough to kindly the light when the world is dark, or would I otherwise be someone who remained in the realms of disbelief?
However, and as hopeful as I could be, I always wondered about the paths we choose. I wondered about the artistry of time and how two roads that split can somehow tend to overlap.
I have always been curious about they way one life can intertwine with another, so that people, like you and I, can reconnect or reconvene. In the random course of unexpected life, I say that this has to be the stage that has been set up by the hands of Fate and Destiny.
Is love a trick?
Is this real?
Am I?
Are we?
My poem was simple.
Perhaps one could view this as sad.
But to me, this was beautiful.
Or more than beautiful, this poem of mine was a plea to which I admit that I was afraid.
I was alone in the company of familiar strangers and alone with my thoughts, my hopes, and alone with my spirits. I was unsure of myself, or me as I am, or as a person, I was guarded and afraid but eager and hopeful at the same time.
I was unsure of my worthiness or, at minimum, (which was far from minimal to me) I was afraid that something about me is unsightly.
Or perhaps there is something about me that is undesirable, or even more accurate would be the word ugly, which is nothing short of painful when it comes to seeing oneself in the mirror.
No one should have to think this way. No one one should see themselves and feel like this, or more, no one should have to endure the excruciating aftermath of regretting their own reflection.
No one should hate who they are.
Never . . .
Of course, none of this would be safe for me to say anyplace else. But I have no place else, aside from here.
No, the world is a place where we have to perform or charm with a fake smile or give a laugh, as if to defy the surroundings when meanwhile, we forget that it’s okay to not be okay.
No one is a fit judge anymore.
No one has ever really cornered the market on happiness or perfected their life enough to say, hey, listen to me. I have all the secrets.
But this is why I come here.
I can talk about my victories here. I can talk about my accomplishments and not seem like I am boasting or like I am a braggard. I can lay my thoughts here and let them be. I don’t have to gloat or talk about me, as in the great, “I am,” and even more—I can come here and talk about the years of awkward perception and the deception of ill-conceived ideas. I can unfold the confusion and the assumptions that I am either ugly or undesired, unwanted, or that for some reason, I can recreate my thinking.
I can stop the thinking that the powers that be or the gods above have decided to deem me as less-than, or like pariah or an outcast, that I am deserving of distance.
I am not a scourge or some kind of contagious failure.
I can speak openly here.
I can talk about this and I can confide in you, the only person who has somehow helped me believe that I am far from the worst.
I am better than I assumed and even more, I am able and capable. Somehow, I can come out on the other side of my recent craziness.
I can make it out alive, just fine.
I can do this because of you.
(Even if you’re not here.)
Before I digress even further, I have to go back to that first poem.
I want to revisit this.
I want to revisit and reestablish the meaning behind it because I do believe in the wild and crazy ways that life pulls people together.
This happens even after our paths went in different directions.
Still and somehow, life overlaps and thus, our paths connect, randomly, and miraculously, as if the hands of Fate and Destiny knew just how to repair us—or maybe the powers that be are only looking to reconnect us, so that perhaps we can repair each other
(together).
This is the poem –
If I listen,
I can hear you in my thoughts
And if I look, I can see you in my dreams
and behind the movie screen of my eyelids
But my only hope is that one day soon,
I can hold you in my arms
Forever~
I like to dream.
Yes, of course I do.
If you know anything about me, which I know that you do, then you can see whare I’m going with this.
(At least I hope so.)
But I know that you know me.
In fact, you know everything.
Absolutely.
Even when I don’t tell you, I know that you know.
(You know?)
If this is brave, then call this bravery or if I am a coward, then so be it.
Let me be a coward.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
But if you recall when I made the commitment to write everyday, I chose to write the following words:
My redemption has nothing to do with your response.
This is not accusatory towards you, not at all.
But adversely, I sat down to write my thoughts because in the depths of tragic despair or lonesomeness and regret, or in the crux of demonized thinking or when the internal whispers take over and sanity loses its grip, this place and the idea of you meeting me here is lifesaving.
This and the hopefulness that someday you would walk into my life, as if to be my rescue.
Or when it came to my redemption, I needed to create a place where I could be safe.
I needed to build a shelter from the wild havoc and the daily barrage of arguments and bullshit nonsense.
I come here.
Each day . . .
This is the root of all my tricks.
I began this trip with the intention of becoming a writer; however, the literary world is cold and unkind. As far as this being my art, well?
As far as me being a so-called “real writer.”
Well?
My art is subjective.
As for the written word, this is my worth and my pen is my sword.
But once I leave this, everything becomes subject to interpretation.
This is especially so once this escapes the atmosphere.
And once I scroll over to the publish button and click on the blue icon at the top of my screen to save this for you — all of my words disappear and move to another level.
This is where interpretation makes their edits and changes.
But more, this is beyond my control, and everything thereafter is beyond my reach.
So be it . . .
I don’t know if you see this. I don’t know if you can feel it or if you judge me, or if you read along and think that I am crazy or somehow soft or weak.
Maybe I am a joke.
Maybe I am the sum of my worst fears.
But that’s fine.
I can be weak.
I have been weak before.
In fact, I have been weak throughout my entire life.
I’m weak now,
but at least I’m strong enough to admit it.
But wait . . .
let me go back to my point, which is where I began.
I am thinking about a walk along the shoreline.
I am thinking about a warm morning.
I am thinking about how the beach is empty at times like this except, of course, for people like us, who walk along the beach at the sunrise or who look to the sky and celebrate the dawn.
I love this.
I think about the peacefulness and the serenity of say, the sound of waves and the calls from the guls overhead.
I think about the way the waves crash, like a sound intended to ease the soul; whereas, I know that life can be unfair and unkind, and I know there is ugliness around me.
But not you.
Nothing about you has ever been ugly.
Nothing about you could be ugly.
Not even if you tried.
I just want to be good enough.
I want to see this.
I want to listen.
I want to hear the heartbeat of the world and realize that the pulse in my heart is beating, just to let us know we’re alive.
The beach—
I need to take that walk again.
I need to see the early sky.
I need to feel the softness of the sand beneath my feet, as if to accept my indentations, like the Good Father when he accepts my confession.
And as for the tides or the waves as they pull back to sea, I want to tell the winds my story, so the tides can carry them away, and return them . . . like a dream.
So this way, Fate and Destiny know what I need
and nothing else will ever be left open to interpretation
ever again.
The Written Addiction 