The funny thing is I don’t miss much about my so-called yesterdays.
Least of all, I do not miss the times or the memories that no longer seem to benefit me.
So much has happened.
But yesterday is yesterday.
I am so far removed from who I was, regardless of how close I’d like to be
Or maybe it would be better to say there are parts of my past which seemed to have happened in another lifetime.
Or elsewise, I can say there are chapters in my life that seem as if I knew about the story and I knew about the content and the characters in the script, but for some reason, the chapter itself was written in a language I could never understand.
I don’t miss much about the medium or the in-between or the tired bargaining agreements that I had when being faced with my share of mediocrity.
I have had my bouts with the long road to the middle while reaching for the top.
And I am sure that I am not alone.
I have a metaphor or two that helps me understand the way i see things, or why I think the way I do.
I have analogies that help me understand the way life unfolds.
For example, I used to collect pennies when I was a kid. I never saw pennies as money or as currency. No, I suppose I saw them as little copper pieces that ranged in color from shiny to dull or muted to dirty.
I wanted to collect as many as I could. And to be fair to my imagination, I assumed that I had a hefty collection too.
I remember a day in my early youth. I was going to count how many pennies I collected.
Maybe I was about nine or ten or so.
I laid out each penny on my bedroom floor. I wondered what my room would look like if my floor was tiled with pennies. So, I started to spread them out and place them on the floor to see what it would look like or how many pennies it would take.
I collected pennies for a while, until the day I took the time to spread them out. And when I did, I realized that I didn’t have as many pennies as I assumed.
I remember thinking it would take a lifetime of collecting pennies to tile my bedroom floor.
I suppose I was too young to understand the laws of accumulations. I never thought much about the sayings like, “Slow and steady wins the race.”
I allowed my intentions and my motivation to be robbed by intimidation and doubt.
I suppose we all fall victim to things like this.
And I’d still like to tile a floor in pennies, just to see how the floor would look once it was polished and finished.
I remember this dream of mine and how it felt to me.
I also remember the way reality intercepted my motivation.
Come to think of it, I drove past my childhood home the other day.
I noticed the light was on in my old bedroom window.
Man, talk about another lifetime; that room was mine a long ago.
Of course, I do not suppose my bedroom looks anything like it did the last time I saw it.
But somehow, the spirit of my youth is still alive and well.
As crazy as it sounds, the house remembers me
Somehow . . .
I could feel it when I drove by—as if my youthful soul was still playing with matchbox cars and recognized me as I passed by.
As if to wave at me as an adult –
I think our spirit lives in different corners of the world and somehow, pieces of our previous souls are spread out across our circles of influence.
My circles have changed since my youth.
And so have I
Or at least, so I hope.
Or say, how about the time I walked into the front entryway of my old middle school. I was far from the small boy I used to be. I was grown, aged, experienced and seasoned.
No one bullies me anymore. No one picks on me.
But I do have enemies and I have unseeable demons that look to destroy my momentum, and keep me stuck.
I am not who I was as a kid. There are no teachers yelling at me anymore.
Yet, I stood in the main lobby of the school.
And there was an old piece of me who connected with the sight and the smell of the hallways, which have not changed since my time there, back in the early to mid, 1980’s.
I have aged for sure. I am unforgivably old in some ways and far younger now than I would allow myself to be then.
(Or something like that.)
I am somehow alive and well, which is crazy to think that yes, somehow, I was young once too. I was small as ever, and hoping to grow the same as I hoped to dream.
I had a trillion insecurities and body issues, ashamed of me, my size, or the differences of my face.
I swore that I was ugly.
Then again, I had no idea what the word beauty meant.
This is what I mean when I say revieing my past is like sitting in a movie theater to watch a story I already know about—only, some of the scenes are not written in the English language.
I do not miss much about my yesterdays.
I suppose this is because one could argue that none what I assumed was real or perhaps none of what I thought happened actually happened as I thought.
Or, whatever that means.
It’s been so long since I head my grandmother’s voice.
She died when I was 12.
It’s been even longer since I remember one of her bedtime stories or how the feel of her hands were soft like warm velvet.
