When there is no one else around and the loud crowds from the bars and nightclubs and the afterhours spots and late night places are gone away, and when the Downtown and the cobblestone streets and the streetlamps give way to morning’s light; or when the subtle nirvana ends the music and there is nothing left but muddy puddles by the garbage bags over near Mercer Street, I’d start to wonder if I was missing out on the heroic loveliness of a much bigger picture.
There must be something better out here.
There has to be. And I don’t know if I knew what it was or if I knew what was missing. But I always knew something was off-center or just amiss.
I have no idea why I was the way I was. Everything screamed from me and yet, to me, everything I’d scream and bleed about was either unheard or minimized by the world around me.
And so, I figured that I would have to train myself to be different.
But I was who I was and nothing in the world could change me.
I was poor and acting rich and in other ways, perhaps I was rich in countless ways but I believed that I was poor.
Maybe I had far more than I realized and still, in my best assumptions; I believed that I was worthless and poor in mind, body and soul.
But more, I knew that I was poor in my pocket, which was emptied and spent.
I tried so hard to pull off my look because by any means; I want to be cool.
I wanted to be wanted and desired and not care, either way.
I wanted to have that look, like James Dean or maybe The Motorcycle Boy from a story called Rumble Fish.
I wanted to be cool with a mysterious stroll and walk with my chin up.
I wanted to carry myself perfectly, as if to be unmoved and unbothered by the times or uncaring about the people, places, and the things around me.
By the way –
I have always liked that word.
Unmoved . . . .
I have always wanted to be unmoved, as if to neither be bothered or sad or happy or glad, or as if to be steadied like a rock and disconnected from the engagements between me and anyone else.
I wanted a complete and happily unattached and far away, as if to be distanced between me and the definition of my so-called life
No pain. No glee. No love.
No loss.
No highs or lows and I . . .
I more than anything . . .
I would be impenetrable and unwoundable, as if to have no weaknesses, no Achilles heel, no vulnerable aspects, except, of course, the mask above my eyes which I would only remove willingly on small or quiet occasions.
And still, should I show myself or grace anyone with my presence; I would only do so enough to show that I can love and laugh and I can feel too, when I choose to.
But why choose too?
or why bother?
I wanted to reflect the mannerisms of a cool, and an untouchable look that manifested the interest of all and yet; even if no one cared or saw or dared to notice me, I would be fine with either outcome.
I would never care who endorses or opposes me and to learn of these things would be no different.
Even if I were damned to Hell; I would take this or any other from a punishment and act a convict who is otherwise unmoved by the sentences of life in prison, isolation, interrogation or even if this comes to the decided punishment and the damnation to Hell; none of this would matter to me.
Nothing would matter because not even the devils or demons or the beast of the infernal world could affect me.
I wished to be this way.
Whatever comes or whatever goes would be fine.
Either way.
I tried to pull off my look.
I did. And I tried hard too.
I tried to wear my clothes like a suit of armor and dress the part.
But in all honesty and with all my heart and sincerity and in all fairness to my critical self, it took hours and countless outfits to change in and out of and still, I never seemed to pull off my look.
There was no look nor was there a model of genius or posture of subtle and barbaric easiness to explain that I can either smile or kill within seconds and neither item would mean a thing to me.
I was slaved to a weakness and chained to an idea of flaws and more, I was stuck with the flawed perceptions that my obvious and vulnerable natures were always too clear and all too apparent.
I hated being weak.
I hated my lack of stoic approach.
No . . .
No one wants to be the mark or have a bullseye on their chest or their back. But I can say that my fears always alluded to the idea that someone out there is always lurking and always looking, like a bottom feeder or a lowly predator, eager for the weakest prey.
It is strange that I admit to these things. I used to swear myself to secrecy.
It is strange that I admit to the wishful hopes of being so detached that I could not care less about who loves me or who goes elsewhere.
Nothing like this would matter to me.
I would never care about the weight of someone’s words or be disturbed about who stays or who betrays the kinder levels of my trust.
I used to train myself to endure pain. I would learn to endure my discomforts and to excuse them by becoming numb and used to the letdowns or the unavoidable rejections and distractions of life
Let them all bleed and die, is what I swore.
Let the world go down the drain and I would be fine because no one would ever have a hold on me or own a piece of my heart.
Again, I say this is strange to admit and yes, I trained myself to be this way. And yet, I’d often wonder why I was so unavoidably alone or why I was seen as unapproachable or avoided and never invited or included.
I never liked the way I looked in the mirror.
I never liked that I could see my weaknesses or my flaws.
I never liked that I looked so obvious and ugly.
I never liked that I looked weak
And that part right there . . .
That is why I always avoided looking in the mirror.
And last, I can agree and admit that eyes are the window to the soul and in many cases; eyes are like mirrors.
And in a few cases, or one case which was more specific; I saw myself in the reflection of “her” eyes. I saw my truths because of her.
And she was sweet as ever, curvaceous and beautiful, and savory too with everything down to her toes being cute and beautiful –
I trained myself to be alone.
Never let anyone in.
But she infiltrated my secrets and she knew it all.
Keep everyone away, and so, when my mission was accomplished, I found myself alone as ever.
I found myself in the worst kind of solitary confinement and regretting the fact that I had the freedom to touch the most beautiful girl in the world . . .
and then she was gone.
She was gone because I had trained myself to remain disconnected and unreachable so no one could touch me.
I trained myself to be unmoved by things, like, say, the softness of her touch, the calmness of her voice, and then beauty in her eyes.
All that male ego, rah, rah shit . . .
Is all bullshit.
and as for the pain this caused me
I swear, the loss is more painful than any man could conceive.
I swear
