You just can't help but love the feeling that you know something they don't.
But at the same time, you can hate that feeling until the secret explodes from your heart.
But in the event of this good secret, I can only watch people be oblivious and love that this secret won't stay a secret forever. Because I know something that will hopefully make them happy.
But when someone is dying to know the secret...
You can only hope you don't disappoint them when you finally tell them what it is.
Because you've been holding this secret for 3 months.
And it means something to you.
Hopefully the same applies to them.
Fact: My sister is a wonderful human being.
After hearing about the tragedies happening around us, she decides to make paper stars. Lots and lots of stars.
She asks for empty bottles from the neighbours and her friends. She fills the bottles with these stars, folding away all her problems into glass bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes. After she fills the bottles and jars she hands them to her friends and family.
She gives one to me.
The paper stars in a rainbow pattern, they seem so full of wonder. Even if they are nothing more than paper encased in glass.
I take the glass jar and place it on the top shelf of my school locker. Reminding me that I can keep a piece of home and happiness close to me.
But it didn't last.
After I made some mistakes I didn't feel as though I wanted any happiness near me. I wanted to take every bit of hope and hide it away.
I took the jar of paper stars out of my locker 2 days ago.
Holding it close to my chest as I walked down the halls of my school.
My head hanging.
Eyes glued to the floor.
Walking away from everything.
But still sort of hopeful...
Wishing for a bit more optimism.
A shining star.
I'll wake up earlier than usual and for a split second, I forget what happened 24 hours ago. It seems like a blur, like it didn't happen.
But I know it did.
And I can't change that.
So I'll throw on a checkered shirt and look at myself in the mirror as I put on my key necklace and rings, looking dangerous and ready to kill.
I wonder whether or not it's worth it to button up my shirt, but I seem to like the aesthetic of looking like I'm helpless. So I leave the shirt open to seem lazy too.
But I will roll up the sleeves. I'll always roll up the sleeves. Can't risk snagging the cuffs of a good, bad, decently fashionable looking shirt.
Pick out a complimentary hat and go.
Face the day why don't you?
Because I know I'll still end up crying eventually.
And I'd rather have those shirt cuffs in tact to wipe away the pain when I do.
Kind of a loaded question isn’t it?
Is there something you’ve lost?
Something you’ve spent?
Put yourself behind and look ahead
Don’t you gain something if you give something instead?
Do you have a family? Or friends? Who you’d do anything for?
Do you value yourself but see that they’re worth more?
I’m not a perfect person, that I can say
I’m only human but is selfish really the way?
Maybe you’d give up time for pain or for strife
But when it matters the most, do you give up your own life?
Maybe you’ve got it all, and you’ve got a life to live
But those who lose everything for others always have more to give
Maybe you don’t care, you’d give up nothing at all
You put yourself high up on that shelf, I hope you enjoy the fall
After reading some words that needlessly rhyme
I’ll ask the same question, but you answer this time
If everything matters, fate, destiny, and luck,
This question falls to you:
So what do you give up?
Usually, I'm pretty impatient about well... anything. Like this trip for example. I kind of wish we were already there. But at the same time, I'm not too eager to rush through today. Making this experience last as long as possible.
Getting as much out of it as I can. Living like to the fullest sort of thing. And yet, this plane ride is becoming sort of draining. But plane ride are usually like that. Not much to be done about that.
So for right now, I'll enjoy some time to lat back and try to relax. More air time above the ocean.
There's really nothing more to be done about the time left on this flight. And writing seem like the best time killer I've got. But it's not that I'm bored of writing. It's just that I'd rather be singing or playing my uke.
I could still be writing... But I'd be creating a song or poem or something new.
Something good. (So like I don't know, the bachelor?)
Something... (Yep. Definitely the bachelor.)
But I have to continue to wait out the flight. But again, I'm not really complaining.
I have the whole trip ahead of me.
You ever walk from place to place with your earbuds in and music turned up? I do that a lot. I’m a hallway walker myself, used to run everywhere at first but not anymore.
So since you’re a hallway walker, where are you going? You got somewhere to be? I find myself walking halls a lot. Sometimes it’s for absolutely no reason. And sometimes we all just need to walk out our problems or feelings.
You get used to seeing the same walls and doors along the way. Sometime that halls are empty and hollow, and sometimes you’re trying to walk through a crowd...
Have you ever wondered about where other people are going? Maybe they’re walking the same way you are, or maybe they’re walking to nowhere. Either way, we’ve all got somewhere we have to go. I hope you make it there safely.
And hey, don’t forget where you’re going, but don’t forget where you came from either. The journey is just as important as the destination. Thanks for finding my letter. Now keep walking, I mean, don’t you have somewhere to be?
There's a guy I know who once used an entire 2nd period class to draw out his entire family line on the white board.
He explains in great detail the divorces, the half siblings, the brothers he truly cares for. And you forget that somewhere in this family tree, he exists.
And he talks....and talks....
It gets to a point where you forget he's monologging.
He stops talking about and slowly begins talking about his view on love and relationships. I forget that he comes from a somewhat messed up family.
I mean, I'm still optimistic about love. So much so that I forget that people don't see the world the way I do.
And he is... not as optimistic about love.
Or rather, he just doesn't see love as an opportunity worth chasing. He explains it as, "I can develop feeling for someone, but I don't act on them because I don't see the point."
Or something like that...
And well, I can't think like that.
So I'll leave this mindset here. I guess it's something worth talking about. I guess...
I met you 3 years ago.
5' 2" and terrifying.
You never got any taller, but your rockstar personality shot right to the moon and back. And you never let anybody bring you down or tell you what to do. I admired that about you.
I remember the dumbest things about our friendship. I remember working with you on a group project we both didn't care about. I remember becoming friends with you like it was an easy thing, like we both knew we would be friends eventually.
I remember the first song I ever sent to you, and not expecting you to like it but you did anyway. You told me the song would even get stuck in your head. I promised to send you every song I would ever write.
We were close. I would always make time to talk to you. It didn't matter whether or not you were interrupting anything, I would set anything aside to talk to you.
We shared our jokes, and our pain. Our laughter and longing, we were good friends and we never let each other down.
And I will admit that this is my fault.
Please don't place all of the blame on her.
She may be guilty, but so am I.
2 out of the 3 problems were caused by my impulses.
