So, What’s it Gonna Take?

There was a night in my twenties that went long, or at least longer than usual which was not unusual to say the least. At the same time, this night was no different from any other weekend night.
I was young and wild and crazy. I was trying to find my way, which was blurry and unsure.
I was me, timid and trying not to be.

I assume I could have called this a moment of clarity. Or maybe a memory of a time when was my soul’s ability to foreshadow allowed me to realize that life is going to change.
Or at least I hoped.
Nothing lasts forever. Age happens. Life happens.
And the certainty of life is both inevitable and eventual.

Life is a trip.
It’s a ride. That’s for sure.

I remember being dressed in one of my usual outfits — all black, of course, to be cool and appear tough. My hair was fashionably long. I had on my black sport coat and a black button-down shirt, with the top buttoned down a little way to reveal my chest to the air.
This was my morning which was outside at my place of worship.
The wind blew my hair back.
I had driven home but passed my exit and I kept going towards the sunrise. I had too much on my mind to go home and go to sleep.

I was alone, but differently. It was the morning after what I would consider another common night in New York City.
The random chance of different girls and my curious drive for sexual justice and exploration was no different from anyone else my age. Or then again, maybe I was above average in this regard.
My style and concern was the approach, or my best attempt to act nonchalant or be cool. I tried to be this way. Cool and mysterious.
But I’m sure that I came off awkward.
I tried to pretend like money is water to me. And, in all, the way I lived was enough to drain me of my best possible strength.

I passed my exit and drove to the beach.
This is my place of peace.
I stood in the sands during the post moments of sunrise and stared out at the ocean and the waves. The weather was fair in late winter—it must have been just before the springtime came along to thaw the grounds of my suburban world.

I was neither at peace nor at war, but neutral. I was aware, as if to be steady in a true level of realization.
I knew in my heart, someday, something would have to change.

I wondered if someone like me could ever be one of the lucky ones.
Could I be?
Could I be loved?
Could you love me?
Would you love me?
Or am I too obvious and awkward?

I wondered what I would be like when I was older.
Would I enjoy the commonplace things? Would I read the morning paper?
Would I dress like old people dress and grow to understand the need and the convenience for orthopedic or Velcro shoes?
Would I rage about politics?
Or would I argue about the price of gas?

Would I fight with some random cashier at the register about the price of spaghetti sauce? Would I sift through my coupons and tell the cashier how the supermarket’s prices are highway robbery?
Would I become that old guy who refused to change or let go?

I thought about the lies I told, which were not lies, per se.
No, I suppose these were lies by omission or lies by my performance or my portrayal of a young man, pretending to not care, pretending to be secure, or to be tough, to act agnostic, or to act as if to be fine, regardless of whatever happens.

I was never good at life.
I was too insecure.
I was too afraid to go against the grain and too afraid to take the road less travelled.

I was too afraid to stand up for what I wanted or tell what I love or enjoyed.
My girl, in all of her perfectness, is flawless but perfectly imperfect and fixed with curves and dimples and a body with enough to love and make me fine.

I was too timid to stand up or to be different.
And I am no different from anyone else.
Although yes, I am terminally unique and I say this without apology.

I stood at the beach to neither defy nor accept the terms of my life. But more, I stood as a young man—eagerly seeking a moment of salvation. I wanted to regain my composure, at least to some degree, and find my calmness while staring at the waves that folded on the shores at the beach on Point Lookout.

No one ever showed me how to live.
No one ever taught me how to be happy.
No one showed me the trick on how to be comfortable in my own skin.

I only knew how to fight and argue.
I knew how to destroy.
I knew how to hide and steal.
I knew how to find advantages.
But to what avail?

You know, loneliness is a terrible kind of emotional cancer.
I was just trying to find the best way to put this in remission.

I mean, who was I?
Or who am I?

My hair blew wild from the early morning wind.  The air was not warm, but not cold.
This was Sunday, or some would call this God’s day and me?

