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.

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.

Yesterday was a pretty day. The sun was out. The sky was blue and the winds were warm. If you didn’t know what was going on then you couldn’t know what was going on. Yesterday seemed like a regular, ordinary Sunday. To some though, or actually to a great many, yesterday had an entirely different meaning. 

The truth is we cannot blame the government. We can’t blame the police. We can’t blame the virus either. As I write this and remain as heartfelt as possible, I write this with partial understanding, yet, I am also partially lost. Please forgive me as I go on. And quite honestly, I understand if you choose to exit here.