I can handle 66.7% of the blame and consequences.
I can do that.
You can hate me if you want.
You tell me you don't want to talk to her anymore.
I tell you I respect your decision and that I will be here if you need me.
I am sorry.
I know I screwed up our friendship, and I wish I could take it all back.
I wish you could remember me as the innocent songwriter who held out arms of comfort instead of words of contradiction.
I am terrible.
And you don't need me.
But if your heart finds enough forgiveness to see past this.
I will give you a way out.
And if you choose not to take it.
Then maybe you believe that I am worth taking back.
That our friendship is worth fixing.
So tell me:
If I am worth that much...
Are you okay with the idea of starting over?
Because I want to make this better.
You don't have to be around me if you don't want to.
But if I can start over.
I will live through my life thankful that I got a second chance at all.
I woke up sick.
And I feel awful.
But not for the reason you think.
I can assure you that I am fine, I just need some time to lucid dream and wish my worries away. But that might never happen. And honestly, that's okay with me.
I'm wearing the same infected clothes, and wrapping up in the same infected blanket hoping to get better.
I've gotten the rest of my family sick, so good for me.
Because my family is made up of some of the strongest people I know. We never get sick.
And yet, here we are. Bound to our beds and eating soup like it's the elixir of life.
But we will get better. Physically...
As for everything else... we can leave that until tomorrow.
But I'm still in these infected, sick clothes. But I'm too tired to do anything about it. So I'll sleep.
It's the best thing I can do right now.
Don't you think?
My headphones are on.
I know what I'm hearing.
And I hope you can hear my heart break with every hit.
There is no excuse.
There is no cover up.
You wouldn't allow me to sit idly by and listen to you drain the blood from your hands.
I've been there, I've done that.
Are you even counting? I'm not, and even I know you've doubled up on the hits.
I can hear it.
This state of limbo is the calmest and scariest place to be.
Where all of these decisions seem to matter long before they've been made.
And here I am just staring down the possibilities...
I can stop you know.
I have self control and that is something I can be sure of.
But even now, what are we supposed to do?
I'll start with saying this:
I'm not going anywhere.
I am not a guarantee for what you might want, but I won't leave.
So here's what I propose:
Stop. Think. Act.
And sure, that's brutal honesty, and it's not easy.
But you've got an iron will do you not?
Just watch some TV with me.
The truth about being a superhero, is that only certain people know when to call us at exactly the right time. When the world is about to break into chaos and when the cities need us to be there.
But this isn’t exactly the job I thought it was going to be. I have devoted myself to being the best I can be for the people of my city, for freedom and justice, and for you. And for the first few months of my job, I was everywhere.
People knew my name, I was in every newspaper, children looked up to me, put me on their lunchboxes, they wanted to be me…
They say heroes aren’t born, they’re made. But I was born! Of the kindness of my mother, and the bravery of my father to create this image of strength. I am a superhero! I can fly, can you fly? Can you wear this suit? Can you handle the responsibility?
Not all of my city wanted a superhero. Some of them became the villains. And it’s not like I can’t handle a few bad guys, but sometimes, the citizens are my kryptonite.
Sometimes they don’t want me, one day they praise me and the work that I’ve done, the next day, they say they don’t need another hero, I’m just another problem, they say “Leave us the way that you found us: broken. And not needing anybody around to fix it.”
But I’m not perfect either. I can fly, but gravity still brings me back to earth, I can run, but not from my problems, I can carry cars with my two hands. But the weight of the world still sits on my shoulders.
The day they told me to leave the city, I reminded myself that if I harmed any one person, broke my promise to be the sole keeper of freedom and justice for all. That I would hang up my cape and quit.
And I did. I became human again, I am not as strong as you made me out to be. You told me I wasn’t needed. And soon after the villains had returned and they were shouting for me to save them again.
I thought you didn’t want me, stop it, I’m no hero, I’m just a person. Please, my powers only do so much. Do you still need me to save you? I’m just an alien, a science experiment, a mutant, a drawing in a comic book.
I am not your superhero! I can’t do this anymore! It was you who pushed me away, you fear my powers, you fear me. But I didn’t do anything wrong.
Please… Just let me go. You are the heroes now. Just let me go.
To the girl I wrote the song for:
I shouldn't have said what I did over the February break. Sometimes too much truth is just as deadly as one lie. And maybe that's what shot your silence across the ocean.
Even though you told me I shouldn't be sorry for the way I did things, I will continue to to apologize for everything I did. And if I have one request for your next decision, I can only hope that you don't hate me.
Because I can't forgive myself for what happened.
To the girl who watches TV with me:
My impulsive behaviour on that March night was my fault.
I knew what I was doing, I knew people would get hurt, and I did it anyway.
I will admit, the rush was not the worst thing in the world. But it came with too many consequences.
So please, with every episode of a TV show that we both enjoy, just remember that we will never be what we were.
...And I will never let you be sorry.
To my brother:
You were the first person to find out what happened and I asked you to keep me safe by keeping my secrets in your chest. I prayed you wouldn't let the words fall from your heart, I begged you not to tell our parents.
I shouldn't have put that kind of weight on your conscience.
To my parents:
Telling you what happened was the hardest thing for me to do. But I can only hope that I haven't lost all of your trust because of what happened.
To the bodyguard:
Actually.... you are the person I really don't want to apologize to. But I am still sorry.
Mostly for my actions and because what I did hurts the person you love most, and that I can accept that as my fault. I know somewhere in your soul, you hate me. And that's something you and I have in common.
But I can live with you never forgiving me. Because you are just here to protect the people you love. And I am sorry I threatened your comfortable life. I didn't plan on hurting anyone... but I did.
Just promise me this:
Be good to her.
Because if you don't do that...
Then what the hell are you doing?
I cannot be sorry for you.
I can promise you that these next few days will be some of the most painful. And to a point, I am too much of a masochist to care. You will want to punch brick walls and bleed for your mistakes. You will want a perfect stranger to beat you close to death and walk away like it's no big deal.
You will want to apologize every single day until you blow out your vocal chords. You will want to suffer.
But you will not cry.
You will believe that crying is not worth it.
You will choose to be silent, you will choose to become numb to all of your pain. And I will not be sorry for you.
I will never be sorry for you.
