The Prize and a Handful of Pocket Change

Love is complicated.

It makes you breathe faster, it makes your palms sweatier, it makes you hum songs that used to make you sick. There is no bigger high than to feel lips against your lips, a fit of lust, admiration, maybe both. Of course, like all things, it makes even the radio impossible. It makes you wish that you had kept more of a barrier between yourself and the fire.

Retrospect is funny. It’s like your brain catalogued every intimate moment you’ve ever had and presents itself to you in your weakest form. If people claim to have died at the hands of love, I believe it. To watch love die is one thing, but to watch it go up in smoke against your will is entirely another. The kind of sorrow that love brings can only be matched by other chains, other forms of love. Sometimes I think that this is the only thing that can truly hurt us.

To remain upbeat in a world full of starvation and bullets and fire is a feat, especially if you can make it out without the cloak of guilt hanging over you. There are so many questions that need answers, but I often wonder if people would be satisfied with the truth. We create our own realities, tiny images on the big screen of tradition and history. Still, I wonder if there’s more I could have done. I didn’t ask to be born in one of the most beautiful, free countries in the world, so why me? Is there a point in asking this question at all? $3.00 a day seems meager and easy in comparison to what I imagine that those who are caged in their own circumstance might feel, what every day behind their eyes is worth.

On days like today, when I am unsure of my place and my power in the world, I write. I bleed. This is the only outlet I know that welcomes my complete and whole self. This is my sanctuary, my home, and my strength. A word can make all the difference between a beautiful song and a mundane statement. I don’t have a real ending for this post, all I have is my thoughts. I think, for once, that’s enough.

If This Post Were an Elton John Song, Which One Would it Be?

Hindsight is 20/20.

That is the most annoying and inconvenient concept ever. I know it’s important, but everything that’s important is annoying and inconvenient. In becoming who we are, we feel compelled to face and take responsibility for who we’ve been. Think about it like this: You’re sitting there in the morning, eating your bacon or your grapefruit or, if you’re like me, pizza from the evening before. You’re sitting there, you’re reading the paper. (More than likely you are reading your Facebook feed.) Your eyes scroll past a name, a face, and you stop. You recall that name, that face. You remember what you said that day in November during your tenth grade English class. You recall that is was a terrible thing to say. In retrospect, the entire conversation was unnecessary and cruel. BAM! You are faced with a jaded, ugly version of yourself. This is A Christmas Carol, and you are Ebenezer Scrooge.

Maybe you can’t recall a moment like this. Maybe it’s possible that you have not wounded another, at least not enough to feel gripping remorse. I wouldn’t believe you if you said it, but if it is true, hats off to you. I can recall many of these moments, and I’m sure that there are many more than I can ever begin to remember or keep track of. Though I know that I am not the person I was when the words were spoken, it doesn’t change the fact that they rolled off of my tongue.

Now, when you’re trying to get right with yourself, when you’re trying to accept the world and the people in it for what it is and who they are, it means that you have to get right with ALL of it. I know that I can’t undo what’s been done, just like the people who hurt me can’t give back what’s been taken. It’s not ctrl alt del up in here. I’m not saying that the people I hurt lay weeping at night over the things I did, but I feel a little pang when I imagine that possibility. I guess I don’t want to give the impression that I’ve always been a peaceful, forgiving person, because it’s not true.

I was a total dickfart in some instances. And I could pass the buck by saying “The past is the past,” or “People change.” But I don’t feel like doing that. It doesn’t feel sincere, and I will never reach any of my goals without sincerity. So when I’m eating last night’s pizza and cruising Facebook, and I see that name, that face, I will apologize, because that’s what is honest and that is what is right. How the message is received does not concern me. I mean, I hope they don’t say “Fuck off and slide ass first down dick mountain,” or “Yeah, you were a MASSIVE douchebag.” But if they do, well, that’s the way that they feel. And they should feel whatever way they feel.

Anyway, I’m forgiving and seeking forgiveness. I don’t want the only mark I leave on people to be a skidmark from shitting on them. That’s not gonna jive with the year of change. What are you attacking this year? Find me here, Facebook or on Twitter. Let’s wheeze on the buffest, buuuuuddy! I promise I won’t be an asshole.

P.S: Cyber Hi-5 to anybody that knows which Elton song it is.