childhood

Weird.

I have spent a great deal of my childhood being called weird. To the point that the word always seemed like an insult to me. I was different, I was strange, I wasn’t what people expected, but most of all I was weird. Weird has always been one of those words, that hits me to the core. Maybe, because I had been associated with it for so long that I have grown to hate it.  I wasn’t normal, I was weird. I didn’t like what you liked, therefore I was different. Everyone wants to be accepted and anyone that challenges that is wrong. People can be as cruel as school children can be.

I obsess over every little thing. I love spoken word and written dialogue. I write lyrics to songs I love all over my arms. If I hear something that hits me like a ton of bricks, I write it down, everything. If it makes me sad, if it breaks my heart, everything. If I could tattoo words all over my body, I would. I get excited over a piece of music or hearing an album, that reminds me of a time in my life that people wouldn’t understand. I love things that people don’t understand. I love people that people would never understand. Those are just my quirks that make up my whole existence. I am not gonna sit and lie to you. I am not going to pretend to love something because you love it too. I will not act a certain way just to relate to someone else.  I don’t like the same music as everyone else did or I cared too passionately about something that everyone else disregarded. I cared about background characters, written word and imagery as opposed to what was the hottest and latest in the game. I stick out like a sore thumb. Getting overly excited for the boring and mundane, where everyone else loved the glittery and flashy. I become uncomfortable with the attention. I become obsessed with simple conversations and deep thoughts then I do with moving in a hundred different ways. Because that’s real to me. What other people forget is what I hold dear to me. But that makes me weird?

Instead I find ways to understand my madness. I will not hide my pain or push aside my sadness. I will not make excuses for who I am because its not what you want to see. I love people just as they are in their flawed missed up imperfections. But people have a funny way of trying to change you. Trying to make you into something and someone you are not. What they don’t understand is what makes you weird, sets you free. What sets you apart makes you a stronger person in the end. I have allowed people to call me a variety of different names and sounds. I have allowed them to. Because I was never good enough. I was too weak to understand that what sets you apart, sets you free. When all the fingers point at you, you start to believe them. When you’re different everyone expects you to be just like they are. Insecure and afraid of who they really are. But you’re the different one, you’re the weird one. The one that stood against the grain. I am not who you want me to be. I never will be. I won’t cry or obsess about it. I will not bend and break because of it. I will not change myself to fit any of the moods people want me to be.

What’s weird to you, isn’t weird to me. What’s weird to you, will always make me weird. I am not ashamed to be who I am, why are you ashamed of you?

 

 

 

 

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If I don’t write this down, I’ll never let go of it. I’ll never find my way to say the things I’ve always wanted to say. There are places that stay stitched in your memory. Vividly that you often believe that they happened just yesterday. Memories of people, places and things and how they made you feel. Its easy to misplace these thoughts and hide them deep within ourselves. But on those days when you search to remember, you find it right where you left it. Right into the depths of your soul. On the days that I don’t feel like myself, I go searching for this place. The place that made me feel the safest, that made all the nightmares disappear. It’s amazing how your mind works when you search to remember. Because its these memories that feel like they were yesterday but reality is that it were years ago.

I find myself dreaming of that house. The house with the tiny yard in the middle of the alley. I shouldn’t be looking back, I should be always looking forward. When things get bad, I find myself running toward that house in my memory. To the gravel road and the broken fences. Back to the home that always felt so large in stature. Large in wonderment and memory. The more I think about it, the more the memories rush toward me. The light that harbors inside every corner of that house, that opened up parts of myself I often forget. I was never this negative. I was never truly this heartbroken. Once upon a time, I stretched my arms out as far as they could reach and span around in circles to dream.  I felt dreams, aspirations, and believed that everything was possible. I wasn’t afraid to dream and these days I am afraid of everything. When it hurts to move on, I think of that house. That little gray house that stands in the middle of the alley. Because no matter where I go, I look toward that house to come home. Because to me, after all these years it feels like home.

It’s taken me so long to realize this but this house doesn’t feel like home. I hold my items in a house that feels fragile to the touch. We hide ourselves in rooms in the darkest corners of this house. We hide ourselves from the world, when everything used to be so out in the open. We occupy our time with being people we never intended to be. I can’t help but feel alone, feeling we lost something the moment we moved. Maybe its just me. Maybe I am the crazy one that puts too much emotion into stationary things. But some nights, I still dream that I am back there. At that little house that always felt so large in stature. That little house that always felt so open with life. That little house that felt like home to me. I’ve moved and lived in so many places. Big to biggest cities but no where feels like home. Most nights I don’t remember where I am. Most nights I dream I am somewhere else and waking up some place else. Because the point of growing up is finding where you fit in, in the world. Finding out where is home to you and where you belong.

Nothing feels like home anymore. My body is just placed in different places but none of them feel like home. Because home was where I once felt I had a family. Where I once felt like I had everything. Where my dreams were bigger than my body. I miss that. I miss outstretching my arms to the sky and spinning around in circles. I miss the feelings that went away as soon as I got older and started to forget. Its so easy to forget where you came from. To forget what brought you to the places that you’re at right at this moment. Its not that I want to forget, it just hurts too much to remember that once I was happy. Once I cared so much and believed I could be anything. Now I just feel numb, that this place doesn’t feel like me. Even though my blood, sweat, and tears formed this house, my heart never belonged here.