But I will tell you that you are not going to feel this forever.
So do me a favour and walk.
Walk with your regrets and live on.
Work for your trust back, and maybe then you'll have a chance to start over.
I hope you find what you're looking for.
How’s the view out there? Did you count the cars as they drove by? Is it snowing out there?
I’m only asking because I don’t know how you see it. I’ve looked out my fair share of windows and seen the world. Almost makes you grateful that we have something this amazing to look at. Even when the storms roll in, you feel good that you’re inside watching a natural chaos.
Something about that can make you wonder why we deserve something like rainbows or sunsets. It’s nice to just take some time to appreciate the simple thing like a good view from you corner of the world. Some of us don’t do that as much as we should. So do us all a favour and stare out a window for just a little longer. Not everybody will see the view the way you do. I hope you can see the beauty from where you are.
And hey, it’s a good reminder of what we’ve got on this planet. Enjoy your view, it must be beautiful. Thanks for finding my letter.
That can't possibly be right.
I never planned on being this kind of crazy, but I don't hate it. This is not what we expected and yet somehow we're okay with it.
I'm being very vague, I know. But only some of us are going to know what happened. So I don't need to shout it to the rest of the world. The rest of the world doesn't really need to know what happened to us.
I'm not afraid to die some days.
Mainly because when I do get on with living, I get caught up in being so busy that I don't have time for death.
Or maybe that death will be gracious enough not to have time for me.
I wish I knew how to pick up the pieces of my life and try to put them together without losing anything on the way.
You know that I don't belong to anyone. And that no one belongs to me, I am not one to claim anything for myself.
I think that you are awesome. And you can decide to throw that to the back pages of your life story and I won't be mad at you. I'll just decide to keep writing and maybe the book won't seem so heavy on your heart.
But even as I say all of these great things about you. I cannot tell you that I am sure of what will happen to us. You can't have me.
And I will not be able to explain why. But I will say that I feel comfortable where we are now. Held in hugs and folded away with stray sheets of paper. I don't want to lose you, but I cannot say with confidence that I can be what you want.
Because as much as I care about you. We must understand that we are single people looking for connections in the network of our closest friends and family. And we don't always find what we're looking for.
And that is okay.
So when we decide to stop.
I will still call you gorgeous.
I will still walk with you down hallways.
I will still lean on you in the worst of times
I will still call on your name.
I will still call you awesome.
I will still call you amazing.
I will still call you beautiful.
I will still call you...
And I hope you will still call me.
What can I say? I would love to be you. If you really do approach the world with love instead of hate, then maybe you could teach me to be less cynical about the world.
I don’t consider myself to be a hateful person. But It seems more difficult to be a loving person instead. In a way, you could just see it as confusion, but love is a complicated thing, it always has been.
I’ve never truly understood love in general, but I never expected to. So really, how do you manage to live life while still loving? Well, I admire that you can live life like that. Whereas I still have to learn.
So use this to your advantage, remind yourself of why you love, who you love , and why it’s all worth it. Because this is something only you can understand.
Because love is different for everybody. Love may be weird and confusing, but it’s something we need. And who am I to argue? I may not know much about love. But I can agree it’s worth it. I hope you’ve got love wherever you’re at. Maybe you can help me figure it all out. Thanks for finding my letter.
Truth be told, I probably need therapy, or counselling I'm not sure.
But I'm not going to get involved in that.
So instead I go to a karate class twice a week. And it's a good outlet for anger.
Just imagine the person or thing you're currently mad at and go crazy. Punch, kick, fight!
Make it known that you are blazing mad! Don't back down until you have won!
When the class is over, you're probably tired, you've used a lot of your energy, so you can maybe sleep your anger off.
But somedays, you rage does not give up, it sticks with you and you're still not satisfied with the service, you want a refund? Well too bad, you don't get one! Remember, this is not a real therapy session...
Maybe I should go into therapy -- or counselling.
Because even if you fight with all your rage and anger and hate, you won't win a fight if the person you're mad at --
If the person you are fighting...
It’s 11:30 at night, and I’m staring at a screen that no longer notifies me that anyone I know is awake. For I am once again avoiding sleep, but I am waiting for a reason to stay awake. I do not want to sleep for fear of never waking up, but if you send me a message, I will have a reason to get up in the morning.
Fact: Our communication is more body language than it is words but not that this applies to the text message you will send from your phone. For the only thing that doesn’t involve words in a texting conversation is silence.
You’d be surprised at how often I’ve had to be silent for the sake of others. You see, I have been told by many that I am too selfless, and that I need to look out for myself a little more. But I can’t. I do not have the ability to stop caring about people who need me, even if I am suffering more than they are. It hurts…to know that people I care about are in pain, so I pretend my pain isn’t there.
But slowly, I begin to realize that listening to others and caring for them is not a bad thing, but it does give me a reason to ignore my own problems. I don’t want to ignore my own issues, but I don’t have the courage to tell them to my own friends, why is that?
One time, my brother was so sick he could barely swallow without feeling pain, so I only asked him yes or no questions so he could nod or shake his head to answer. His pain, kept him silent, and my pain keeps me silent. The only difference between his situation and mine is that my communication with him was working and this silence within me prevents me from even saying hi to people.
I want to tell people everything, I want to have 5-hour conversations about everything that makes me silent and I want to be able to send you a text message without worrying about whether or not I just interrupted your life for 2 seconds. I want to tell you that I’m having a bad day, but I can’t because seeing you makes my day so much better that I have to smile. I want to tell you why I hate the weekends because I love school because my friends are at school, and that I had a fight with my parents, and that I hate looking at my own reflection, and that every time I say to someone that I’m sorry, I’m also trying to say that I love them. I am sorry…sorry… I want to tell you that I sometimes feel so much pain that when you say hello or goodbye, I will only have enough energy to give you a small smile and a wave, I am lonely…
I want to get better, I want to say everything and be honest and just WHY GOD WON’T YOU HELP ME?!? I want to play music, and have fun, and live my life, please somebody hear me…
1 New notification:
“Hey, are you still awake? You seemed a little out of it today. I’m always here for you if you need me.”
It’s 12:00am and I’ve missed the moment where today became tomorrow. So maybe today is the day I tell you everything. Maybe our communication isn’t broken. I write back saying: “Thanks for checking in on me, it means a lot. Now that you mention it, there is something that’s been bothering me, I have something I need to tell you…”
I have a confession.
