Get ready. This is neither good nor bad no in-between.
This is a ramble of thoughts without direction. But at least, this is from the heart,
Sure, I’m frustrated sometimes. Who isn’t?
It is zero, four hundred hours and the hours of sleep have escaped me once more.
I am somewhere else, yet I am here, of course.
I am where I have been for such a long time. Only, this uniform doesn’t seem to fit me anymore.
Which means I’ve outgrown this.

It’s time to find a new suit . . .

There’s only a few more days left before I close this journal. But before I go, I wanted to go back to where my so-called life began.
I can still see it, my first real bedroom.
I can see what it looked like the last time I left. I remember the way it was all empty yet there was something still in there. Maybe it was me.
Maybe this was the memories of my youth. Whatever it was, I could feel this inside of me.

I want to go somewhere now. Somewhere different or should I say, I want to take you someplace different. There’s no draw or public knowledge of these places.
I want to take you to a small place in a big world which is really the trick.
I want to find a place with a great bowl of soup or a special item on the menu that no one else knows about, except for the locals, of course.
I want to be somewhere at a place where people smile and say hello for no other reason than to be kind.

So, I’m doing this to make an introduction . . .
I don’t know what she would say if she were here.
Mom, that is.
It’s been a long time since Mom was Mom, which is funny to say because moms are always moms, right?

Even if they are not the best version of being themselves; Moms will always be moms.
I know that whether she could help or not, Mom tried.
In her best way – Mom gave all she could. 

I don’t know if anyone has seen what we’ve seen.
I also have no idea what someone’s take on this will be. But either way, that has nothing to do with this entry nor does this relieve me of my intention.
I don’t know if everyone can relate to the same smells or the same sounds as us.
We see what we see. We live where we live. To us, this might be everything.
To someone else, this could be nothing. This could be weird or strange.
The world is a relative place.

Some people live. Some people don’t.
Or, as Bukowski once wrote, “Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”

I happen to agree with this.
I happen to believe that in spite of myself and in spite of our craziness; in spite of the calluses and the tough layers of skin which you and I have had to develop over the years; there is a special tenderness that has developed between us.
I can’t deny this.

Perhaps this might be too much to put here. But yet, I’ll put this here because I have no place left to put it. After all, that’s why I’ve built this place. This little chapel of my own that only exists in the steeples of my mind; yet, at least this exists.
At least I know this is real. At least I know that whether I am in the balconies or the cheap seats or whether I am downtown or uptown or high in the rafters of beautiful existence; at least I know what I have and who I am.
I say this is who I am because I’ve denied this for too long. I’ve denied me and you. I’ve denied my rights. I’ve denied my abilities to meet and greet and to reach or touch anyone or anything in fear that “hey, maybe it’s only me who thinks like this,” so perhaps it’s best not to say anything – least of all to say anything, just to say something for something’s sake. But yes, I have played the fool.

I am eight days and a wake up away from an anniversary. I say it this way because the number of days and the wake up was once used to determine the amount of time before returning to the so-called real world.
I was somewhere about the age of 17 when I was told to write my first goodbye letter.
But that’s not what the anniversary is about.
The letter was a directive that had been given to me by a counselor. I was told to write a goodbye letter to anything and everything in my life that I wanted to leave behind. Then again, this was during the time when the counselor wanted me to focus on the habits which I had been trying to perfect. This was back when I was hiding behind an image of long hair that grew over my eyes.
I was slow-minded and affected by the choices to keep myself dosed with a chemical that had swept around our globe since the beginning of euphoria.

Once more, I have the need to say this. I am a fan of the underdog. I am a fan of the dogged, the unrelenting and the one who understands what it means to endure.
I am a fan of the person who is not deterred by the word No!
Why wouldn’t I be?
I’m a fan of the one who understands the secret of persistence. I admire them.
I am a fan of the person who figured out the combination and, somehow, they can be consistent and persistent on a daily basis.
This doesn’t mean there’s no such thing as bad days or hard days. But in light of bad days or hard days, this only means that through it all, they never drop their things or throw tantrums and say, “I quit.”
If you ask me, I say this is more than being persistent.
No, in the face of the real world, I think this is simply heroic.

It’s amazing to me. Technology is growing so fast. Or maybe this all growing too fast, no?
Cell phones are the new thing to have. It’s true, there’s a line between who has which cell phone and who uses the updates or knows how.
I spent an afternoon scrolling through my phone in a store. I was about to buy a new phone. I was trying to figure something out when out of nowhere, a young salesperson approached and flipped through my phone in seconds. Literally, this happened in seconds and just like that, all of my questions were answered.
I’m not sure if this is the direction we want to go in.
I don’t know if technology is the answer.
But try to take this away and I get it –
There’s a fight on your hands.