Good Or Bad, I Was One Of The Ones

What do we know? And by the way, I think this is a fair question to ask.
What do we really know?
Let’s see . . .

What do we know about anyone, aside from what they’ve told us or what we’ve seen or what we’ve been shown?
And even still, even if we see something or even if someone shows us who they really are, do we still know as much as we think we do?
And again, I think it is fair question.
I think this is fair to ask and to assess this thing which we call truth.

And truth is a funny thing because in all fairness to myself and to anyone else—there is only one truth. Any variation of truth becomes opinion, and opinions, of course, are neither truth or false.
They just are . . .

Opinions are opinions. That’s all.
We don’t always have to invest so deeply in them.
But we do.
Thoughts are thoughts and feelings are only feelings, which means entering opinions, thoughts or feelings into evidence are more to gain an emotional victory or justice.
Understand?

Emotions do not care about facts or fiction. They only care about two things: validation and justification.
But I get it.
We all want to be justified. We all want to be valid.
We want to be wanted and regarded.
We want to be included, and furthermore, we all want to mean something.
Of course.
We want to have purpose. Otherwise, what’s the point?
If there was no point, then we would be nothing more than some kind of meaningless waste that does nothing else but clogs the beautiful arteries of an everyday life.
And I?
I have always wanted to be beautiful.
I never wanted to be the drag or the weight or the burden or the clog in someone’s arteries that prevents them from living their best or most beautiful life.

I say this because I know.
I say this because I understand the concept of what it seems like to be meaningless or pointless.
Or worse, I can understand the feeling of being otherwise weighty or burdensome.
And yes, I was that one too.
I was also hellbent on the vengeful outrage because in my best assumption, I was nothing better than an utter disappointment. |
I could hardly read when I was younger. I had the math skills of an idiot.
Or so I thought. I could not understand why there were mean things around me.
Why do people hurt one another?
Why don’t people take turns or play nice or shake hands or hug?
Why can’t people say “I love you,” and mean every word of it?
Why do I have to be the diseased one or the ugly one?
Why do I have to be the one with the talent that knows how to endure pain?
Why?
Did I do something wrong?

I stuttered when nervous or put on the spot. I was scrawny and ugly.
But the optics and the image I hid behind was drug fueled and cultured with a mased rebellion. I chose the vest of contempt and self-destructive attacks that refreshed my insanity on a daily basis.
Keep me alive by feeding pain.
It made sense to me at the time.
And others will agree. But their sickness is gruesome. I agree.
But mine is no less sick or in remission.
I am just alive now and destroyed enough not to are what happens next.
Besides, I’d rather fight back than die without you or the right to say that finally; I loved the most beautiful girl in the world.
And I loved her perfectly, without fail and with all of my heart.
Even if you will never be mine.
I will pull this off between now and before the hour of my death

Yes. I was that one.
Good or bad.
I was one of the ones who believed the external narratives.
I let the bullies win.
I let the narratives define me.
I did.
You told me not to.
But you weren’t there when I needed you.
And that’s not your fault.
You just weren’t there.
But that was before.

I believed that I was somehow different.
I was a separate entity and somehow, I felt the pain of empathy, —yet I lacked the understanding and the ability to recognize that empathy is a talent and a gift.
I assume that I could not see how feelings are part of one’s beauty and more, I failed to see that emotions are a gift.
like you, for example . . . like the way you trigger my battalions to run through my spine better than any narcotic, or like how your arrival trough a doorway associates with the beauty of wild horses a the shore of Heaven’s sea.
I never knew that empathy was a gift. And how could I?
How could I see emotions as a gift when I was bullied or hurt or betrayed or laughed at?
Hence, I suppose this is why I put on my war paint and dressed my face and scarred my skin.

Yes. I was that one too.
Good or bad, my ruth is still true.
I was that kid who cut himself, I did this because the blood was my only way to manifest emotional pain in a physical and understandable way.
I was different from everyone else. I knew this.
And I knew that somehow; I was sent for this and to act on this, almost like a witness to the atrocities around me.
I could not understand why people chose to tell me their stories.
Why me?
Why would anyone pick me?
I am nothing bigger than a small stain.

Why did anyone to tell their tragic secrets of their youths?
And why did I have to be the one to learn who had been hurt or why was I witness to see people butchered in some way?
Or worse, why was I told about those who were raped in countless ways?
And I mean raped in ways that varied from the typical insertions of sexual injustice.
Why?
What do we know when we say that we know someone?