I am not a good person.
I know it isn't original, and I know you've heard this too many times from too many broken people.
But it's the only shred of honesty I can give so please accept it...
Because I do not know how to forgive myself for this tower of lies I built over the last month and a half.
I am not a good friend.
And you know I try. But I haven't been trying as hard as I used to.
But I want to try and make things right.
I have convinced myself that heaven seems too high up for me to get to.
And I'm here asking you to tell me there is still a chance for me to be saved from my life.
I went to church today for the first time in months.
I saw old friends, and read new verses... I learned more.
Although I still feel like an outcast in this place we call "safe".
I can't feel your presence near me even when I pray.
It's like I've cut the communication lines and there is no repairing them.
I am willing to work for my life.
I will build houses of faith and sing praises until I drop, but it won't be enough.
I work well under pressure. So if you told me that getting to heaven was as simple as building a ladder as high as I could in 24 hours, I would work through war and hellfire to get there.
I would climb every rung until the ladder ended above the clouds and started feeling like the solid foundation of a life restarted.
I can only hope you will accept me with open arms, forgiveness...
And a "hello."
Day or night?
Video or audio?
Wake up or keep dreaming?
Move on or turn back?
Tomorrow or yesterday?
Now or never?
Too much or not enough?
Lifted up or put down?
Shut in or shut out?
Step forward or step back?
Forgive or forget?
Ahead or behind?
Real or fake?
Control or chaos?
In your head or in your heart?
Off beat or in sync?
Accept or deny?
Save or sacrifice?
Together or alone?
Yours or theirs?
Blood or water?
Everything or nothing?
Beginning or end?
Taken or given?
Live or die?
Your fault or mine?
Your choice or no choice?
Surrender or fight?
Different of the same?
Run back or run away?
Anxious days or sleepless nights?
Shining in the spotlight or hidden in the shadows?
Say something or stay silent?
Inner strength or outer strength?
Keep or abandon?
Bitter or sweet?
Cut off or connect?
Cooperate or compete?
Relief or risk?
Jump or fall?
Stay or go?
Preserve or burn?
Cold as ice or hot as flames?
Relaxed or on edge?
Listen or disregard?
Pride or concern?
Public or private?
Adventure or reward?
Save my life or leave me here?
Look, I never said I was that smart.
I say stupid stuff all the time.
It's not like I'm always awake.
I'm rewriting my life story.
But we all wish some parts of our lives were different.
I'm rewriting my DNA make my skin less red, my spine less curved, my mind less distracted, to make my body hurt less.
I'm rewriting my backstory, one where I didn't worry about much other than my life at home. I never told anybody how dangerous my life used to be...
I have never felt stronger than when I allow myself to make choices that nobody else would dare make for me. Because I am the divide between the words “yes” and “no”, I am a choice.
This choice comes to us in many forms but for those of us who wonder about how many choices we have left, we ask ourselves, “Where can we go from here?”
I have never attempted suicide, but I have thought about it many times. I have seen death in many forms. Usually, they come in the most harmless appearances.
I too, have held pills in my hand and felt the weight of death. And it didn’t weigh anything.
Death is a lightweight… and a heavy subject.
I rely on my faith to pull me together but if you turn things the opposite way they can become something terrible. My faith’s cross turned upside down is a representation of the devil and a simple necktie turned upside down is just a fancy way of hanging yourself.
Simple things can become deadly if you let them. The window you used to gaze out of, marveling the world, is now a doorway spiraling downward and few people stand up when they get to the bottom, but everyone stood tall at the top.
A plastic bag can hold your food, a necessary thing for you to live, but plastic can take you oxygen away, another thing you need to live. You need water to live, but you also need water to drown, at least in most cases.
There is a red rope hanging on a hook on my bedroom ceiling, representing a story from the bible, a woman wanted to be saved because she knew that her city was going to crumble into pieces. So she hung a red rope from her window for God’s people to find her and take her away from death.
But the red rope seems to close to a noose now…
So why couldn’t I do it? Why couldn’t I even try to attempt a choice only I have the ability to make, why can’t I do this to myself?!
I know there are people who will actually consider a choice, and go through with it, or they will fail and suffer afterwards. But for me… I have wondered who will miss me when I go. Who will be the first to know, the first to cry, the first one to consider the same choice I made after I made that choice, this choice… Is mine to make…
But I decided to stop. This is not a choice I make for me, it is a reminder that I still have another day, that I have another chance. I am the divide between “yes” and “no”. So for the people who still care about me, I looked death in its eyes… and I said “no”.
Most of my life is a forgotten cliffside. There's nothing you can really do about it, it's just the consequence you pay for being alive.
I don't remember a lot of my childhood. I can remember my schools, my friends, my parents, my teachers. But I don't remember my sisters. Only my brother, the little boy carrying the family name on his shoulder blades... But he is not ready for that.
As for my sisters... I do not officially "know them" until they begin to leave. I was 11 when they started leaving my house, and 13 when they started re-entering my life.
There is no excuse for arriving late to my life crisis. But what crisis is there anyway?
I grew up alone.
Sisters too old, brother too young, parents too protective.
Too eager to run through the halls of my early life, and high school is not what I expected the years to be. But I am still here... alive.
And there will always be that to hold on to when the sky falls from the stars that pin up the rest of the universe.
Or the the clouds fall from the blue sky just before that cliffside collapses into the abyss.
This is the artistry that is my life on a power surge. Feeling the shock of the first kiss, and the break of the last word.
The many voices, and single sayings. The before and after. The push and then the fall.
The feeling of all my memories being shot.
But not killed.
This is the joy of living off of the electric tower... or the Eiffel tower.
This is life made wild, love made public, friends made family, me made whole again.
Me surviving the cliffside fall for the 378th time this week.
Safety nets were never written in the fine print of this circus act.
But this feeling can kill as much as it can save. It is, and always will be a cosmic shot across the front of my skull...
Opening my mind into eternity. Until I decide to go back to that cliffside...
Over the logs and dirt of a camp ground, you still shine. A blazing, bright fire.
Fire is also an element of destruction, of rage, but also of love. The burning red love you have for someone.