My Grandmother.
She was something . . .
I have no memories of both grandfathers because they were dead before I signed up for this trip around the sun.
I see this is just another project. Hence, this is why I repeatedly call this place Project Earth.
I know there’s a big scientist out there somewhere and our universe which seems infinite to us is smaller than an atom to the powers who are greater than ourselves.
I know I was alive when I was younger. And I know that life happened before me and of course, I understand that life will carry on when it’s my time to depart from this surface.
I know . . .
Time is ticking.
The Heavens are watching, and somehow, or in someway, I suppose I’d like to imagine that all of my loved ones and I will reconnect or reconvene
someday . . .
It is not too much now and nor have I grown too old or cynical to believe in things, like the fountain of youth or the ability of hope
I can be young again.
I can be yours again too, —if you would be so kind to choose me, that is.
I was awake last night, watching the clock move and thinking too much about people, places, and things, which are all far beyond my control.
I woke up after a dream that was rather “frisky” by nature.
I cannot do anything about the kisses that I sent out that never came back to me.
I cannot do anything about the missed opportunities or the subtle and no so subtle bouts with passive aggressive people.
I cannot change anyone and nor can I allow myself to fall to the guilt or the amazement that in many cases, people can and will be disappointing.
And the same things go for me too.
I am not above the laws either.
I cannot renegotiate my terms with regards to the color of my eyes or the length of my arms or the gray hair which has begun to overrun the scruff in my beard.
This is nothing more than another turn around the globe and today’s menu has different options as opposed to the menus of my youth.
However, I do recall what it felt like to be young and afraid or to be bullied and awkward or to feel out of sorts with the crowd.
It is nothing to me now because as I grow older, I have grown more comfortable with being alone, which is not lonesome, by itself.
No.
Not at all.
However, age has taught me that happiness begins where my boundaries start, —and loose boundaries allow too many intrusions and too many intrusions allow for too many insults.
I think I’ve had my feel of these things.
Therefore, I am not insulted by social bullies anymore. I am not moved by the wasted time or the wasted breath of stalkers who live such pitiful lives that somehow, their revenge and their contempt of me have become so paramount and important that they regard me all too often.
Meanwhile, I seldom regard them at all.
I definitely do not regard them or others from my past the way they would like me to.
And more often than not, I regard everyone whoI have hurt, impressed, impacted or lost because as I have mentioned, I am a constant overthinker.
And I don’t want anymore feuds or fights
But one sided fights can only clap with one hand.
So, I’ll let them have at it.
Otherwise, I have no time to care about my enemies or their smiles because when they smile; that’s when I know something bad is coming my way.
It is not true and dishonest to say that I do not care. And it is wrong to think that I have a side or that I am twisting my mustache with a plot and an angle.
I do not miss much about my yesterday, which is not to say that some of my yesterdays were good, bad, glorious, or otherwise.
I have had more than 19,482 days to make my mark or at least leave an indentation on this world.
And maybe this is nothing more than another experiment by some kind of mad scientist or maybe I am nothing more than the remnants of something left on a petri dish or maybe I am nothing more than a smudge on some kind of grand x-ray in the chest of a bigger system of life.
Th fact is I don’t know what’s out there in the universe and I have no idea whether I will make my peace or find myself at the doorstop to the Kingdom of Heaven.
All I know is that yesterday is gone. . .
No matter what happened
No matter what took place
no matter how many fights we’ve had (or survived) or died from.
No matter who decided for me or against me
and no matter what the critics, the hateful or the stalkers and the disturbed say about me, —no one can deny that this is all just another trip around the sun.
Today is a new day.
No matter what we say or do about it.
We can fight.
We can cut each other at the throat.
Or we can live, be happy, and explore.
I vote for the last one
Even if I am alone . . .
I don’t need to be right.
I don’t want to fight anymore.
I’d much rather live, be happy, and explore.
Or at minimum, I wouldn’t mind finding a good place to eat a nice meal. Maybe a nice steak.
Or maybe we could strike up a truce over a good bowl of soup after a long winter’s drive.
That would be nice too
After all, food IS love.
Right?
The Written Addiction 