Who knows where it all came from or why? Who knows if we were just kids looking to fit in or if our need to belong outweighed our need to be decent to one another. The truth is I believe that regardless of our age and no matter where we are in life, deep down, we are all just kids trying to find our place in the sand box.
Inside of me is that kid that never wanted to be picked on because I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to be pointed at because I stuttered when I read out loud. In fact, I could read a page, a paragraph, and even a sentence and yet, I had no idea what I read.
This is why this little piece of me right here and my writings, my thoughts and my journals are huge victories for me because keep in mind, to be able to write this and let the universe take it wherever it may go is a victory for me. This disproves all the crazy myths about me in my head and only goes to show that no, I was never stupid.
Do you want to know where it starts?
I’ll tell you what I know, which does not mean that I know it all. This just means this is what I’ve seen during my time that I spent in the trenches of my crazy life because the rest is history, or so they say. But first it’s a style. This is a culture all to itself.
First, it’s the attraction. This is the draw to something that leads to an idea of something that takes us away from the silly normalities which you and I call life. This stems from status and the different brands of popularity. This is also what keeps people coming for more. This is why people give samples for free; to pull you in. And this is why people say “Hey, do you want to get high?” because they know you’ll be on the dangle really soon.
There will be no apologies for this one so, I’ll understand if you end this here and move on to a different chapter. Either way, this letter is written to the ones that showed me how to live. This is a letter to the ones that gave me hope. And yet, they’re gone now . . .
I have a question.
Where do heroes come from? Or better yet, where do role models come from? Where do we find our idols or the people we idolize and why? What is it about them? Is it the way they walk or talk? Or is it the way they handle their lives or deal with the crowds?
As for the crowds, the crowds mean different things to different people. Acceptance means different things to different people too. Meanwhile, everyone wants this. Everyone wants to be accepted and feel as if they are fit to be welcome and part of the group.
My best analogy of the crowd and the need to fit is related to the first time I walked into the cafeteria in junior high school. I was little and scared. I went from being a small fish in a small pond to believing I was an even smaller fish in a mid-sized pond. Kids were bigger, taller, faster and stronger. As for me, I was small and looked much younger than anyone else my age.
Social media has ways of reminding us about the anniversaries from our past. The social media gods remind us of what happened on this day, last year and the years before. These are the old posts that make you say, “Oh yeah,” and reminds us of where we were and who we were with.
I see them now the same as I’ve seen them for a long time. They are young and perhaps getting younger to me. They are entering into a new chapter. They’re just kids, or, at least this is what we say.
“They’re just kids!” And they are.
Over the years, I can say that I have watched good people give themselves away to bad things. I’ve watched people move like moths to a flame and witnessed as they lost to life the same way water loses to a drain. I have seen people with good intentions end up on the street and become something opposite of who they truly are.
On the other hand, I’ve watched as others point and judge and act like a jury to a life they have no understanding for. Then again, I suppose we are all guilty of this, —playing judge and jury, that is.
There is this place where you and I go. And we meet here way too often. We come here because, of course, this is us, right? This is what we do.
Am I right?
I know there are times when words fall short. I know there are times when everything is so intense. And you’re like, “Dammit, already. It’s enough!”
I know there are times when advice is confusing (or unwanted) and nothing makes sense. Not even the simple things are easy.
It is a late night passed midnight towards the end of August in the year 1989. The scene opens to a mainly empty processing room at the county’s holding facility. A large counter acts like an island with aged and natural wooded vertical slats appear on the outside and a white desk top. The counter is a separation between uniformed officers and the processed inmates.
The uniformed officers are behind computers and desks. Phones are ringing and there is talkative chatter with regular office noise in the background.
The processing facility is aged and outdated. There is the musty smell in the facility, which reeks from the stench of hoboes and the traffic of new arrests that arrive to be processed. After the processing is completed, the arrested person is escorted down to a holding cell until the time when they are ready to be arraigned before the judge.
Of all things to believe in life, there has to be at least a semblance of hope. There has to be at minimum, at least a trace of light because otherwise, what else is there except for the dimness and the shadows of doubt?
Of all things to believe in, no matter how bad things may seem or how badly one might want to jump from their own skin; no matter how dark it gets or stormy or bumpy the road may seem, there has to be at least a minimum sense of drive.