But my favourite type of fire is blue fire. Looking like the polar opposite of burning red hot, blue fire is hotter than red.
And to think that a full rainbow can come out of the flames of chaos.
How beautiful is the colour of destruction...
Your average human body has hair, a head, arms, legs, a torso, hands and feet, eyes, ears, a brain and heart...
But if my body is made of music, are my arms mallets? Are my legs the legs of a piano?
Is my heart the drum that my feet will always follow? The metronome that my body will always follow?
Is my DNA coded in sheet music?
Are my hands the baton? Are my fingers the keys? Is my spine a xylophone, each vertebrae a singular key?
Fact: The average human body will eventually narrow down to only 207 bones. Are my 207 bones each a separate instrument? All part of the orchestral body,
If they say music never dies, do I die?
Does my soul live on generations after I am gone? Will people still remember me?
If my body is made of music...
Will you still listen?
Even if the song is over?
Definition of Selfless: Putting others before yourself to the point where "you" don't matter anymore.
Definition of Pain: One of the two things that I believe all people have in common. The other thing? Love.
Definition of Love: --ERROR-- Lost in translation.
Definition of Nothing: Nothing...
Definition of Feeling You've got tons of it don't you?
Definition of Me: A personal title I call myself. Also known as "you" in a sense.
High and mighty and greater than "you".
Because "me", a self proclaimed name that doesn't deserve its definition. Because "I" am hurt, and in "pain", and out of "love", and too "selfless" to take care of "me". So that makes "me"...
I don't need a poem written about me.
I mean, I could argue whether or not it's worth it to write about me. I am an original among billions of people but only so many people are going to get to know me. And fewer than that will want to talk about me or write about my life and how it affected theirs.
So really now, what is there to tell?
You can start with what event brought us together...
And end with how you think everything will work out.
I'm giving up my author status for a short time to let someone else tell this story.
Because right now, I need another opinion.
So I'll leave the paper here.
Write what you will.
And write with everything you've got.
In John Green’s book “Paper Towns”, the main character believes that every person gets a miracle. A single miracle, a gift to you, possibly from God, that allows you to feel like you might actually be a lucky human being for once.
But this statement is not true. Because everybody in this world doesn’t get “one miracle”. I mean sure, you can get one miracle, but that doesn’t have to be it. You could get millions of miracles if you were just a little more patient. If you waited just a little longer.
Miracles can come in different shapes and sizes, different people, different amounts of money, different words, or sights, or stars. You, yourself can be your own miracle.
I believe that every friend I’ve ever had is a miracle to me, every song I write, every word I speak, I am shouting miracles at you, even if you’re at the back of the room my voice will make it to you if you just wait a little longer to hear it.
Some miracles happen more than once, like a boomerang coming back to you, you keep getting something and you pray as hard as you can that every miracle you ever got comes back to you.
And every boomerang will come back to its thrower if you just wait a while.
Now if your miracle is a person, you must be willing to be the most patient you’ve ever been in your life. Because people will change direction, this boomerang sometimes decides it wants to take control of its path before it comes back, and it will come back. Just wait a little longer – Just wait – because if you leave you won’t be there to catch a miracle you knew the joy of having.
God has sent me so many people. So many boomerang miracles, and I’ve been waiting for too long. But nothing can move me, I am rooted to where I stand, I will wait for as long as it takes for my person, for my miracle to make it back to me.
Sometimes I doubt. I consider walking away, and maybe somebody else can catch my miracle, and call it their own. But if I believe that God sent you to me. And I’m the one walking away, then maybe I’m the next boomerang, but I promise I’ll make it back to you – this is all I know how to do. I have been waiting, for so long...
Please God, I need these people to come back to me. They mean so much to me, more than they will ever know.
So I wait, and I will keep waiting, until God sends you, one of my many miracles, back to me.
At 10 years old, I argued for my time back. I don't to play piano anymore, I want my 10 000 hours back.
This is the brokenness I am
At 13 I had a double, nothing in common but the title of their being. And yet that is all it took to become nothing.
This is the brokenness I am
At 14 I spent time with a locker, the only friend I had in the jail of a building. A homeless student living amongst the rich.
This is the brokenness I am
At 15 I was trying to put life together, but it didn't work. Making myself angry about it. Maybe you don't have to accept that life doesn't like you, that people don't like you. That you don't like you.
This is the brokenness I am
They're empty first of all.
And anything or anyone that appears to be there, isn't actually there, you-- are dreaming. Don't believe me?
Let's play a game, it's called, "Where's Waldo?" With you as "Waldo".
Yes, that's right, you-- have to find yourself in this sea of walls, floors and people you do not know.
These people, with stoic faces, walk the same halls, looking for the same thing. They do not care that you are here, and you don't care that they are here.
Just get to the end of the hallway, but don't go into the light, you are not here to die -- you can't. You have to find yourself before you do. But there are some people who die before finding themselves in the "Where's Waldo?" page.
Out of this maze of halls you find yourself in.
You are determined. You will not leave without finding yourself, do not allow yourself to give up!
At the end of the hall! It's you!
You found yourself! You win the search! Now go!
Run! Get to them, yourself is waiting for you at the end of this hall.
RUN! Run as fast as your legs can carry you! Because you do not have time to think, so RUN!
They need you to save them! They're calling out to you, screaming for help, for You.
Get to them, grab their hand, save them!
...And just as you barely make contact with their hand and lock eyes with a body with the same eyes and face as you...
They begin to fade, to disappear!! WAIT! NO!
You were so close to saving them!
You wake up.
It was all just a dream.
You were dreaming right? You know you were dreaming!
You get up. Open the door... exit the room...
And you walk down a hallway...
It's 10:00 at night and it's been at least a half hour since you've eaten something. You make your way to the kitchen, empty bowl in hand. You place the bowl with the dirty dishes and the world slows down as you turn to see the small container with your name on it...
I hate it.
You grab a glass of juice and stare at the container down. As if the black that so neatly stamps your name could stare back. You open the kid proof cap and pour out half its contents into your dominant hand.
Just to feel the weight of death in you dominant hand. "Take 2 twice daily." They said.
The half orange, half yellow capsules still in my palm. Feeling the plastic-like coating I feel like I could crush in 2 seconds flat.
This, is when the protagonist eats as many pills as her body will allow, when she gives in, when she dies. This movie is almost over...
