I am not too sure when this happens. I don’t know when it is or if this is something that happens and one day, we open our eyes and there it is, the first gray hair. I don’t know when age happens — at least, not really. When do we cross the line from youth to adulthood? Is there such a thing? Is there an imaginary line that we step over and that’s it? It’s too late. I know people who have been adults since childhood. At the same time, I know people who look to relive their old high school glories because they never grew up.

 There was a time before machines and applications. There was a time when I was much younger with the entire world on my mind. I was armed with nothing else but a deck of playing cards and a game of solitaire. I learned this game from when I was sick and hospitalized. I have no real memories from this time. I was very young and the name of whatever sickness I had was more of an adult word than something an 8 year-old would understand.
I have pictures or perhaps flashes of me in a hospital room. I sickly and tired and wondering if this was my fault or if “God” was mad at me for something.
As a matter of fact, I tried to make a few deals with God. I tried bargaining but the needles kept coming. And man, did they hurt!
Anyway, this is when I learned how to play solitaire. I was able to distract myself—or better yet, I was able to lose myself in the different color codes of red and black and how to organize the cards.

I think now is a good time that we have a little talk. I wasn’t going to do this here because I’m never too sure if we are ever alone—or at least, really alone. But at risk of exposure, I thought twice about this and yes, this is the right place. 
I think the only approach is the humble one, which in my case; this is me, here and now. What I am about to expose or explain is something that comes from the heart—and while I admit this is raw and perhaps somewhat uncomfortable or perhaps it is too much for some people to expose one’s self honestly, it doesn’t have to be uncomfortable or strange. This doesn’t have to be uncomfortable at all, but yet, I get it. Bright light exposes darkness. And sometimes, it’s bright . . .

You lose touch after a while. The past is nothing more than the past and the old running buddies from the old stomping grounds are nothing more than part of your history. This took me a while to learn but I learned this, nonetheless. And for the record, I still remember. I’m sure you do too. I remember my old friends the same as I remember the stories that we shared together. I suppose what happens is we move on or in some cases, maybe we grow up. Either way, eventually, the past becomes old chapters that seem like stories, which happened in a different lifetime.

I had to take a step back. I had to break away for a moment just to detach. So before going forward, I want to be clear that I am doing this because I choose to and not because I have to. I want to be very clear that although I write honestly and openly, my aim is clear and therefore, I refuse the notions that one is in pain because they write about pain. I refuse the ideas that one has to be in love to write about love and I reject the opinions that assume a person is in crisis, simply because they write about crisis. This is not my case at all. Instead, I expose my weakness to gain strength. I expose my fears to become brave and I reveal my truths because, with a humble heart, this is me.

Maybe it’s the summer. Maybe it’s the heat and the build of tension like the humidity before the storm until — ah; the rain comes down to soak the dust of our crazy lives. Maybe it’s the social tensions around us or maybe this is really simple; it’s just difficult because we, ourselves, are complicated.

I’m not sure if you can see me where you are, up so high, but this is me, right here.