I went back to that idea about how it was as kids. I remember when boyfriends and girlfriends used to write their names on desks and sign this off with the saying 4-EVA.
I never really had a girlfriend when I was a kid,
at least not longer than a few days or maybe a few weeks at best.
I never carved my initials or left the insignia “4-EVA”.
4-EVA meant “forever!”
I suppose this was a way to say, “Together forever” but such is youth. And such are the mind-blowing concepts of young lust or teenage love. And such is the concept of words like “always” and “forever.”
I think about the word “never” and how I swore that I would never grow old.
But such is life, and such are the details, and such are the truths of our life.
This is the way.
We live, and we learn.
We age and then we wilt.
No one realizes that always and forever are very long periods of time.
Like, as in really long.
You know?
The future is inestimable to a kid, or at least it was to me.
I always said the future was for old people.
There is always more than a million tomorrows, until tomorrow is gone.
Such is life.
You wake up one day and notice gray hair. Or maybe you notice a wrinkle on your face. Or perhaps you realize that your body cannot keep up like it used to.
I know mine can’t.
I often think about the places or the trees or the park benches in which I carved or somehow inscribed my name.
I remember reading someone’s initials and the words beneath them, which read something like, “B.K. was here and now he’s gone. But his name lives here to carry on.”
I remember the bathrooms at school.
I remember the poetic greatness of quick little poems such as, “They paint these walls to stop my pen but the shithouse poet strikes again.”
I suppose this was funny to me at the time. I suppose there was a piece of me, aside from the destructive part, who saw this as leaving something behind.
I still want to do this.
I want to leave a statement and my signature,
just not in a public bathroom.
I remember my first locker when I was in Junior High, which they call Middle School now.
My locker had someone’s initials on the top righthand side, just above the inside shelf.
I didn’t know who had the locker before me or who owned the initials.
I don’t know how many years the initials were there before my time in the seventh grade.
I don’t know if this person was good or bad, tired, sad, rebellious or anything of the sort.
But whomever this person was, I know that they left something behind.
They left their brand and their memory for someone like me to imagine or wonder how their life might have been.
Were they popular?
Were they cool or beautiful?
Where did they sit in the cafeteria and who were their friends?
What were their Friday nights like?
Did they go to parties?
Did they enjoy their time at school?
Were they a brain? A nerd?
What else did they leave behind?
Did they have a boyfriend or girlfriend?
I wonder . . .
Did they create memories that will last them until the hour of their death.
(Amen)
I had the opportunity to step inside my old Junior High. This was about a year ago.
I was there to see a young girl receive an award.
This was beautiful.
Amazing as could be.
To me, I couldn’t have been prouder.
It was strange to be in the main lobby of the school.
Very strange.
I realized that some of the kids from that time are no longer with us.
Age happened. But not for all of us.
And yes, this was a strange scene for me to see.
I have to say that the smell was familiar. The main lobby was different, but not by much.
I saw the stage and the seats in a room that looked huge to me back then.
I was amazed at how time and size is always relevant. And while I am not huge, I am far from as small as I used to be
and so was the auditorium. . .
Small
So were the double doors at the main entrance, which used to be large and intimidating.
I saw memories of people, places, and things which brought me back to the way life was.
I was young, of course, and much, much smaller.
Life has changed and so have the kids of today.
I wonder if my initials were left anywhere to be seen.
I wonder if anyone found them and wondered “who is BK, and when was he here?”
As for being here, that is if I was anywhere, I think that I want to do something meaningful.
I want something more meaningful than a dirty limerick like the shithouse poet in the bathroom or a quick line about a man from Nantucket.
If I were to go tomorrow, as in to leave the Earth and be a memory, I wonder . . .
How would I leave things?
How would I leave my signature or how can I initial the world and spark the imagination of someone after me?
What do I want this to look like?
I have never been to the reading of someone’s will. However, I would prefer to keep the somberness to a minimum.
What I am looking to do is to leave something behind, which is not to call this my last will and testament, or anything of the sort.
No, this is very far from my point. However, and in a similar context, I want to carve my name into the walls or the benches of this world.
I want to inspire at least one dream.
I want someone to find my so-called initials or signature in whichever way possible and have this make a difference to them.
But how?
History teaches about a young girl who began her diaries while under the threat of war.
She wrote her thoughts while living in silence and hiding from the Nazis in World War II.
She never believed that she would write something so meaningful.
In fact, Anne Frank remarked how she doubted that anyone would care about the outpouring of a girl like her.
Maybe if Anne Frank had survived, or maybe if her diary was never found, maybe no one would have known about her dreams.
No one would know about her desires or ideas about being free.
I am not a young girl and while the world is far from at peace, I am not hiding from the enemy.
I am not hidden in some attic, and no one is looking to throw me in a death camp – at least not that I know.
Still, I sincerely doubt anyone would care or be interested in the outpouring words and ideas of some hopeful or hopeless romantic.
I can relate to the belief that no one would care about the thoughts of someone like me.
Me? Yes, me.
Why not?
I am a little crazy, a little misunderstood, and a little hopeful and hopeless, aimless, lost, and still searching.
I bleed here. I speak openly. I reveal myself despite the jabs I take or the bashing opinions of critics or the regime of literary snobs.
No one should know the hells that we go through. And we all go through hell.
At least once or twice.
But such is life.
Is this me?
Will this be what I leave behind?
Maybe . . .
My dream is to be free too.
My hopes are to find my place in the circle and feel the sun on my face.
But for now, I will settle for a hopeful phone call and breakfast and the last gulp of my coffee to get me ready to face the day.
The Written Addiction 