Nobody else is awake, it's just you and your handful of pills.
This movie goes on, the protagonist will live.
You-- are not built on a mountain of clichés and stereotypical archetypes.
And still alive!
You pour the pills back into the container, with 4 still left in you hand. You take 2 but you still feel like it's stuck in your throat, so you eat something small to force it down. Even though these pills are supposed to be take on an empty stomach...
You get a glass of water, and set that aside with the 2 remaining pills for tomorrow morning.
Now go to sleep, make sure this protagonist lives to take the Hollywood medication tomorrow.
Setting: My Hometown, The School Ground, The 3rd Space, The Front Seat Of The Car, The Church, 2014-17 and beyond
Main Cast: The Musician, The Punk, The Tie-Wearer
Other Important Roles: The Prince, The Parental Units, The Body Guard, The Boy With The Glasses, The 5 Personalities, The Logical Thinker, The Multiple Third Parties, etc. There are too many to count.
Edit: Do not cast the 5 personalities... I mean, you can, just be careful. They might quit their jobs halfway through the film.
Deciding to make this movie is a challenge that nobody is prepared to execute, so don't be surprised if you cannot handle the emotional scarring and strain on every single character in the film. This is not your average story.
And these are not your average characters.
So we start our story off in 2014.
2 of our main characters meet...
And our story begins...
I can’t sleep because I’m too tired. I’m so tired that what I just said makes complete sense...
I can’t sleep because I’m not tired at all, I would run around the world and come back home and still be awake. If I could... If I wanted to.
I can’t sleep because counting sheep is stupid.
I can’t sleep because I want to pull an all-nighter. I can’t sleep because I don’t want to pull an all-nighter.
I can’t sleep because I plan to wake up at 6 am tomorrow morning. Or 8, or 12, or 4 o’clock in the afternoon.
I can’t sleep because YouTube.
I can’t sleep because I can’t wait for tomorrow, and I can’t sleep because I don’t want tomorrow to catch up with me.
I can’t sleep because I have a scheduled 3-hour long conversation with God and something tells me we are definitely going overtime. We just have so much to talk about.
I can’t sleep because I’m hungry, but let’s not risk waking my family of the sleep I don’t get to have.
I can’t sleep because I’m afraid of dying in my sleep. You can’t tell me it would be peaceful, or comfortable, when I’m subconsciously fighting for my life, and a rest I will forever never get to have.
Rest in peace right? More like rest in pieces, I am a broken body sprawled out across a bed that is too small for me because I hate sleeping on a diagonal, I keep tossing and turning, so no, I am not resting in peace.
I can’t sleep because I will never be comfortable, I will never be able to sleep in a straight line, or on my left or right side, so lets just stare at my ceiling and wonder why I even bother trying.
I can’t sleep because my dreams will always become nightmares in which I wake up the next morning to forget my dreams of yesterday, I did not ask for a tomorrow, I did not ask for my alarm clock, I did not ask to wake up. Tell the sun to go back down for five minutes.
I can’t sleep because I will wake up to find that my arms are wrapped around my pillow, where I thought your body was. I am not hugging you anymore, because I have woken up. I don’t care it it’s not real, let me dream for just a little longer because I just wish you were here. I cannot forget how lonely I have become.
I can’t sleep because I’m waiting for the phone to ring, for a message to be sent, for burglar to sneak into my house, because I am awake and ready to fight. I will defend what I can see. But I can’t see in the dark.
I lay awake, wishing that you were here to tell me it’s safe to sleep, but we both know monsters exist in the dark.
I can’t stop wishing that you were here, I’m sorry that I can’t stop thinking about you. I just can’t explain myself, and I will stay up all night thinking of something to say to you. But I can’t…
I can’t sleep, I can’t let myself fall asleep I might never be as alive as I am right now
I have so much I need to do, so please don’t let me fall asleep again. Because being here alive and awake with you is already a dream come true.
So you must have something you really care about to call yourself a fighter. There is a certain amount of pride that comes along with that.
I’ll be honest with you, this world will try to bring you down, along with everything you care about. Maybe not all the time, but there will be days when it feels like the world stopped caring. But for some reason you didn’t give up… Why? I guess only you know that.
Everybody has something they’re willing to fight for, and maybe you had to fight physically or internally. But you have something you’re willing to defend. Whether it be your family or possessions, beliefs, or even yourself. And I get that, believe me I do. I may not know you, but I get wanting to stand up for something.
Because everybody’s got something worth fighting for. Why else do we decide to defend ourselves for what we’ve got? So keep fighting. In some cases, it keeps us alive. Take care of yourself. It seems like you’re doing a good job at doing that already. Thanks for finding my letter
Don't get me wrong, I like elevators as much as the next guy. But there's always been something about stairs that just interests me in a way elevators can't.
If you've ever watched me climb a flight of stairs, I usually skip every other step. Mainly to save time because I live life too fast, climbing stairs so I could slow life down somewhere else.
I have this one staircase where all my friends hang out, less than 10 steps with a door at the top. That door wasn't opened very often, we called it the -- "Suicide Door". Only to find that it was a room where there were tons of stacked boxes willed with paper. But we still hung out on that staircase anyway.
Lately, the conversations that take place on those stairs are less than amusing, we don't laugh about how stupid people are. Rather we rant about who we want to kill in this world, and who's mad at who for thier gender or religion, I don't feel safe there anymore.
I fear if I say anything that I'll be shut down because I don't like people's use of "free speech" when it's used to put people down. And yes, I know, I'm not innocent here. There are conversations I regret saying that I have left on that staircase.
We don't talk about those conversations because we know out opinions are still changing. I may not remember any of this when it's finally over.
We don't talk about conversations we had behind closed suicide doors. But we never talk about the ones we had on the staircase below it. Sometimes that door seems like it's locked forever, and we choose to believe that our staircase leads to nowhere.
I miss the way thing used to be, when conversations weren't poisonous to those who heard the even by accident.
It makes me want to take elevators with strangers. Sure, it would be awkward, but at least nobody would want to rant about people to a bunch of strangers.
I sat by the stairs again. All my friends were there. But the school bells ring and everybody leaves. Nobody bothers with a "see you later" of a "c'mon, we gotta go, you'll be late". They just leave.
I'll stay there for a minute, gather my things, and wonder where they all went.
