Please Note:
This journal will be written more as an artform or in different forms of poetry. Either way, all of my entries will come from my streams of consciousness.
No thoughts to the words.
No acting or pretending.
Just writing.
Just words from the heart.
That’s all.
I feel this; therefore, I’ll write this.
And this is my plan.
.
But first, and for the record or for the drama police and the clinicians who look to dissect and analyze or stigmatize someone like, say, me for example; I understand the word “feeling” is often misused.
Most people are unaware of difference between thoughts, feelings, and emotions.
I knew a man who used to abide by the laws of Supreme Mathematics. He used to teach me that there is a difference between knowledge, wisdom, and understanding. Each are separate, but each are intertwined ad dependent on the other.
What does it mean to know something without the wisdom to understand?
What it worth to know something and have the wisdom without the understanding on how to use what we have in our mind?
What is my mind without my body? Or next, what is my body without my thoughts and what is my soul without the understanding of each of these things?
I have always wanted to be brilliant.
But thoughts can the defy truth.
trust me on this one.
Feelings are often mistaken for thoughts, in which case, telling someone “I feel as if,” can be an inaccurate far as feelings are concerned. Thoughts are thoughts.
Assumptions are assumptions.
I am me.
You are you.
However, I understand that my thoughts reflect my feelings and my feelings stem from my emotions and yes, all of this act like a trinity because my thoughts and feelings impact my behavior.
I have to feel better if I want to think better and I have to act better if I want to think or feel better.
Hence, caught in the conundrum of mental health or disorders, I was too anxious.
I was too afraid and in the same text; I know I had the greatest desire to fly.
This is me
This is my trinity.
Whereas I am one in the same as my mind, body and soul, my trinity can also be defined as my thoughts, feelings, and my actions.
before I begin . . .
I understand that my style is not for everyone. And I understand that my entries will not touch the heart or the soul of anyone else in many cases.
Then again, I know that I am not here to write to anyone else but you.
And so, there is no one here, but us.
And since there is no one here but us, then I suppose now is a good time for me to begin.
So, here it goes . . .
For me, it all began with words
that I had begun to love
but in fairness, I was either too young
or I had yet to understand
what word “love” means.
Words have meaning
Words have a connotation
and a denotation
and to me,
I wanted to explore this
and enjoy this
but how?
For me, it began with poetry
but to me, who would care?
Who would see me in any other way
aside from the way that I saw myself?
And I say this, with full
and complete understanding
that when someone sees themselves as awkward
they naturally assume
that others see them
as awkward too, —and thus,
the same can be said about the word ugly
or unwanted.
But such is life,
right?
Such is life
in the fear of unfortunate exposure,
or, so I assume.
Such is life I the face of insecure notions
brought on by our fellow bullies
at school
and brought on by the imposters
who pretend to be unafraid
but in all fairness
they are equal to,
if not more afraid that someday
you and I might find out
that they are weak too.
If I had only dared . . .
. . .if I had only tried
or if I had been brave enough. . .
Or if anything,
perhaps if I tried
I might have learned
and if I might have learned
than I might have dared more
and stepped outside the box.
Whomever said
“There is nothing to fear
but fear itself,” was never afraid to be me.
Hence, the box that I never stepped out of
or the box
which I held myself in.
If I’d have tried and dared
then I’d have seen how I deprived me
of the joy of expression
or the freedom of victory.
Poor little kid . . .
. . .poor me
or so I thought.
Someone help the little
learning disabled kid.
Someone stop the stutter in the classroom
or hide the unseeable scars
from unthinkable things
because like you
or like anyone
all I wanted was to be me
and have that be fine enough
to be accepted
or included.
And sure, I hid my truths.
I hid my scars
and the imperfections on my skin
like the ugly rashes
on my neck, and chest
arms and legs. . .
Why me?
Why not someone else?
Or why couldn’t I
have been like someone else –
or born different
from how I am.
I wonder who I’d be now
if I had only been strong
or brave enough to dare the world
way back when . . .
. . . I wonder if I defied the world
way back when the worry started
and thus,
I could have taken a different turn
back when the worms in my thinking
turned inward
and became armed
and dangerous.
I hid myself out in the open
and in plain sight
and I tried, of course I tried.
I tried to hide
and disguise my truths
from the bullies in the schoolyard.
But they got me
I got hit.
I got hurt
I passed the troch
as well,
which makes me equally as guilty
or ignorant, which I disagree
because no one can plead ignorance
when they know better.
Be the aggressor
not the weakling.
and remember –
it’s not the bullying that hurts as much
it’s the lengthy aftermath
that imprints upon our opinions
and maps our mindset to become
the burden of our future.
Ah, trauma.
it’s a real Mother Fucker
Right?
But still
for me, this all began with the need
to express myself.
Perhaps if I tried
I might have dared.
and if I dared,
I might have defied my fears
that kept me from dreams.
Maybe if I saw that my fear was only irrational
I might have tried more
and feared less.
I wanted to tell the world
I wanted to expose the deceit from the perspective
of me, a little kid, at the time.
I wanted to define my art
and whether my art knew
if I was smart or not,
or whether my art knew if I stuttered
or I was ugly –
perhaps if I dared,
my art could have proved
that at least I smarter than I assumed
let alone beautiful
at least in some small way.
For me, this all began here.
Perhaps if I dared,
I might have been free to see
that in fact, no one outside of my imagination
is actually paying attention.
And even if “they” are paying attention
then maybe I’d have seen
the attention span of a child
has half-life of less than a minute.
But when you’re a kid
a minute could mean everything
and a second of awareness
can be even worse..
Life summed up by limitations
is limited to tiny successes, at best
which breed nothing more
than little seeds of contempt
(because we never dared).
Hope is like any other seed
and thus, hopelessness
is the seed that never saw the ground
or was fed the passion to be planted
so that hence,
these dreams of ours could grow.
I went decades like this
writing in silence
because who would see me
for anything more than who I was.
And who would believe in me?
Who?
I was young,
afraid of the silence but seeking peace,
eager to want more and eager to try
but afraid to read out loud
and metaphorically
I saw my life this way
afraid of everything
and petrified to stutter
in front of the class.
I was afraid of the execution
by the young firing squads of
character assassination.
Fucking kids man . . .
Does anyone remember
the stress that comes
with reading out loud
in class?
Each kid went paragraph by paragraph
and each kid read from their seat
and one by one,
it went
one paragraph after the next.
I used to count the heads before me.
I counted the kids in front of me
and then I’d count the paragraphs
to see which one was assigned to me.
Please, Dear God . . .
. . . make it a short paragraph
please . . .
But the paragraph was never short,
and even if it was,
it was never short enough
to hide the fact
that I could hardly read.
Worse than reading aloud
was waiting for the execution
because to me,
I knew
the other kids were going to laugh at me.
They called me stupid
because this was how I read –
“Th-th-the . . .qui-qui-qui-quick
bruh-bruh-bruh-brown . . .fa-fa-fox
Ja-ja-ja-jumped . . .
. . . o-o-o-v-over . . . the
la-la-lazy da-da-da-dog.”
For me,
it all began with poetry
but when I was a kid
I worried –
how can I ever be a writer
when I can’t even read?
To you, the young one
I say this:
Write on, Poet!
No one can stop you.
And to you, so you know
your skin was always beautiful to me
always . . .
. . . and had I known
or had I been with you back then
I’d have shown you my rashes
and my fears
with hopes
to make yours
disappear.
I love you.
The Written Addiction 