History

I got to the beach with high school friends. The first thing I did when I got into my room was to find a table next to an electric outlet. I promptly sat down, and set up a small work station. I pulled out my ancient Apple laptop, the one barely able to function. I tried to get the Internet to work thanks to my phone, and hopefully get to writing, reading, and catch up with my needed work.

I didn't do much from that. I did, however, chance upon an old archive of chat messages from years past.

It was the recorded history of me with the other people who walked in and out of my life. It was like some kind of treasure trove. I can't post them here - a gentleman must keep secrets. I can say that it makes me ask questions of myself.

I remembered (and still do remember) many things differently. What I didn't realize was that there were spots I tried hard to forget - how, early on, my efforts to be warm were met with ice, or how I would find long stretches of me chatting met with silence and *seen*. It gave me perspective - I was never really wanted or cared for then.

I found more, and they dated to days when I was gone, when things were awful. There seemed to be this great need to see me, to talk to me, to find time for me when I had none, when my life had moved forward. Was it because I was needed? Because I was finally appreciated? Or was it because I was, in some ways, just the different variable from when things were bad?  Like some echo you struggle to keep hearing, as it disappears to the cliff's arms?

There was just so much hurt in there too that I projected onto chat screens, and while this was happening, there was also a lot of deep concern that I was too emotional to see. Or perhaps, because I'm not a vocal, verbal lover, and I appreciated things more than just words and nice lines, that I could not catch where the words begin to nudge me towards work to patch my wounds together.

I'm different now, we're different now. But I also wonder if we're really not all that different. That there is no such thing as different hearts, or growth in others. Only that we finally learn to dance without stepping on each others' toes.

Remembered, Rewritten, Revised

He is joined at lunch by a very attractive lady.
 
 "Don't you feel hot? Why do you wear those scarves?"

"It's not something I tell everyone."

"Well, tell me."

"See, I collect them. I never bought any of them, mind. They're all gifts. They're mementos of a kind. When I want to remember somebody, I wear the one they gave me."

"Even if it's hot like now?"

"Yeah. Kind of helps me keep loved ones in mind."

"I get it. My grandmother gave me one. It's special to me."

"Yeah. Like that! First one I got was from my Mom. She gave it to me when I was coughing, and it helped keep the throat warm. Then came another, from a friend, and another from my sister. And more just came along."

"Mmm."

"I brought them to remind me people care."

"So... that one you're wearing now? What's the story behind that one?"

"This? Uh..."

"Somebody really special?"

"...It's complicated."

"Go on."

"I... well. There was someone I cared for, deeply. She gave me this on a trip out of town. One of those 'Does your boyfriend know you're here?' kind of trips. You know what I mean."

"Oh! The plot thickens."

"I told her I had to go and do this thing. So I'm here."

"Did she try to stop you, persuade you to stay?"

"No. She said she supported my choice. I had wanted to do this for a long while. Just got around doing it now."

"...And you think about her sometimes."

"...Yeah."

"Hmmm."

"You... okay?"

"Hold on to that girl."

"What?"

"You should hold on to her. It's not everyday you find someone like that."

"I...I don't think I should."

"Why not?"

"She found someone else. She said she's happy. And I don't want her to wait. There's...just too many reasons, and too much history. So much happened as to why it doesn't work out like that."


"..."

"And I'm leaving soon! It's just... It's not. Not that simple."

"Nothing is."

"I know. But... it'll be okay. At least, that's what I want to say about the choices we made

"Your choice. But you'll see. People like that only come once in a while."

Lip Service

It's all it is, whenever my family is involved.

Like, they tell me they'll leave me alone for a month as I try to salvage my semester. Then in a single week, I'm bombarded with requests for help and all manner of errands. I don't do them. They get upset. I tell them I can't and that they promised they'd leave me alone. They complain that nobody else would do it if I don't.

They tell me they're proud of me. By morning, they try reassure me that what I do gives them a good feeling as a parent. Yet in the evening, over dinner, they complain that I'm not doing enough, that I'm not making enough money, or that they have nothing to hope for with me.

They offer to buy me nice things, which I say "I don't really need." They insist. I cave. These things don't get bought - I end up paying for them, out of the money I earned. They offer to pay back the money. I decline. They insist. I say "Okay." They still haven't paid up.

They tell me "if you don't like it here, you can leave." I asked them "Do you want me to leave or do you want me to stay?" They say "no, please don't leave. You're the one who gets stuff done here." So I stay. And in a few days they go back to treatming me miserably.

They promise to be more open and listen to me, but they never do. Meanwhile, they move my things all over the house, that recovering my things eats into time, energy, effort, and productivity.

I'm tired. I'm angry.

I Know, I Know

Today I secretly wished that somehow, the years wound back and we were right there, sitting on the floor again, singing to familiar music. That the years apart hadn't really changed much.

But I know that I made my own journey. You made yours. And it did change us. And we came back to this city believing differently, when we once saw the same things the same way.

I still wonder at times what I would have done differently, even if I already know the events really were beyond my control.

But I digress. I still mean it: you are loved, and prayed for, and in most days, deeply missed.

Piecing It Together

Because I can't piece together my thoughts, let alone this thing I'm trying to write, I went and started trying to read my old stuff.

I remember my younger self having so much energy! I was always juggling five or six different things in college, be they org matters, a 21-unit semester, family things, the efforts of a love life, and more.

These days I can barely get anything done. I wish I could go back to my old self, and I started reading through some old posts to make myself feel a bit better.

My old blog posts and journal writing efforts all come round to me. I remember the younger man who wrote those things. I remember the lost bits and pieces of emotion welling up in them. Some were happy. Some were sad. Some unlock little events in my life that I kept secret, even to myself, and could only be found when I read them again. Others were the exuberant bursts of a heart, that, well, nearly burst.

I remember that I almost died, many times, on the ER, in the mountains, in random allergic reactions - that means I have many reasons to eat up life and feel.

But some memories I kept real and vivid in my mind, and I never wrote about them. Sometimes because I was pledged to secrecy. Others, I didn't want the Internet to find them. I didn't want everything in my life to be too open a book, and I took to pen-and-paper diaries instead (which promptly got lost, good job). Still others, I kept a different memento - a necklace with a bronze cross, photographs, a scarf I always wore, or a phone that never rings.

I wish I wrote more about what happened to me, or that I took more pictures. I wish I had more ways to unearth memories like I did when I really, really needed to find the younger, stronger me. 

But would I really want to be the same immature young man? No. I just need to find where I drew that energy, now that I find myself so empty too often.