And whether or not they'd come back.
After all, the stairs aren't all that important right?
And these stairs, out of all staircases, just lead to nowhere...
Yeah I know, you weren’t exactly expecting this, trust me I get it. But I’m not big on writing long letters so I’ll keep it short.
You decided to read this so you might be curious as to what I have to say. Well, to be completely honest, I wanted somebody to talk to.
But listen, this letter is the first of many that I will handwrite and leave for complete strangers. I’m not trying to fix the world, and I’m not trying to change lives. But I think that we all need a little more good in our lives. I guess I should tell you that wherever you are in life right now, keep going.
Let some curiosity take over and open up to the world for a bit. Take this week by storm and live a little. Yeah, I get that this may or may not be the best week of your life. But take a minute to just experience what you’ve got. Appreciate the small things like the sunshine or the quiet. I hope that you’re feeling okay, but I think I’m running out of paper. Maybe you’ll see another on of my letters sometime soon. It was nice talking to you. Thank you for finding my letter.
Listen, I tend to write like I'm speaking in a conversation. Mostly because I wish I had somebody to talk to. And if I'm being honest, you'd be my first pick to talk to. Life never treated us the was we thought it would mostly because we're optimistic than realistic.
I tried talking to you at least 10 times today. And every single time I wish I didn't close up in my own embarrassment. I tried 10 times and didn't talk to you once. and if you ever hear this poem than maybe I finally did succeed in talking to you.
Sometimes, when I write poetry, I hope you're reading over my shoulder so I wouldn't have to say it out loud. I'm sorry that I blame everything on time, and how if I had another minute, I'd tell you "I love you". But I can't...
I'm sorry I make things awkward because I'm scared of telling you what I'm really thinking. I wish I knew how to write this without wishing you were gonna read it. Because maybe you never will.
Part of me will never be okay with that because you may go your whole like never know that somebody wrote pages about you that never made it to your eyes or ears.
I'm sorry that I'll never have enough courage to read this to you. I'll wish I did when you feel sad or unloved. Because something like this will remind you of why we never let anyone take control of our lives because we are Gods right?
Or at least you were.
And I know infinity can't hold up to your brilliance so please don't cry when you the world's grip on your shoulders. You're already stronger that you thought you were.
Part of us will always suffer in the moments we never said what really mattered. But it seems like time is already passing us by.
I know you've already forgotten the lyrics to the first song I ever sent you. And soon my name will fall on that list as well.
Just take a pack of cigarettes to the rooftops like you always said you would.
It's okay if you don't remember why you're up there.
I guess this is where most conversations end.
See you soon.
All the cliché Hollywood movies keep reminding me that love doesn't come by that easily. And it's a hard truth for me to accept.
And all through elementary I've always been the crush-er, the person crushing on the good looking person over there!
I've never been the person crushed on. But that aside, I've been filled up with all this love for you. I'm not sure if it's real or not.
You see, I've seen fake love so much that I've convinced myself that this love is also fake...
I won't tell you, "I love you" because I don't want to lie to you. But how can I still feel like I'm not lying? I still feel guilty.
I've never been "in love".
I've loved, and been loved in return, but is this--
I know you're out there, but I'm impatient. But I am willing to wait for love... if it really is real..
I'm sorry for lying.
I have never felt so sick in my life.
Eating feels like a necessary torture, and sleep feels like an unwanted evil.
Stuck in the same cycle of waking up feeling disgusting, and not wanting to sleep because the longer I stay awake, the better I feel.
But even I can't stay awake forever.
But I try, God knows I try.
So I still live in these infected clothes in this infected house and I can't help but wonder where the hell my conscience went.
I feel weak every single day, and I can only hope that this week...
Can change everything.
So if I'm crying out to the TV watchers and the music citizens. To my best friends... some of which who won't even talk to me...
I can't wake up tomorrow thinking that this will not pass us by like the sickness it is.
But if somebody else is crying out, I will drop this sickness like a ton of bricks and run to wherever they are.
I won't feel sick if somebody needs me there.
So I can put a lock on the medicine cabinet. Not because I won't be able to pry myself away from it, but because I will believe with the entirety of my whole body that I don't need anything.
My family is made up of some of the strongest people on this planet.
I will not be an exception by any means.
So maybe I can wake up as a medical zombie, filled with my own drop dead weight.
I am tired.
But not tired enough.
Unlike the first wave of sick.
This one cannot be cured by any amount of overdue sleep.
Why do you think I write into the abyss of every night?
Because there is nothing more for me to gain from saying that I am helpless.
So I won't...
Wake me up when it's all over.
And then I can live again.
I used to walk down the block to the bus stop everyday.
Whether it was a bright sunny day, or a dark icy winter before the sun woke up, I was there...
Backpack slung over my shoulder, alto saxophone in its case in my right hand. Leaning to the left to balance out the weight so I didn't fall over walking over the uneven rectangles of grey rock.
Artificial building blocks that make the world flat.
When I was little, I rode my bike to a nearby school park. They had a water park right by the school and surrounding the drain was a wide circle of bricks set in the ground.
But they had to take some of the bricks out of the ground, I don't know why. But they filled the gap with cement...
And lucky for me, I had gotten to that water park just before the liquid rock turned to solid ground. I pressed my right foot into that patch of grey. Just barely leaving the treads of my shoe in the cement.
I sometimes stop by to visit that old water park. Some 10 years later and that mark in the cement is still there. And no one will know it was me who left a temporary mark on that patch of grey all those years ago.
My footsteps are bigger now. I can run faster now.
Or maybe I can just walk.
I am older now. I don't take the bus much anymore. I drive my car to get where I'm going. I run everywhere, I don't take the time to walk through my life. I live too fast.
I've made mistakes.
I have regrets.
And even if I don't want to...
I have to walk with them.
I have to accept my actions and live with the consequences. I must walk slowly with my choices. My rights and wrongs... my own self inflicted pain.
I step in rhythm with the music playing through my headphones. I don't step on the lines that divide the building blocks of my pathway. I follow the grey brick road, not traveling with anyone this time.
So now I am leaving.
I will take everything.
I will go...
Song lyrics slung across my backbone...
Guitar in my right hand.
Ipod in my left hand.
I look ahead at the sidewalk before me.
