Holy shit.
I decided a while back when I turned 30 that I would post another entry, though I hadn't realized how long it had been or in what condition I last left this blog. Going back to it after three years, you kind of question it's purpose. What was it all about? Love? More specifically, heartache? Or did I just desperately need some kind of outlet?
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I'm in Los Angeles... decided to come back for 7 weeks. A decision made with serious hesitation and pushed through by a refusal to buy two airplane tickets across the Pacific in two months. But it's not just the duration of the visit, it's the mindset that is allowing me to reconnect with my life before I left... the life I had when I first started writing this.
The thing about leaving your troubles behind is that if you ever go back, they're right where you left them. I had no opportunity to overwrite the bad memories with the good ones. The last thing people remember of you are the things you wish they'd forget. Sure, people will assume you've changed, but the right (or wrong) memory can be so visceral.
Everyone who reads this, everyone I've ever met will only get these pieces of me. A segment of me when I was sad. When I was inebriated. When I was powerful. When I was confident. When I was a merely a shell. Or when I was emphatically me. Some will see more pieces than others. But only a few people, maybe only ever myself will ever fully understand that they were all part of the same continuum.
I had a vision of myself on the plane. This crazy, unfiltered version of myself with an uncanny ability to turn things upside down for the worst. He was 23, scared no one would ever love him and so uncomfortable in his own skin. It was like watching a horrible indie movie with a protagonist that you kinda want to slap, but you also feel bad for. Young boy, if you could only figure out a way to save some of that love for yourself. If you could only see what you'd become one day, you wouldn't have to be so afraid all the time.
I wanted to distance myself from myself. But someone said to me, "Look at you. What happened to that boy that I didn't respect?" And in my head, I answered, "He's right here". He didn't just grow up. He didn't fix himself. He didn't change for the better. I imagine that people who haven't seen me in a while, must see a contrast. But a sprinter in a race must look so much more glorious at the finish line than in the middle.
The truth is everything that I am and ever will be is because of that boy. That boy committed to living honestly, to allow himself to be trampled on in the pursuit of happiness, because he knew he could get up after the dust settled. He wasn't just foolhardy, he was brave. Not only dramatic, but sensitive. He didn't hate himself; he was impatient with his own personal development. It's kind of funny to look back and realize every quality you were ever ashamed of was always just one side of a coin.
My life is not fixed, nor am I. It will continue to challenge me. There will always be something or someone to cry over (and write about). It is how it is and also how it should be. Occasionally, in times of togetherness, loneliness is at it's most palpable.
It was almost three years ago, the last time I really felt connected to someone. Our bodies adjacent to each other on white linens, my eyes bounced lazily between his features as we talked. I didn't cry, yet tears streamed steadily, uniformly out of my eyes and into the pillow. What was that emotion other than emotion itself? I saw tears opposite me as well. Were these the elusive tears of joy? Was it a release of sadness and tension? I had to give up. I couldn't figure it out.
They all melted away so perfectly.