Do we ever know anything more than what people tell us?
Or do we only know what we think or assume?
I wonder.

Maybe the answer is a little bit of both.
Maybe we see each other when we need to be seen the most.
And maybe that’s why I found you at the ed of a da when I needed you the most.

Maybe we reveal ourselves in the wrong times with the right people, or vice versa.
And maybe there is something to be said about the revelation of us as people.

Maybe the saying is true and there really is more than meets the eye.

I am nothing more than a mass of assumptions.
Yet even I claim or wish to be far from the outside opinions that make me who I am.
Then again, nothing and no one can make me who I am because, after all; I am who I am.
(Aren’t I?)

I am nothing like I was, this time last year.
Or even better, I am far from my past and I am light years away from where I’ve come from.
I live close to my childhood though. At least for now.
In fact, I am a short drive, or, say, I am an approximately 15 minute drive from my childhood home.
I pass y often.
I pass by often, especially when I think about my dream
(or you)

No one can touch me now. Not here. Not when I am with you.
No one.
And just so you know, much of what I say is not said in a literal sense.
But I mean this as literally as possible.
However, I am speaking figuratively too.

I say this to you now because where I am and where I live is light years away from here.
And dig it—
My dream is eternities away from here.
My place is like the inestimable version of Heaven, bright as ever, painless and free to sing off key.
I am free to dance without regarding a my poor rhythm or the pains that come with insecure worries that ask, “Do I look okay?”

Yes. You do.
You look more beautiful than I can convey.
You look brighter than you assume.
In which case, even the inestimable versions of heaven look down and envy the look in your eyes.
You know the look I mean, don’t you?
This is the look you give me when I open my heart and tell you how I see you, —yet you look at me as if to wonder if I am blind or otherwise crazy because you never knew how beautiful you are
(my special butterfly)

I know this makes no sense to you, —or I should I say that I know this makes no sense right now.
But that’s now.
Seconds can pass and they become minutes.
I am killing myself in a minute, but this is just so I can be reborn with you.
God, I hate when I get so overrun like this.
But this is true.
heartfelt and spoken to the Heavens
(with hope)

Minutes will pass and they become hours, which turn into days and then weeks and months.
And yes, I have to believe that anything is possible.
Including us. . .

Am I so different?
Am I so different now from when I was eight years old.
I remember he winter before the summer. I remember the time before “I tried” for the first time.
I remember when I wanted to have hope.
I tried to build a carnival in my basement.
Like, for real . . .
I did this with little carnival games that I made myself.
I cannot say what I did or how I built the games. At least, not exactly.
It’s an old but highly valid memory.
And no, none of them were so great. But I can say that all the games I built were absolutely inspired.

I did this by the way.
Like, for real.
The idea was bigger than anything I ever had before.
I got the idea from an older kid who lived around the block from me.
He was not the nicest kid. At least, not to me.
In fact, he picked on me the same as he picked on the other younger kids.
I was just more susceptible and vulnerable and to make it simple, I spoke more to be like more and therefore, I wore more of a target than anyone else.

The older kid hit me in the face with a snowball once.
He made me cry in front of everybody.
Come to think of it, he was the one to tell me that there is no such thing as the tooth fairy.

He was the one to inform me that I was just a stupid kid. He was the first one to tell me that I was stupid to believe in dreams or fairy tales or be excited that Santa was real.
I am sure there were other dreams that he crushed.
But these are the tiny battle scars that come from the little wars we call our social experiments and thus, these are the lessons we learn when we grow up.
Not everyone who laughs is laughing for a friendly reason and not everyone who smiles is smiling for a good one.

I remember this kid with a mixture of emotions because deep down, I knew he wasn’t mean.
At least, not per se.
No, he was just an older kid passing the torch that was passed to him when he was little.
He was passing the abuse that was given to him, which was unknown and untold to most others in the world.
I was somehow shown and before I move another step, I will say that names go unused and times, places, details and dates are slightly changed to protect the less-than innocent.
(including me)

Either way, and more importantly, I remember when the older kid built a carnival in his basement.
Here’s where he inspired me and here’s when I knew he wasn’t so bad
This is where I got the idea from.
The older kid from around the block invited me and some of the other younger kids to his house to play at his carnival.
He charged us money, but we got what we paid for.
We played games and as best as I can remember, I think some of us won some prizes.
Nothing big. We won army men and action figures.
Things like that.
The older kid played with us.
You know?
And he played the role too.
“Big winner,” he screamed when one of us won a prize.
It was nice.
Really. I was impressed.