I feel the sun on my skin, and the wind in my hair.
And I walk.
I guess you enjoy the sound of a good singer or backing track. Am I wrong to assume that you walk around with your earbuds in, and the music turned up to shut out the noise?
I’ve spent a lot of time listening to the music through my headphones, but not the music throughout every day. Listening to thunderstorms, or birds singing, or the school bell. You’re very lucky to enjoy the music as you hear it. It’s part of the reason why music reaches out to so many people. It’s one of the things I really love about this world. It’s just beautiful isn’t it? It kind of makes me feel bad for people who are deaf.
So listen, music is also part of your communication in a way. It complements your personality and style. So maybe you’re walking down the halls to your favorite song and just enjoying life. I mean, how great is that? Pretty great if you ask me.
In all honesty, thanks for being a musical person. It’s the sort of thing that opens you up to the world if you let it. So keep listening to whatever music you like. But don’t tune out the world when you do. Thanks for finding my letter.
My name is _________ and I'm ____ years old. My favourite subject is __________ and I like to ___________ in my spare time. I believe in ________ and from time to time I also go __________.
My family is pretty cool, I've got _ siblings and I really enjoy my time with my family. My father however is currently _________ and my mom is trying to cope with that.
My school is very __________, but I enjoy being there anyway. My friends are very ________ and I enjoy my time at school, it's a nice time to enjoy my own existence in a building.
But you don't want to live my life. It's too ____________. Underneath this skin lies the __________ I try to hide. I'm constantly ________ and _________.
Why am I just so ___________ with this?!
You don't know how much I go through. You barely know me. There is always information lost in translation. You shouldn't feel bad that you don't know me. How could you? You're missing something. I can tell you what it is.
You-- are missing ___________.
In all honesty, there are always going to be people you can't stand. Like the teachers you hate, or political leaders, or just stupid people. But I might as well stop myself from talking about it before getting carried away.
I don't always feel my voice is very subtle, I'm told I'm a very loud person. And that's only true when I want it to be.
I kind of just hate money... and politics, and people, and anything and everything that makes me live up to world standards.
I've got an anger problem, I dream about getting into fights and then I imagine winning and suddenly everybody thinks I'm dangerous.
I should probably tell my sister I love her, but if I'm being honest, I have to tell my other sister I hate her.
I don't know how smart I'm supposed to be, or if I should act like I don't care anymore. If I could shoot up a building, I think I would. Not because I want to.
But because I ---
Nobody ever told me how to put an end to this...
I could write a meaningful story with a meaningful message for you to carry with you into the future and beyond.
No, I don't think I have enough time to create a picture in your mind of what I have to say.
There is nothing to gain or give to the words I write in the time I have left.
How about 5?
< 5. Would you be able to pull this off by then?
I can't and I have < 10.
Maybe it's easy for you, but accept the fact that it is not easy to write good poetry with purpose and meaning and feeling and anything that is important to you in < 10 minutes...
Growing up in a Christian home, you'd expect someone like me to have committed myself to working for God since I was 4 or 5.
But no. I used to think that too.
I was 11 and it was the middle of the night. I was crying and sweating bullets calling out to God to save me. This is the kind of thing I will not be required to explain to a skeptic or somebody who questions why I do thing the way I do. I have never been very open about faith during my life. But this isn't about me.
Let's talk about something else, so there's this guy, Isaiah. A prophet, said to have understood and described the mystery of Jesus. Something people today would never figure out. Isaiah would prophesies the future in such a way that you wouldn't know he was talking about the future. He wrote songs about the revelation songs... I write songs...
I know a little boy at my church, his name is Isaiah, and part of me wonders if he will write song, or poetry praising God along with it.
Let's talk about silver, a metal used as currency, or plates written on in biblical times, and its brother metal gold, is seen in the garden of Eden, where everything was perfect.
Gold is seen as perfection. Heaven paved the streets with it, can you imagine the glory? But no, silver, seen as second place to gold, seen as "not-as-pure". Because silver will tarnish right? I am silver, tarnish is my sin, I will never be gold in this skin.
And Isaiah was silver turned gold by God and now Isaiah, you are on silver, printed with your own words.
Here me now:
Written in Isaiah Chapter 55 verse 9.
"For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts higher than your thoughts." Says the Lord!
This is not to say that because I am religious that I'm better than anybody. This is to remind myself that I am to be humble, and human, and silver.
Not perfect by any means, but working towards a life I've needed since that night when I was 11.
I am human, and Christian, and nothing can change that. this silver reminds me that I'm not perfect.
This verse reminds me...
That I still have work to do.
You said if I ever write a poem about you, that I should read it to you. Well here you go:
You should know I’m never the best at making first impressions. And although this isn’t the first time we’ve met, I still think I have something to prove. We never have as much time as we thought we did, and maybe that’s because we only have so much time to begin with.
Because you’re a story of sorts. And I’m not much of a reader anymore, but I can’t seem to get enough of how you view the world. Let me assure you, I’m listening.
I don’t really know how to say that I sometimes seem to want to know somebody even though we’ve never met. I remember handing you math notes, only to find that you’d disappear from math class like math notes disappear in school binders. How strange is it that you’d reappear from math notes to music notes?
A scripture of musical notation written on your skin and suddenly I needed to know who you were. But here I am asking about your tattoos thinking, “We’ve never met”. Only to be reminded of math notes I didn’t remember for tests I didn’t study for. So my first impression happened twice it seems.
And you seem so nice, offering your writing for mine. Offering up stories like it was over a nice dinner… or some type of wine was it? Offering up my listening ears only to find out how different we truly are. And how odd is it that we’ve met before?
Now that I’ve met you, I can’t imagine chalkboard hearts without wondering for whom the heart beats. Scrawling signatures like the chalk was meant to be permanent. I’m not much of a cursive writer, just a songwriter of sorts.
Like I said, we don’t have much time. You’ll leave soon, and I’ll wait another year to wonder if somebody else will offer up their hands as a gesture of kindness. And they will, but they won’t be your hands.
Forgive me if I ever forget your name, or the reason why I wrote this. But if we meet again and I ask about your tattoos, you can tell me all about them all over again. And between music notes and math notes, I’ll look at you and ask with the smallest bit of doubt, “Have we met?”.
And this time, I’ll let you make the first impression.