A Day Called Way Back

Everything was about style, especially back then.
Remember?
Everything was about the way you stood or how you moved or responded to the world around you.
Ah, the male ego and all the nonsense that comes with it.
So fragile. So weak. So insecure, and so it was, a long time ago.
I remember well.
At the same time, I am not sure if I remember anything correctly.
Except, of course, the moments that left a mark. Except the memories that left an indentation in my so-called armor, which I used to protect the so-called truth of my vulnerabilities.

I remember this well.
But wait . . .

I have a question.
Was any of this true?
Did any of this really happen the way I remember?
Or is it also true that our memory can be a liar and that our recollections are misled by ego?

I remember the days when you had to act tough. Or, so I thought.
It seemed that everything you did was under watch or under scrutiny.
It’s not who you are, it’s what you wear.

You are what brands you choose. Or as it was in my younger days — everything came down to your badges and stripes. You had to wear your reputation and pay your dues.
You had to play along and yet, you had to play it off as if you didn’t notice that the world is just a game.

No one could walk up and claim their way. No, if you wanted to be the man, then you would have to beat the man. Yes, these were the thoughts of a young, Long Island burnout. These were the thoughts of a young and insecure man. And yes, these were the ideas of a young man who was about to venture out on his own.
Yes, I thought this way.

I thought you had to walk with a special glide or stand with the perfect lean against the wall.
I believed this for countless reasons.
Perhaps I believed this because no one wants ordinary.
Ordinary is plain and everyday, as if to be common or in the middle. Or worse, ordinary is otherwise unnoticeable and flavorless, or unworthy of a special mention.

I never wanted to be common. I never wanted to be boring or meaningless, as if to be empty or with nothing attractive or unattractive about me, just perfectly medium.
I never wanted to be bland or weak to the eyes or meaningless to the taste buds of the soul which belonged to the love of my life.

 I believed that you had to wear an expression, as if nothing hurt, no one cares, and thus, why should I care too?
Let me be a rebel.
You know?
Let me be the wild tortured soul. Let me stand and lean against the wall, as if to be that mysterious poet, deep as the ocean and vast as the universe.
Let me bleed my pain and have this become numb or beautiful.

Let me have that glare or style, or that charisma or toughness. Let me be as dangerous as a bullet. Or if I’d choose, let me be tender when I want to be, as if the roughness of my soul were able to pull a switch, and I could be a lover beyond the likes of Casanova.

Ever lose a love?
Have you eve been the second choice?
Have you ever felt the thorns and the sting of not being chosen at all because of who you are and how much you have isn’t worth the risk or good enough?

Let me not care about these things.

Let me not care about anyone or anything. Let me find the light of the moon intriguing enough that I could bear the world on my own.
At the same time, let me love by attraction and not promotion.
Better yet, let me find a way to burn or bury my insecurity deep enough that I no longer consider the need to promote myself because, yes, ah . . . I, being me, or me being the way I am, let me go or be, so that I can do the unthinkable and enjoy the sound of silence alone without regret.

I want to be as I am and be fine to walk or move. Let me enjoy the right to sit still, or dance regardless of who watches or joins me.
If nothing else, let me enjoy the sound of music and resign to the freedom of whether I choose to do nothing else but sit back, or relax, and enjoy another song.

I remember alyrics that sang:
Give me a beat boys, and free my soul.
I want to get lost in your rock
and roll and drift away.

This made sense to me.

Let me be a man. That is, if there is such a thing.
Let me be true to me, as in me, myself and I and thus, let me find the perfection of not caring about the “either or.”

No attachment to the outcome.
No reason to complain or explain anything.
Let me go.
Let me be.
Let me do.

I go back to the idea that it’s not who you are, it’s what you wear. I go back to this because I remember a t-shirt which read the same thing.
Only, the idea on the t-shirt was followed with, “because nobody cares who you are anyway.”
I get that . . .

I used to hate the pretty. In fact, I hate that word “pretty” because the word leads me to remember when I was lied to and betrayed.

“She loved him this whole time,” I thought to myself.
I was just a joke . . .
She called him pretty and then lied about how she never loved him,
but she chose him, long ago.
I remember.
Then again, how could I forget that it was all a lie?

I used to despise the elite and their red velvet ropes and their status driven whores.
I used to hate the fit, and the popular, and their pretty lives.

Fuck them.

At the same time, I never wanted to be pretty.
I have always wanted to be beautiful.
I have always wanted to be seen and noticed.
And maybe I was.
But memory is a liar and so is the ego and our attachments to attention.

I remember practicing my speeches.
I remember all the times when I was fed up and wanted to walk away or to ride off into the sunset, but I couldn’t do it.
I never delivered the message.
I never delivered the speech, and I never pulled off my trick and pulled my best Houdini to be gone and simply disappear.

I couldn’t.
I was too afraid that my fears were true.
I was too afraid that I was unnoticeable, unworthy, or even worse, I was afraid that I was too uninteresting. Thus, I never walked away because I was too afraid that I would always be alone.

Alone . . .
You know?

No one to love me.
No one to care.
No one to notice if I was gone or not.
No warmth for the hand.
No touch for the soul.

What kind of life would this be?

The truth is, I don’t know—

But, if I were able to pull off my look:
It wouldn’t matter because I would have mastered the art of self.
I would have pulled off the best trick of all.
My soul would be unattached to matters like this.

Ah the birth of insecurity . . .
I remember this well.
And I remember the people who promoted this, or helped it blossom.

And by the way, I still can feel these old feelings.
even now as a grown man.

It’s not what you wear.
It’s not who you are . . .
it’s how you feel.

Figure this trick out, and you will be a magician beyond compare.
Trust me.