I stood in the sand, pulling out a fresh cigarette like DiCaprio when he played Romeo in the modern version of Romeo and Juliet.
There were no clouds in the sky. The sun made its way to the stage, but it was mute of an overwhelming warmth. And I was fine to feel the chill to prove I was alive.

I could still smell the scent from the different bars and the afterhours lounge. I remember the smell of perfume, to which I had a long discussion with a woman who walked with her so-called man (or husband) on a dog’s leash and collar — but hey, fetishes are fetishes and me, — trust me I had my own special interests and secret erotic pleasures.
And I still have them too,
(but that’s for a different journal).

I thought about the girl whom I tried to impress at the bar the night before. I considered the absolutely draining levels of what it takes to set up a fling, or perhaps a one-night-stand.
At minimum, I shook my head about the different steps a man has to take—just to get a girl’s phone number.

Then what?
Do I call?
How long do I wait before I call?
What do I do if she gave me the wrong number?
What happens when I have to face the fact that I wasn’t the only fake person in the conversation?

What’s it gonna take?

I have been asking myself this question for decades now.
What’s it gonna take to learn what true happiness is?

To me, I am growing into a new role and reaching a new station in my life.
I cannot look back anymore or regret what went wrong. I cannot overthink what I said because first and foremost, what I said was already said and yes . . . it’s too late now.
Besides, relitigating the past does nothing but degrade my moments by wasting time on unalterable things. I can ruin days in advance by thinking about what was instead of “what is”.

In hindsight, I can see countless times when I had the golden ticket. I can see when and where I took things for granted. Moreover, I can see how I took special people for granted—and to this, with all of my heart, I offer my apologies.

I have never been so cool or comfortable. And no, I am not fit to be on the stage or be in the spotlight—at least not anymore.

I don’t need the attention or the crowds or anything like this to be happy.
But sometimes, it’s okay.
It’s fine.
It’s okay to lose your shit every once in a while.
It’s okay not to be okay. We know this.

It’s fine to cry.
Or like that morning in my twenties after a common night out; it’s fine to seek shelter in my own personal sanctuary, which is nothing more than my invisible cathedral, also known as The Beach at Point Lookout.

Do you know how long I have tried to hide my truths?

Better yet, are you aware in the slightest of how draining this is?
Do you know how exhausting it is to always hide me from the light?
Or . . .
Do you understand what it’s like to keep your dreams from coming forward, to stay free of disappointment?

I don’t smoke cigarettes anymore.
I don’t need the atmosphere or the rebellious ambiance nor do I need to pull off my look—or my trick.
I remember the way I would style myself or try to be like a rebellious character from a novel, or to create a look like James Dean.
I wanted to be mysterious and sexy, and cool. At the same time, I wanted to be mild to the temperature of the room and indifferent to the ideas of good or bad.

You know what?
I have always wanted to be in love.
I have always wanted to let myself go.
I have always wanted to find that person to do silly things with, like apple picking, or to go to a fair, or to take a drive to some remote town and sit at the counter of their local diner to eat a good bowl of soup.

I want my queen, my princess, and the my keeper of my soul. At the same time, I want my slut, my temptress, my love and sexual desire. I want my rock and my ride-or-die person. I want my co-pilot, co-explorer, and my co-captain to take this trip with me and enjoy this vessel, which we call life.

I used to think that life would be nothing if I wasn’t rich.
I’ve been rich before. And I’ve been poor before too.
I’ll be rich again. But . . .

I want to be wealthy though, and not the kind of wealthy that comes with money that buys items.
No, I want the kind of wealth that buys me a smile, regardless of what comes or goes, as in for richer poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

I tilted my head back and lifted my chin to the sky that morning on the beach.
I blew out the smoke from one of my Camel cigarettes.
I exhaled and thought to myself –

“I wonder what a Sunday morning is gonna be like in my 50’s,”
if I make it that long that is.

Here I am, kid.
I am still me and you are still you.
The game ain’t over yet.
We still have room to grow and trust me, if the song comes on again, we can make a grab for it, whenever possible . . .
and ask her to dance
from now until the hour of our death.
(Amen)