She wore December on her grin like a long time gone. She wore this like a familiar shirt from something her Grandmother gave her, sacred too, or like a thing of comfort from the past, which was proof that someplace, or somewhere else, there was another time when all was well.
I see this in her, or should I say in you.
I appreciate the way you wear your smile or how you enjoy the sun when it’s kind enough to show itself in the dead of winter.

Certain things are often indifferent or unmoved, to say the least, and dare I say that I am indifferent because that would be a lie.
I am not indifferent. I am interested and invested and convicted of crimes that my head committed when my heart wanted to be true.
I am this.
I am all of this too.

This is where I came from. All my journals or my thoughts have all come from the same place. This is my past, of course, and these are my little secrets or my tiny recollections which I hold like old notes, folded in paper and kept away in a small pocket in my heart.

No one sends notes anymore.
Everything is texted and emailed.
I miss notes.
I miss seeing handwritten letters and reading the words I love you in a signature other than some kind of computer-generated text.
But that’s just me . . .

My biggest fears are that I would always be “that one,” or if anything, I would be that person who was always in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I was always afraid that I would never find my spot or fit someplace.

I think that shame or shame-based ideas are far more deadly than you and I believe.
And please, let me explain.

Shame is like fear and both are excellent motivators.
Excellent to say the least.

I was always afraid that I would never succeed or find a platform for myself, —or worse, I worried that I would always have to pretend to be someone else.

With all my heart, I do not believe that by any means, a man should be afraid of another person.
I do not believe that I should be afraid of anyone. Yet, I am.
At times, I swear that it seems like I am afraid of everyone (including you) because at some point, I fell for the tricks and slipped into the trap.

I believe that fear is draining. In fact, nothing drains us more than irrational fears. Nothing breaks us down or takes us away from ourselves like the fears that grow big and tall or become so huge and insurmountable that fear is all we see.
I hate the snowball effect, but I know this is real. Then again, it can be said that fear is an excellent motivator.
Fear can drive us in either direction. This can cause us to rise up and fight back. Or fear can have an adverse effect, in which case, we can turn inward and retreat, like a scared child who lives too afraid of the monsters in the closet or beneath the bed.

I would not call this a note of my most inspiring times, and nor would I consider this the glories of my youth. There is nothing romantic or cool about this time in my life and I would never say that this was me at my best. Not at all.
To be clear, this entry is more for my own discovery to trace myself back to a lineage where I was always booking for “something” to help me feel better.

I saw myself through a case of mistaken identity.
I was unsure of myself and my body.
I was unsure who (if anyone) would ever look at me with an interest that extended further than a handshake or a simple introduction.

What I am about to describe is real and an honest description of what took place after my nights out.
I had my struggles, of course. But there is something beautiful here, which is why I expose this to find a fair and honest representation of desire that went unaddressed.

 – The colors across my bedroom walls took on a new style, and the room began to move in a way that was perhaps demented and wild, or bizarre to say the least.
I used to love this.
It was clear that the LSD had begun to take its turn and the trip was about to begin.
I have seen things unlike the usual or the norm and yet, I have never seen anything like this.
Yet, I was not a novice to this kind of experiment. I was not new to the hours of trippy or self-inflicted insanity. 

I can’t say that yesterday was my last lecture. But I can say that yesterday was my last lecture of its kind.
And yes, this hit me hard. This also points out that despite our plans and our wishes, life makes changes no matter how we wish for something else.

Back when I was a boy, I suppose I would always be the way I was. I never assumed my Father would die or that his business would fold or go under.
I assumed that I would work in our family business.
But life and the fortune tellers of fate and destiny had other plans for me.

I am told that all men are animals.
I was told this more than once.
All men are animals.
Each and every one of us.
And maybe this is true.
I was told “from 8 to 80, blind, crippled or crazy.
All men are animals”

In the spirit of making this easy, I can’t say that I know where fantasies come from. I cannot say where my fascinations came from or how they began.
I know that I consider myself to be open-minded. I do my past to be perceptive and pay attention.
I can’t say that I am a person without challenges or problems.
I am as crazy as anyone else here in this world.
I have a drive.
I certainly appreciate the swerve of a woman’s body.

At the same time, I cannot say that I have a type or a style. No, and to be very clear, I have said this to you before. But in the interest of discovery and to further the meaning of this journal; please allow me to repat myself.
I have a feeling or a connection, and this? This is my type.
Looks and body parts are attractive. But this?
This is more.