Never said goodbye to the house, as I should have done years ago. I never reached out my arms to the walls and said everything I wanted to say. In dreams I go back and whisper everything I feel at the moment. I tell all my secrets in dreams and forget I have to wake up eventually. I haunt myself with memories that don’t exist anymore. Looking to the past when I should be looking toward the future. But when my heart is hurting and my mind is blank, I go searching for this place. This vacant place that doesn’t exist anymore. Its been so long since I’ve been back that being face to face with it, doesn’t hold the same emotion as it once did. But once upon a time, I felt love in this house. For the longest time this was home to me. Now I have to find where I belong.

Where do I belong.

11/9/2005

When you were young.

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Life is full of ghosts. Dancing shadows that we seldom confuse for skeletons. The history is the past and what continues in our present are just distant memories of who we used to be. We watch what fraction of ourselves we have left over from the wars of our memories. The battle cries of good vs. evil. We each find ourselves picking sides eventually. What good is the good without a little evil, we say? What good is life, if we haven’t truly lived it?

I watch the memories of my nostalgic mind slowly turn to dust trying to remember everything. Every last detail. From the colors of my childhood to the weight of an embrace. Everything. Every last emotional moment to every everlasting memory. Going through the photo album of my memory and wanting to hold on to the last of a dying era. We are growing older at warped speed but have a hard time with the growing up. I slowly watch my body decompose and shut down. When all I want is just another moment to shine and dance amongst the thousand of stars. When you are young, you’re cavalier about how you view the world. You believe that every night is going to last forever, that someone is going to save you from all your pain and suffering. Its funny how we used to think when we were young. That people, places, and things, would last forever, knowing very well it was moments before everything fell apart. We love that illusion that moments have a way of repeating themselves. That memories have a way of coming back to us. Instead we are left with high hopes and even higher expectations.

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When you grow up your heart dies. You stop believing in all things you once did when you were younger. You stop hiding in the shadows and start living in the present times and present tense. You watch every last one of your friends grow up and you’re still trying to figure out how. Watching your childhood home become nothing but a rusted memory. I don’t feel any older than I did yesterday, even though my body does. Sometimes on the days when I don’t feel like myself I want to hold on to everything. Hold on to the photographs and the people housed inside of them. Its the ghosts that keep me occupied with the memories of what used to be. Eventually we all have to grow up sometime, even if the memories haunt us.

Even if it hurts us. Even if we are not ready, we have to grow up. When you were young you had this anticipation of growing up, and now it’s here. That time is now.

5/3/2015

City of Angels.

I’ve never been good with letting go.

The whole nostalgia of the past to let go in the present. Things weren’t always so bad and miserable. Sometimes they were pretty great. Dreams fade and you’re left with the dust of a harsh reality. Maybe I just like to make believe that everything was once perfect. Just go back to the 4 year old that put her hands in Marilyn Monroe’s handprints, dreaming that one day that would be her reality. The flashing lights never stop shining brightly when you’re a dreamer. The people of your past change and you become a different person when you’re older. Some how in your memories everyone remains the same. Just freeze framed into people that held the same dreams you did at one point. Every day was one big new beginning and every experience was a life changing event.

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L.A. had always been a huge impact of my life. It was where my Dad came to call his adolescence home. Where no matter how crazy the drive was, it was always bigger, brighter, shinier than any city I had ever been to growing up. After a while the trips became less frequent and yet I still loved it. I yearned for a city, I knew nothing about and dreamed every day to return to it. I found myself telling everyone that “one day, I am going to move there and everything will happen for me”. That’s the thing with dreams, we dream so vividly we forget to gasp for air. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, I just knew I had to be somewhere that things happened. Where people from all walks of life migrated for just one tiny beckon of hope of a new beginning. Maybe that’s what I had always wanted. A new beginning. Anything better than the 4 years of being someone I didn’t like or the 5 years after processing a lifetime of heartbreak. Somewhere inside you knew that there was a place where you can start over and everything would be okay.

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The countless times I fled to LA were always magical. Whether waiting countless hours in front a venue to see a band or sitting directly in front of the latest crush of the moment, I knew things were happening. The countless nights I toasted to dreams with my friends or the days I dreamed knowing that every moment this was my best choice. Every time I made a mistake, it didn’t matter because tomorrow was just another day to turn it all around. I loved it. I loved being surrounded by dreamers that all wanted the same dreams I did. They wanted to be better and brighter than their past, no matter how much they struggled they knew one day it would all be different. You continued dreaming and continued to have hope for a better beginning. It was just the magically mysticism of  a city that made you believe that everything was possible. That everything you dreamed of will one day come true and everything else that happened in the past was just one sick twisted memory.

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The reality of dreams is that one day reality comes crashing down. One day the dreams you held so closely eventually disappear when you wake up. Maybe LA will always be my Neverland, where I will forever be stuck in the mistakes of my youth. We were all just lost boys and girls looking for a way to keep the dreams of our youth alive. While I have seen my life change drastically through the years, its always that memory of being in love with a city so magical that I’ve never forgotten. The only city that I’ve ever wanted to run away to, that helped me grow up in ways I never understood at the time.

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Its wrong to say I don’t miss it. Every night I catch myself missing it more than usual. I know in my heart that reality makes for a challenging adulthood and eventually our childish ways have to grow up. Just sometimes I can’t help but dream about the streets, the lights, and the sounds. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I still believe I’m back there. Back in my youth where everything was possible. Where dreams would one day become reality and every struggle was worth it.

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Now that I’m older my dreams have changed. Yet I find myself saying sorry that I let you down LA but sometimes we have to break before we can become whole again. I had to leave you to realize that I could love myself before I could love you again. You were the city that was there for me when I needed you most and sometimes I forget that. I will forever be grateful to you. Grateful to the city of dreamers who all wanted exactly what I once did. Your beauty, your history, and the light of hope that never once let me down.

I love you, LA. Always have, always will. ❤