The Music Walker

He likes to listen to music as he moves, it gives him purpose. He can walk with determination. Walking with a destination. He listens intently as his eyes scan the people and the buildings that pass him by, tying instrumentation and lyrics to the world around him. He likes this pretense because it makes him feel important. Like he has something to think about. His head is filled with music that provides a greater context, a greater meaning to his life. And so, as he walks, he is given purpose and out of that purpose is borne his determination.

And yet, the second he steps out of his head the music stops. He realizes that no one else can hear what he hears. They lack the greater context, the greater meaning. To them, he is only walking. Maybe a little faster that most, maybe his head is tucked in a little more, but he is just walking. They do not know, he thinks to himself. They do not hear the music in concert with their movements. They do not appreciate the beautiful and tragic choreography he creates. In his head, the world is structured, narrative and complete with its soundtrack. But for all those who do not share in his music, the world is unstructured, non-linear and incomplete. It moves forward without chorus or reprise.

He knows this about the world and about himself. And yet he remains buried in his music. He prefers the structure, the meaning. He moves through the crowd with a purpose that no one else understands or even recognizes. But knows this, so he tucks his head in and moves forward.

Worth

I read something today that I’ve always known to be true about writing but had never put into words so simply:

“We have to prove ourselves worthy. And this need to show ourselves worthy arises out of an unfortunate belief that we are in some sense not worthy — otherwise, why would we be trying so hard to prove it?”

I have heard so many times that everyone goes through the same experiences, thinks the same thoughts, feels the same feelings, yet I never really took it to heart until I read this. I have often wondered if it is selfish to write about myself because my life is not important. No great tragedies. No great feats of heroicm or genius. In fact, my life is very average. So why do I feel the need to tell people about it? It is because that I recognize that I am not special and there is little merit in hearing about life. However, I feel the desire to prove myself to you. I am fighting to be seen as worthy in your eyes. Worthy of my existance, of my life, of my story.

So that is why I write. It is why so many people write. And though the specifics change, in every case a writer just wants to be known. To be seen. To be recognized. To be found worthy of this great life that they have been given.

Drama Queen (tentative title)

Bitch bitch. Moan moan. That’s all I seem to do. Why should I think that you care? You shouldn’t. I hope you don’t because I’m not that interesting. I am not unique in this. We all believe that what we are and the way we live is important. But more often than not, we are not . What gives me the right to spill angst, guilt, sympathy or pity on you? Because I can string letters and words together in a faintly prosaic manner? Anyone can write, some better than others, but this does not set me apart. That does not make my sentiments special. And to be truthful, my sentiments will never be special. They are common. Shared. Countless others have felt, spoken or written the same. In a thousand languages, both silent and vocal, we all have the same lives.  And so while I wallow in self-pity,  beg for sympathy and pray for understanding, I can only hope that you feel or have felt or will feel the same. Because in a twisted way, that’s what brings us together.

Ellipsis

You know what I’ve done? I’ve eliminated the ellipsis. That pause. That breath before I speak.  No hesitation, no doubt, no qualms. My tongue is definitive and my mind is clear.

Not that I know what to say, but when I finally do, I can just say say it. Simple. No questions, no lingering, no conflict. Whatever it is that I think, I will know what it is. Well-marked and delineated. Regardless of norm or right or wrong, I know what I believe, what I think, what I feel.

So what now?

…I don’t know.

Warmth

There is a song that plays “Experience the warmth/before you grow cold.”

I do not like the warmth that you find at the beachin the summer or year round on the streets of Los Angeles. I do not like it simply because it is just that: warmth. There is no comparison. Just heat. There is nothing to be grateful for.

Rather, I like the warmth that comes from a shower. From skin covered in braille to breathing in the steam. It’s the kind of warmth that wraps around you and brings you comfort and still clings to the mirrors once you leave.

It’s the kind of warmth you feel when you curl up between flannel sheets, staving off the 20’s and 10’s that fill the air beyond your blanket.

It’s the kind of warmth you feel when you step into the sun on a brisk Fall day. When the tip of your nose starts to burn and  pieces of color crumble beneath your feet.