I did the same thing.
Only, I didn’t have too many games and nor did I invite any of the other kids.
I asked God if he wanted to come by to play with me.
But he never showed. . .
Maybe this is why I appreciated the poet, Jim Carroll.
He had a similar story. Only, Jim invited God to come over and watch the world series on television,
“He never showed.”
I can relate.
I suppose that maybe God was too busy at the moment.
I played the games alone.
But it wasn’t too bad.
Maybe there was something more to this than I thought.

The truth is we really don’t know much.
No one knows these details about me.
Except for you (now.)
I never talk about this either.

No one knows what goes on in the minds or the thoughts or the feelings of someone else.
NO one knows the soft spots or the places that hurt when they’re touched.

No one knows what I saw—not even if I told someone.
No one knows.
No one knows because no one else was there to see things for themselves.
And even if there was a witness or if someone was there to see what happened, —the mind has its own perception and biases, which is true.
I cannot say what pain or devastation feels like to you.
I only know what it feels like to me.
I know what chaos feels like when my blood runs too quick and my heart beats like an anxious drum.

I read a sign that said, “You’re not asking for a lot. You’re just asking the wrong person.”
I get that.
I found this sign at the best time possible.

I am awake now. Then again, of course, I am.
The rest of the world is sleeping, which means there is no one else here but my insomnia and us.
And you don’t know this because you are elsewhere.
You don’t know my pain or my fear, —even though I try to show you or convey myself to the best of my ability.
But there is a beautiful reason behind this.

I am no hero nor mercenary nor am I a warrior.
I say this all the time. I am not tough.
I am no charity case either, nor am I some kind of valueless being, placed here like a peasant in the karmic response of a life punished to be wasted or worthless.
I am not that one.
I am not a bleeding heart. And I am not too weak or emotional or caught up in the elegant wish for you.
I am wishing for you though; for you and your elegant romance.
Yet I admit this now.
You are my best version of romance in the most flawless sense.
You are the one I see when I close my eyes. And yes, you are the one I intend to be with, even if you are not with me at the time. Yet you are.
And somehow, I say that you have always been with me—at least, your spirit has been with me.
Always.

I saw another sign that said, “I’m sorry the Church hurt you. That was people.  Not God.”
Then I thought about this for a while.

I thought about my dreams which went deferred.
I thought about my unanswered invitations and the love letters that got lost in the invisible mail.

I thought about the imperfect fellowships of people that knew me when I first cleaned up.
I thought about them and their loss of faith and how their demise destroyed me.
Their losses brutalized me because “Goddammit!” I needed them.
I needed someone to believe in. I needed to know that someone is real and that despite all of the ugly hate and the mean bullshit; somehow, someone else out there came out clean on the other side.
And thus, maybe there is hope for me too
(understand?)

And maybe this is an unfair burden.
Maybe this is unfair to you too, to be loved in this regard or wanted or to be seen as something immeasurable.
But you are. Good or bad. Truth is still truth.
Maybe my feelings are unfair and it is uncomfortable to be seen like I see you.
Is it?
Maybe it hurst to be felt as someone with a touch that is better than the inestimable version of Heaven.
Just know . . .
Even the angels envy you.
I know it.

I thought about the breach of trust and the falling of anonymity. I thought about the way people betray themselves, let alone the way we betray anyone else..

There is something out there, far bigger than we assume.
I have to believe this.
I have to believe that seeing you again after years in between was the most intentional thing that ever happened to me.
I cannot let go.
or wait no.
I won’t let go.
I am that one too.

I am that one who built a safe little secret, but I was too scared to share this with anyone else.
So, I never did
I was afraid to be laughed at (even by you) because I always assumed that my version (just like the little carnival) was too weak or too tiny to offer to anyone else, —so I never invited anyone to play here with me.
Not like this.

Just like the time I built a little carnival in my basement and invited God to come and play with me.
He never showed.
And yes, this is all an analogy
a metaphor. . .
or whatever

I can’t care about these things anymore.
I can’t hide either.
I can’t wear any of the old masks because they no longer fit.
My old life doesn’t fit either because yes, I was that one.
But not anymore.

As hard as this is, I think I’m doing okay
No?
I could be worse (again.)

God, I love you
Stay with me for a while
Please
Even if this is a dream
let me smell your skin
so I can believe

that we are meant to be
and real

This is you