All I’m beginning to feel is pain. My mind is buzzing and throbbing because I’ve shoved it out of sight. My chest aches from a diet of fried foods and breathing toxic conversation. My ears sting from biting criticisms my parents present of: homosexuals, the homeless, drug addicts, hippies, and myself. Ten days trapped, with no escape but my mind. I should have prepared better; brought armor and weapons, but nothing cuts through the opinions of the ignorant. Nothing can expose the lies they’ve fed themselves.

My mother loves “people watching” she says, but only from a safe distance. Far enough to see the grit, but not the despair.
My father is fickle, brooding and American. He can’t look foreigners in the eye and scoffs at language barriers.

Together they make assumptions: drug addict, idiot, fornicators, harlot, thief, terrorist, local, wealthy, foreign.  Maybe they’re right to assume the negative; maybe they’re right when they say all the homeless are drug addicts. I hope not, I maintain faith, faith in the beauty of life, in the inherent differences we all possess, not in a God they say, says no to: liars, and *****, and prostitutes, and druggies, and the tattooed, I run, from them and their prayers, and arrogance and conclusions.

Smite me, parents, your darlingdaughter.

I’ve been all of those.
I lie to you, hide my true self, to spare you.
I’ve smoked ***.
I’ve drank underage.
I’ve been a ****.
I’ve been called a *******.
I’ve loved the idea that love is real, whether you’re gay or straight.

You **** my faith, force in your ideals and chain me to a cross you’ve built yourselves of hypocrisy, of hate, of misunderstanding, of fear, of criticism. I struggle to get free. Defend my principles, play “devil’s advocate,” when you know as well as I, I’m not playing. I’ll prove it, be more than you’ll allow, do more than you want.

I’ll find more love than your Christianity-tainted mind can fathom.
I’ll explore the depths of the mind you’ll never know.
I’ll remember the love you made me forget.
I’ll make love to men without a ring on our fingers, and feel no remorse.
I’ll tattoo my body, to show the world the beauty of my mind.
I’ll buy a Koran because I see its beauty.
I’ll attempt to understand others.
I’ll give to the homeless, even if they’re drug addicts.
I’ll love everyone that’s real, because I can. Because it’s more important than God or war or assumptions or generalizations, or patriotism.

You think I’m rebelling?
No. no. no. I’m just living.

Now, we find needs just so we can fill them. We go insane so we can buy the meds. Soccer moms popping children’s pills. Everyone dreaming suicide and depression. No how. No why. No reason.
We want inventions so we can make infomercials. Who cares about shipping and handling? **** the national debt. I’ll give you my credit card number, and you’ll send me a pet nail trimmer, even though Max (the dog) died four years ago, you never know what you’ll need right?
We find government just to have politicians. Everyone promises a solution to the problem. No one ever expects it to pan out. Instead, we vote on name recognition, parties, and skin color. Who cares about platforms or empty promises?
We wage wars just to make video games. I’ll shoot you now, your brother will shoot me later, but don’t worry, when we’re all in the ground. Someone, somewhere, will design a kickass, strategic, lifelike game, where dying only means regenerating and less ammo.
We all want something, or nothing. We all work to live, live to die.
Try just to fail, fail to try.
We want anonymity, just to forget the tragedy of our minds.

Breathe in.
Bob sings “Don’t think twice, it’s alright.”
Breathe out.

Is it? I’ll surely thing more than twice, I can’t let anything go without thinking of it at least thirty-seven times. But times are a-changing. I can’t keep up, I never can, I’m always one step behind, discovering things just as they become obsolete. I try to run to catch up, to fit, but fail and watch as the bus I’ve repeatedly missed flies by.  That’s when I see him. He doesn’t care about the bus, or the discoveries, he just sits in the gravel at the station, pen in hand.

Breathe in.
He has no use for buses, or planes, or cars, or trains, he has feet.
He doesn’t need people, he has solitude.
He doesn’t need roots, he has a nomad mind.
Breathe out.

I approach, looking right, left, walking quickly across the black top that separated us.
He glances up at my shoes grinding into gravel. I sit next to him, looking straight ahead.  He breaks the silence.

Breath in.
“Hello.”
Breathe out.
“Hello.”
He looks my way, glasses glaring in the sun, takes in my brown curls, green eyes, my despairing mind. “Here,” He says, “write.  It makes it all go away.”

Forget about breathing.  

He hands me an empty notebook and a pen. I think back, think hard, wonder where to start. The beginning seems the most simple. I pull one from my mind, one beginning of many.

And write. Write, write, write, write, until everything falls away.
Until I’m lost in me.
I write of Heartbreak, of Fear, of Love, of Death, of Lies, of Me, of Him, of Them, of Parents, of Pasts.

Then I start on my new beginning, I’ve caught up with me, now. Like Peter finally catching his shadow.
I’m free of the maze that held my mind, caged my soul. That sewed my lips, filled my ears. I look left. Smile. He’s waiting, patiently. I hand him the book, some pages stained with tears, other with laughter. He opens, begins reading, I lay back, thinking of nothing. Mind free to float.