As a term, I call it “New England warmth.” The kind of warmth that comes from relavence. That comes from the cold.

Organic

I don’t really have the words. If I did, I still wouldn’t know what to say. Imagine that: opening your mouth but no sound emerging. Setting your pen down and no ink trickles out.

But those are mechanical errors. This is not a mechanical error. There is nothing mechanical involved. But the errors are real. Everything is organic. But that makes the errors more concerning. Mechanisms can be shut-down, tuned and fixed and restarted. The same can not be said for the organic.

The organic should be able to speak. To write. To think without these errors. It does not break down, it only slows, but never for long. I do not feel slow. My mind is racing. But there is no direction. There is no course. I am moving in every direction and as a result, I am going nowhere.

And so I am still searching for the right words to write down. The right things to say to you. And still nothing comes out.

Coffee

Every night I work up the courage. To do something more than just let a small smile break free from my face. To call you, to stop you in the hall. I realize now that I’ve never really spoken to you. We’ve spoken, but always through a medium, from a distance, through a third party. Never facing one another. Direct, personal, honest. Every night I plan out what I’ll say, how I’ll say it and I fully convince myself of my ability to pull it off.

Then I go to bed and in the morning I’m once again too petrified to even look your way.

Do you want to know what I would do? What I would say? The details change every night, but the essence is the same. It would not be some epic romantic encounter. It would be quiet and unassuming. I would say that though we have never spent time together, I just want to be around you. Even though we have never spoken, I just want to talk to you. And I would say that even though we barely know eachother, I would regret if I never asked if wanted to get coffee sometime.

So do you want to get some coffee and just talk? Because every day I’m just waiting. Waiting on you; but mainly I’m waiting on myself.

It’s The Smell

It’s the first thing you notice when you step outside. Not the foreign letters and languages that flood your eyes and ears. Not the sea of skin tones against the dry landscape. It’s not the smothering heat or the frantic movements of the passersby. It’s the smell. The second you step outside, it warmly rushes into your nostrils, filling them with distant yet familiar aromas.

A strange combination of wood-smoke, burning garbage, strong spices and body-odor pervades the air. It’s sweet, delicious and nausteating all in one breath. You breathe in the whole nation. The foul and the beautiful. The insides of your nose burns slightly, but you like it. The smell is thick and it seems to clog your lungs but it’s refreshing because it’s new.

You stop to breath it in some more. It’s new. After 4 weeks, it will still feel new to you. When you go home, every campfire, every garbage truck, every crowded subway will remind you of that smell, but none of them will be complete. They will be fragments. Pieces of a whole that can only be found back there.

And so, as you stand there breathing, you make a promise to yourself to return, if only to breathe some more.

Alone in the Crowd

Sometimes I feel so removed. As if the world continued to move around me as I remained static. Still, unmoving, overlooked and ignored.  But how can I feel like this? How can I be ignored when I am the one that has removed myself? It was a willing, conscious decision that I made, so why do I feel so left-out? On a night when everyone is together, I stand alone, looking on or walking away.

Sometimes I wish I was a part of something. Even though I know that this is not where I belong, sometimes I wish that this is where I am supposed to be. Even though I know that I am most at home in my head, sometimes I feel the need to live outside of myself, to live the life that everyone else is living.

But then I would no longer be an individual. I would become just another face in the crowd, a forgotten voice in a sea of languages. Maybe that’s what it means to truly be an individual. Acknowledging my own pretension and my condescending nature, maybe being an individual means being alone, even when all you want is to be a part of the crowd.

Rain

He didn’t care. He just opened the door and walked into the pouring rain. There was no sign of surprise in his eyes or a break in his step to indicate that he felt the rain. But he felt it.  Every drop on his face felt fresh and relaxing. And although he continued to speed through the rain as if he had someplace to be, he was headed in no direction. No one was waiting for him, no appointments to make, no pressing issues to resolve. All he wanted was in the rain. In the most cliche of ways, it washed away what was behind while obscurring the future, leaving him in this gray and wet present. But atleast it was the present and atleast he felt it and for now, that’s all he needed.