Music . . .
I’m not sure what moves you or makes your body need to dance. But we all have a vibration and a beat or rhythm that makes us move.
I’m not sure if my rhythm is good or bad or if I dance well or not.
But whether I am good or not is not the point of this entry,

I think I learned something last night.
I saw something beautiful.
I saw something pure and brave and to me, this was perfect because this happened at the perfect time.

Social media seems to know too much. Then again, so did the radio back in the day. Remember the way it was before technology took the place?
I say this because the so-called algorithms seem to know when heartache is in the air.
The radio used to know this too. Only, I was never sure how this was. Or maybe I was hypersensitive. Or maybe fate, God, and destiny have a sense of humor because the radio would never fail–at least, not when a break up took place. Somehow and suddenly, every song that had relevance and every song that had meaning between myself and my ex-girl came on the radio.
I saw this as fate’s cruelty or perhaps this was destiny showing me a new way, as if to purge the emotion and make me hurt so I can heal.

What I am about to say is something that I have to say again because I am still unsure.
I do not know if this is manly of me or not.
I do not know if it masculine to admit to these things. Then again, perhaps, my definition of being a man or manhood is in need of being updated.

You do know that things can always be worse, right?
Then again, I’m not sure that anyone wants to hear this. At least, not under bad circumstances.
Of course, things could be worse.
I know this. And you do too.

I know that despite the wrong turns and the pitfalls, somewhere, someone is hurting far worse than I am. I know that I have two arms and two legs, two eyes, a mouth and a nose. And while admittedly, yes, my age has crept up. I can still function.
My body does not function like it used to. But nothing does. No one functions like they did when they were younger.
Age is undefeated.
And I get that.

I am on a train with my back towards the westbound direction where I have been heading for more than three decades.
It is hard to think that I am still here or that I am still making this trip.
I often think about my exit or my great escape. At the same time, I am looking back as if to remember the way things were.
Me, younger than ever, alive and well and working my first real job as a grownup.
In fairness, I looked like a high school kid in a suit. And still, school was over. At least for me.
I never finished school. I never walked with my graduating class. I never did much with college, aside from a few semesters.
I was not a student and nor was I interested in classroom subjects.

I have always wanted to know what it would be like to be good at something.
I’m not sure if you understand.
And when I say good, I don’t mean good.
I mean really good.
I have listened to poets read their work and thought about what it would be like to be as good as them.
Could I be?
Or am I just below average with hopes that are better than my talents?
Who knows?

I have watched people do their craft and wondered if this was all a case of practice makes perfect.
Or is this something internal? For example, no one could do what Beethoven could do. And no one could do what Mozart could do. And the same could be said about Chopin or the other composers.

This . . .
This right here is more than more.
This is the most I have.
Right here.

I don’t believe it when people say they have a type. Or maybe this is just me. Maybe I should keep it this way and remain subjective.
But I believe.
More than anything, I believe in the fact that there is only one person who can steal your heart and never give it back.
I think that chemistry overrules the typical version of someone’s type. At the same time, I understand the ideas and the feelings that come with physical or sexual attraction.

If it were up to me or if given the choice, I’d say that love would be easy. I’d say that insecurity would never intercept our truths and so, if it were up to me, then it would be up to me to wipe away the harm from our past so that we can face each other without worrying about our yesterdays.

I saw something the other day that had an impact. I saw this woman talking on a video about what happens when we reach out and find ourselves rejected or ignored.
She said something happens to us.
She said the rejection registers in our brain the same as when we experience physical pain.
I get that.

The funny thing is I remember the first time I looked at a woman and realized I had a special fascination for the female anatomy.
And I was young too. I was in second grade to be exact. And what’s more is I remember this clearly because my second-grade teacher was cruel. She was an awful looking woman who was both witch-like and equipped with gnarled fingers that resembled the limbs of crooked branches that stemmed from an old white birch tree.
She had bad breath that smelled from coffee and evil beady eyes that beamed with a cold and brutal sense of angry disapproval.
I assumed that all teachers were like thos, or like her, and angry, ugly in more ways than one and, too, I never assumed that a teacher could be younger or anything close to beautiful.
And then one day. . .
Mrs. Rowan called out sick.

All I knew is that I was the young one. I was the kid brother to a big brother and the youngest one in the house.
But what else did I know? Or what else could I know?
I say this as a fair question to myself because what else do we know when we are young?
What do we know, aside from the pecking order in the house. Or if we take it to the streets, or the different social places, what do we pay attention to?
What do we notice, other than the different levels of who’s cool and who isn’t?
We know who’s bigger or better, and other than the relevance of age or what it means to be a grade ahead or behind someone else, what else do you know when you’re just a kid?

I never told anyone if I had a crush . . .
Then again, who would I tell?
Or if I told anyone, what would they tell me?