And Oh, About That Thing

I have never been much of a fighter. I’m not tough nor am I a threat or intimidating. I am not terrible nor tragic, and nor am I the beast which was predicted, and nor am I the loser which I was accused of being.

I am nothing more than the current phenomenon, which is called being human and alive. I am here, sitting in my little place, which is on the second story of a small home, which is rented and not owned.
Here I am, thinking about the places I have been to. I am thinking about the things that I have seen. I am thinking about the rise and falls of life, and how life can move up and down, just like the inhale and exhale of the Great Mother’s chest.

She breathes in and she breathes out, no differently from the Heavenly Mother, life rises and falls, until finally, there is stillness and rest.

I am not still, nor am I moving so freely. I am in position and sitting at my desk, still as ever, but all else is moving.
Life moves the same as the earth is moving, or just like the traffic lights and how they change without fail, or the same as the early bread trucks refused to stop the morning after a personal death, life moves on, always.

Life moves regardless of what we ask. Life does not stop and the clock does not stop ticking. Yes, it has been this way since the beginning.
Life does not, cannot and will not change its tune because something is lost or gone.
Life is agnostic and unattached, unemotional, and disconnected from our hopes or agendas.
And yes, I can see how this is cruel. I can see how the irreversibleness of time can be painful or why it hurts when all you want is one more minute with someone, just one more, but the clock moved, and time was up.

I am not one to say that I am miserable. I know that I tend to write about intense or serious things, which is fine. This is my outlet and no one else was invited to tell me what they think, other than you.
I am not visibly sad or appear to be miserable. I am someone who can play with the crowd. I can put on a brave face. I can act and I can do the same show twice.
However, I agree that the world is nothing more than a stage—but acting is not always living and by no means is living just an act.

I want to live.

I want to laugh about the good things, unmercifully, and share this with someone so loving and special.
I want to lay down the weapons. I want to end the feuds.
I want peace in my heart and in my head; and more, I want to feel the desired connection from now until the hour of my death (Amen).

I want to live.
Do you have any idea how long it has taken me to be able to say this to you.
I want to live.
I want to be alive, far more than ever before.
And for the record –
I have been alive and around the sun a few times. I have seen my share of beautiful things, and I have seen beautiful people.
I have seen sunsets and sunrises that can put a tear in the eye of someone with the coldest heart.

I have watched the world run for cover and at the same time, I have been fortunate to see glimpses of light in the darkest moments.

I am witness to great things. I have seen purity, up close, and yes, I have wept and cried at the sight of such beauty.
I have been moved, emotional, and I have shrunken to the size of a flea while standing next to the greatness of someone who lives even smaller than me.

I understand the difference between confidence and arrogance. I understand the difference between fear and false bravado, and yes, of course and with all my heart, I know why the coward carries a pistol or why the frightened sleeps with a shank under their pillow.

I have seen the onslaught of rage and the aftermath of torment. I have heard the echoes in the confines of terrible places.
I have seen good people be used until wasted, and then cast aside, and I have seen them become half their size.
Or perhaps it would be easier to explain that I have seen what parasites do, including me, and how good people lost themselves in the grief of misbelief. I have witnessed the results of this and watched how the good ones found themselves at the end of the line because, as we all know, supposedly, nice guys finish last.
Isn’t that right?
There is a reason for this — and perhaps the reason is the nice guy would rather give the glory to someone else because maybe, just maybe, the good person knows what the absence of joy feels like and, to them, they would rather take the loss than watch someone else experience defeat.

I used to say that I am not a good person.
And to be clear, I am unsure about this. I don’t know if I am a good person or not.
I used to say that I am not a bad man, but I have done bad things, which is true.
I have done bad things. Absolutely.
I have done unthinkable things, and unforgivable as well.
I own this.
I heard someone tell me how they disagree with this.
I heard someone account for things which they told me they had witnessed, yet the ironic piece (in their eyes) was that I was unable to see goodness or feel the redemption.

In all fairness, I am not so blind nor am I simple or stupid. I am not crazy or, at best and for the record, I am not more or less crazy than most people on this earth.
Or maybe I am.
I often think about my old friend, Dangerous Dan the Marathon Man.
He used to tell me, “Some are sicker than others. And you kid, you are one of the some.”
But he loved me in the best way, because he knew about my sins, and still, he called me his friend.

I have come to an agreement that good people can do bad things and still be good. However, bad people can do good things too. But they’re still bad.
If you know what I mean.

I am not a bad man.
But I have done bad things.
I am not a good man . . .
but I have done good things.
I suppose my hope is that as I grow,
my aim is to improve, so that I can find a way.

I want to tip the scales in a better direction so when the day comes and I am faced to answer for my crimes and my sins, who knows?
Maybe I will get a pass at the gate and understand that my life was the cost of admission.

I am still thinking, of course, about you, my friend.
I am thinking about the last moments of your life and the contemplation which took place before the pull of a trigger.

This journal has been inspired by you. And I mean this in the best way possible.
Perhaps some might argue and call this somber, or some might explain that this can help me find solace or peace with a violent end to a life that should still be living.

Then again, I do not care what people think about me when I come here.
This place belongs to me.
This is my home (for now).
My place is small. The windows are drafty, and the downstairs neighbor is loud and inconsiderate. I find this person all too nosey, and while the downstairs neighbor is no longer welcomed to speak with me, I can hear this snickering with a cackling, raspy voice.
But, you know what?
I don’t care.

I lost, by the way.
I lost a lot in the last two years.
And so, I suppose the positive thing to say would be after the loss comes the recovery.
I hope so.

I am thinking of you, my friend. I am thinking about your talents and your presence and the room changed for people, simply because you were in it.

I never thought that I could be as great or pull off a room like you do. I never saw myself as likable, nor tough, which is why I buried myself in the steel clutches of an image.
This is why I put on a posture, to be tough, and to keep people away from me.

I never wanted anyone to know that I am soft and weak. I never wanted anyone to know things like my poetry, or that I am simple, or that I have hopes and dreams, or that I want, crave, need, and desire to be loved and to love someone back in return.

My flaws have been pointed out. My defects and my insecurities have been held beneath the magnifying glass — and this was not done by me.
No.
This was done by people who said they loved me.

Did they?
Do they?
Does anyone?
Does it matter?

You and I talked about life.
And I told you things about me and my life.
But that part will stay between us.

And as for you, Mother of All, Mother Earth, and Mother Goddess, Greatest in the sky:

I ask for you. I ask for your grace and your comfort, warm like a bowl of soup that a boy needs when he is sick, or not well. Loving too, like the spoon delivered by your hand on the table so that the wholesomeness can be served and taken in.

I do not say that everyone should know everything about me or my life.
No. This is unhealthy.
However, I want her to know.
I want you to know everything.
I want my dream.

I want her to be the one who knows everything, yet I am not afraid of anything because she knows me—as in the real me. Thus, she knows too that while I am imperfect and my love can seemingly be tainted, my love for her is true, pure, and despite my crazy ways, my love is hers forever.

Please, Mother.
Shine down on me.

And for closure, I have been mourning a loss.
I am mourning more than one, which I confess and agree that, yes, this may sound painful or harsh; however, at least I have the courage to open myself up and be real. At least I have the balls to say I am weak or please help me.
I’m not tough by any means but at least I am tough enough to come here and say what’s on my mind and in my heart.

I have friends, like my friend R.O.
He stopped doing that . . .
And he’s gone now.

I keep thinking to myself: My man, I’d have taken your phone call at any hour of the day or night.

But if nothing else, even at your death, you still inspire me to live.

Look for me, my friend.

I am here for you –

still and always.