So, What’s it Gonna Take?

I believe in things, such as the war of man or the war within. I believe in the power of these battles and how the devastation of thought can lead us to our own forms of self-destruction.
I am far from alone with this. Then again, life in thought can lead us to lonesome places, whereas the abandonment and the suspicion of betrayals can cause us to lead preemptively, we tend to cause our own collateral damage or needlessly strike first and fast to keep us safe.

And so, if it is within me, then this is within me — and so, the rest is up to me.
Peace is a decision. I agree. Much like the peaceful warriors who have learned to differentiate their battlegrounds, I need to find my way and find the horizon where promises live.

I have pictures to keep me company and memories to warm the fires of my burning heart. I have desires.
I have dreams. I have ideas and passions and hopes that I will arrive someday, and find where I belong.
(Peacefully)
I have tiny pieces of memorabilia which I collect with the purpose to cure my soul and to avoid the modern casualties that follow us throughout the day.

I see this all the time.
Hate. Intolerance.
Judgment. Disputes of all kinds.
These things are common.

I have no reason to deny or not believe you, or should I say, I have no reason not to believe  “in you,” which is what we say when we reach a certain point with someone.
I believe in you.
Of course, I do.
I care.
Absolutely, I care.
Isn’t this obvious?

I see so many things that beam from the details of your eyes, which encounter real life, feel, live, and yes, I see both your passion and your pain.
I see you as truthful, which is odd to me.
Yet, I know where our dishonesties are (or were) because no one is able to throw stones in their glass houses and no one among us is without sin or able to cast the first stone.

You are true to me.
And, so, I hold these truths and keep them folded like an old note that we used to pass to each other in school — remember?
I remember them, folded up, and passed discretely or inconspicuously as if to mean, between you and me.
It seems nothing is so private now.
All things are exposed these days, which is uncomfortable to say the least.

I miss passing notes like this. . .
Then again, this was long before technology stepped in and now, all you see are mass-gadgets of technology which think for us and act for us and come with the absence of imagination or romance because the written word isn’t written anymore — it’s only text.

I don’t think it was so bad.
Back then, I mean.
Besides, it seems like no one talks anymore.
Too many steps are skipped in the interpersonal world and thus, we are less bound to one another.
Less personal.
Less connected
I suppose that less is more for some people.
But not me.
I like more.

I’ll say that I suppose things were easier back then.
Fewer complications. But yes, you had to work to stay in touch or show someone that you care or love them.
There were no cameras everywhere, which I assume is a good thing because, essentially, there is no proof of what took place — except in our minds, of course.

“I can neither confirm nor deny any of the said allegations against me and any questions thereafter must be solely directed to my attorney and answered thusly by him.”
I’ve had to say this before . . .
I’ve also opened stories or mine which explained that times, names, and dates have been changed to protect the “less-than” innocent.

But still, it wasn’t so bad.
There was a different level of romance back then.
Sunsets were still sunsets. However, our attention to detail and our value of certain things were more important because there wasn’t a camera in every pocket, and neither you nor I were ever sure if we would see a sunset that beautiful again.
We took less for granted.

I know this.
I suppose I want this back. I want romance to be real again.
I want the courtship to be like an evening when the sunset is golden and hopeful or peaceful, like a Sunday in the suburbs, quiet and Godly.

I want to step back from the social constructs and the technical world.
I want more to feel and more to touch.
To hell with virtual reality, which is technically unreal but somehow significant to so many people.
But not me.
I refuse this…

I refuse to allow myself to be so taken away. I refuse to lose the contents of my imagination and while yes, I agree.
I use today’s technology as much as anyone else, I will not allow my dreams or my fantasies to be replaced by some kind of artificial intelligence.

I want to feel the earth beneath my toes.
I want the sand from Point Lookout to be beneath my body as I lay quietly.
I see things like this and wish for them.
No, wait.
I need them because these are parts of nature that act as my personal penicillin.
This is my mental medication too which I can use these things to heal my soul and recover from the lifetime battles that otherwise killed me on a daily basis.

Like you or anyone else, I am no stranger to personal travesties or downfalls. I have made my wrong turns and trusted the wrong people.

Perhaps I think this way because I am older.
Maybe I realize that the end is closer and I am far from my beginning.
However, I don’t mind my age so much, which is strange to think about. In fact, it’s crazy for me to think that I am here, somehow, alive and well and noticing the gray hairs on my beard.

Where did they come from?
How did my body age like this?
Wasn’t it just yesterday that we swore we would never grow old or have to do ordinary things?

I never want to get old.
Never.
But time always seems to win bets like this.
Age happens.
Like it or not.

Still, there are parts of me which are still young and youth-like. There are pieces of me which are no different from when I was young enough to dream of great things. I still connect with the side of me that believes in the stories my Grandmother used to tell, or to count sheep so I can sleep, and believe in a cow that jumped over the moon.

I miss letters.
Maybe I can do as that old song used to sing and “Sit right down and write myself a letter,” and yes, of course, “and make believe it came from you.”

I need to sit with a notepad. Maybe I could sit on the rock piles at Point Lookout and listen to the ocean.
Maybe I could write another poem that has the ability to change my life for the better.

Maybe . . .