The sky enormous and blue above me. Filled with no thought, no fears, just space.
“How does it feel?” Bob asks.
Like it must have felt to discover something first. Like the first lovers must have felt. Like the lovers still feel.
Like bliss.

“I’m just confused.” You say.
“About?” Is all I volley with, throat still clogged with tears.

“Your writing, I feel like I know you, then suddenly I feel like I don’t know a whole part of you.”
How do you think I feel, Love? I thought you only had pretty words for me, then surprise, and your doubt, fear, lies, love, are all exposed for the world to see. My faults and yours for everyone else. Our relationship falling apart as your fame grows greater. Pain gets reads.

“I don’t know where it comes from.” I say.

Silence.

“It’s like I put my pen to paper and it pours out.” I continue.
Your brow furrows, digging for something more.
“It’s not even just that, It’s how you act around people it’s different with everyone. I don’t know if you’re real with me.”
I don’t either, I think as the tears spring forward faster. I’m frantically searching for a shade of me to hold onto, one I like. It’s hard to find, personas slipping through fingers like sand.

“I just…” I trail, hoping for an interruption, but you wait.
“I’m a people-pleaser; I know what makes them feel good. I can read them well, I can understand their wants, so to ease some pain, I’ll be what they need.”

Still Silence.
The fullest, noisiest silence.

Am I real? I thought so, with you, yes. With others? No. My parents need a good girl, who loves them like a child. My roommate needs someone to ***** with her, bend to her will, be her punching bag. Your roommates need a girl with *****, someone to shoot **** like they do. Someone to ignore sexism, and racism, hate speeches, and ***** jokes. My school friends need a quirky weird girl who’ll never say no. My teachers need a hard-worker. My boss needs more availability.

I need quiet. I need love. I need to find myself in a maze of personas. Each only slightly different. Then I realize, I’m me already. I don’t need to find myself, I’m here waiting, I just need room to grow. RoomToBreathe. So I light a match, set fire to the maze, and watch as all the lies go up in flames.

You bait me, feed me words to break, so I might break you. I won’t, I can’t. Not because it will hurt you or because I don’t notice, but because I’m afraid the petty words are true. Five thousand instances to back them running through my head.
“Just like the others,” you say and look straight ahead at the apartments we’re parked in front of. It’s hot, stuffy, you’ve got the car shut off and you’re pushing buttons hoping one will work.
Marriage. Months ago you said “I look forward to seeing you all in white,” Or “I can’t wait to marry you.”
Is this what happened with the others? Am I anything special? Probably not, you’ve spilled the same speech about illusions to them as well. How many girls have you promised marriage? Forever? Being different?
Maybe I’m the only one, maybe I’m one of fifty. I’ll never know; I’ll keep loving you, and ignore your bait. I’m not hungry.

June 2, 2010

Don’t make me into something I’m not. If you do, I’ll never win your heart. Don’t turn me into one of them.  I love you more than they ever could. Don’t put words in my mouth. I’ve got different ideas in mind. Don’t put me high on a pedestal, out of reach. I want to hold you. Don’t buy me pretty things or make me lunch. I’ve got all of that already. Don’t cut short or hide away. I’ve got all the time in the world for you. Don’t push me away, or wipe away the feeling. I can see it in your face. Don’t categorize me with those who don’t think or feel. Look at me. Don’t make me into something I’m not. Don’t leave. Give me a chance. Don’t let me down.

His words crash around us, his miserable dark dampening everyone’s light. Your blue eyes roll high, then low, letting his hanger catch on your shoulders. I protest, claim love and want hope, but he’s well prepared; bible, violence, and stereotype in hand.
  At first, he locked his anger up tight, disguised the resentment, fought the archaic nature of his values, the great expanse of his hatred, hidden. He kept it in, fought it, failed to understand it. Finally, internal battle lost, he started leaking. Any hope for happiness killed by a diet of frozen pizza, polish sausage, and spaghetti westerns. He respects men who don’t respect women, loathes anyone who dares to think or feel more than necessary.
His eyes shift, and a creeping moustache has begun above his upper lip, framing a mouth spewing misunderstanding. You say: He makes everyone miserable. He says: Its all the cigarettes and alchohol they’ve been using. You shake your head, knowing an argument only spreads the contagion and inflames the rash.
   I forget, ask him how he knows so much about things he’s never done.  “You don’t have to try it to know,” He replies, the creeping moustache more and more evident. I roll my eyes, lay back and listen as he preaches theories  about women he’s never known, never had. How many times can he fail to realize he’s no better than anyone else. He preaches God and Christianity, but hates more than anyone, has no hope, or faith, or love, and lacks any shadow of compassion. He’s filled with violence and anger, yet claims to follow a God of love.

   He’s not tough, or hardened, or experienced, he’s afraid. Afraid to love, to lose, to understand, to hope, to accept, because it means a change.  It means growing up, throwing out comic books, drawing mor than Batman, finding friends who are real, feeling the pain, understanding the gravity, and embracing it all.