I can watch the commercial fishing boats leave the inlet and head out to sea. I can think of the memories I have or consider what it might be like to walk the beach with you on New Year’s Day, early in the morning.

This would mean the world to me.
This would mean more than you know.
Or maybe you already know
and if so, then you would already know why this would mean so much to me.

I believe in the war of all wars, which is the war of the minds, which are the wars that hold us back or keep us stuck in the stagnant life of past regrets.
To hell with those battles.

I believe in the enemy within, which are the replaying thoughts and the rehearsals we practice when we think about old arguments, or things we wished we had said differently before finishing our unresolved arguments.

I believe in freedom too, as in the rescue of souls or the salvation of when the right hand fits into the designated palm of its connected soul.

I want this more than anything.

I believe in the remedies that fate leaves behind.
I believe in the recovery of self, and moreover, I believe in redemption, salvation, and the rebirth of two lost souls who finally found their “other half.”
And yes, as simple or as silly and maybe even as pathetic as this sounds, I do believe in the words “Happily ever after.”

There was a time when I would never dare to say these things, nor would I allow myself to feel or even touch something like this.
I would never allow these sentiments, nor would I dare to share these things, in fear that my outpouring of emotion would be nothing short of rejected or laughed at, and worse, this would leave me vulnerable to a pain that is worse than physical harm.

Nothing hurts worse than an arrow through the heart.

Cuts heal. Bones can mend.
Bruises fade and swelling goes down, after a while.
The physical healing is easier to see or understand because of its physical representation.
But the heart?
The mind?
Or how about the soul?
These injuries come without a physical representation.
Therefore, the pain can linger or last a lifetime. The pain can be (or seem) insurmountable, as if the idea of healing or recovery is unthinkable, if not impossible.

I believe in the recreation of peace and the balance of two souls who are destined to meet more than one time repeatedly connect to find their completion.

Or if the world is an otherwise place and unkind at heart, or should my demons align like Mercury, Venus, Earth and Mars, and in the sacrifice of faith, perhaps the war within might appear to be lost.
But no.
Not this war.
Not my love.
Never.
My love is out there.
I know her.
She is better than lifelong.
She is kindred.
I know it!

I know the patterns of the tides and how they come in and out. I know this the same as I know that Mother Earth breathes, in and out.
I know that life and the world and the seasons are cyclical, which means there are different times and different seasons — and moving beyond this or getting past the seasons of the beast or the witch, I know there is more to this place for me.
I know there is love out there.
I know too much about the blood and guts of violent anthems. I mean this figuratively speaking, of course, which are the sights and sounds that I hear, see, and feel as the people I know sing out with angry volumes. I know about how the beast looks to hurt my heart. I know the mind tricks of our so-called devils when I pull into the subway station on Fulton Street.

Life is better lived without the mass gadgets of technology.
I truly believe this.
I need experience.
I need rich, new, earthy and visceral experience.

Life is better lived when spent honestly, as if to mean; my life is better spent when living truthfully.
Life is lived best without posing or posturing and pretending. I am done with two-faced lifestyles that cause us to be different in front of different people.
I can scream this right now.
Do you hear me, Universe?
I’m done with this!

I don’t need to be the same as anybody else.
But I don’t want to be different anymore.
I want to be me. I want to be this way.
I want to be as I choose, outpouring, gentle at times, and truthful to you and to myself because otherwise, what’s the fucking point?

Life is too goddam short to be unhappy or unfit or to live, love, laugh, and learn. Life is way too precious to be around the wrong person, or above all, life is too short to be fake or to lie like a fraud.

I have tried to be different people throughout my life.
I tried to be cool.
I tried to be tough.
I tried to be hard, and stone-like and stoic.
I have tried to be cold to the touch as if the value of life was as meaningful as trash thrown on the ground — and thus, I would be emotionless, faithless, and carefree in an outraged abandon.
No pain.
And I wouldn’t have to care about  who came or went.
But in all fairness, that was never me.
No.
That wasn’t me at all.
I’ve always cared.

But I tried not to.
I tried to be this way. Carefree.
I tried hard too.

I trained myself to be callous to the touch or numb and accustomed to pain. I did this so that I would never flinch and there would be no signs that anyone ever “got me!”
This was pointless.

All this did was rob me of the joys that come with simple things, like the touch of your hand, the feel of our lips, and the tear in my eye when I feed you something — and watch you smile.

I used to think, “Who the hell would want a man who is sensitive or so honest that they tell their deepest thoughts and fears?”
Who would want someone who experiences fear anyway?
I wanted to be tough and brave.
I wanted to be mysterious.
I wanted to be a bad ass and desirable.
I wanted to be uncaring about whether the wind blows or the sun sets or comes back the next day.

But the truth is –

I do care.
I care with all of my heart.
I care about you and your smile.
I care about the feel of our hand in the palm of my own.
I care about how you eat or sleep.
I care about everything in your life, down to the power cords you use.

Do you understand?
I have decided to put away my weapons of mass and self-destruction.
I have retired the soldier within and resigned my posts in the battles against the beasts and the witches around me.

I’m no hero.
I’m no veteran.
I’m certainly not tough.
No.
But for the first time in my life.
I’m just me
and yours too
(if you’ll have me, that is).

I guess my question now is –

so?

What’s it gonna take?