Comet.

I used to live a life, 
a life of light.
One of joy,
One of prosperity.
There was some darkness,
but it only existed
in small doses.


Then, suddenly,
it all went dark.
The lights, once so bright,
had been extinguished.


I fumbled about,
I tried make things right,
I screamed,
I cried.


I never knew why
such a thing would happen.
What had I done?
What did I not?


I just wanted what it was,
I wanted to see 
what I knew
once again.


The lights were off 
for a very long time.
But then, suddenly,
there was change.


A single match,
one dim bulb,
in a space
full of nothingness.


And then,
a shooting star 
crossed my path,
fell to Earth,
illuminating what I needed to see.


You glow like an ember,
you shine like gold;
your brilliant light
even gives warmth.


You are mysterious,
you are strange,
you are new,
and I haven't the knowledge
of what to do.


Come with me,
let's find the way,
the world is full of night,
but will be overcome
by your shining light.


Take my hand,
we'll cross the land.
We've got news,
"we'll never lose."


It could have been anyone,
but it was me.
You talk to me,
you listen to me,
you smile at me,
you gaze at me.


I'll do my best
to beat the rest.
To keep you lit,
to keep you warm.


You've sparked a flame
in my depths.
Your light's showing things 
I thought didn't exist.


Thank you,
a million times over
for being new,
for being you.


I'll do you good,
because I know you're good.
But you're not just good,
you're the best.


You're that thing I wished for,
the tiny light,
the slightest glimmer,


the shooting star
on a wishful night.

If I Was Anything.

I'd be a George Thorogood song.
I would be that one small cloud in the sky.
I'd be an old picture.
I'd be Velcro.
I'd be Paul McCartney's bass.
I'd be a two-dollar bill.
I'd be a last resort.
I'd be the band on the Titanic.
I'd be the Postal Service.
I'd be an extended deadline.
I'd be perfect hair.

"Forward," August 8, 2010.

Hello,
nice to meet you.

Let's make history.
Let's make something of ourselves.
Let's waste time.
Let's climb a mountain.
Let's go the distance.
Let's break the law.
Let's run away.
Let's explore.
Let's dance.
Let's hold hands.
Let's figure it out.
Let's guess.
Let's fail.
Let's laugh.
Let's never stop.

You're intriguing.
You're so far away.
You're driving me crazy.
You're making me smile.
You're pulling me along.
You've got my attention,
You've got my vote,
and you're getting my heart.

.....let's get started.

"A Funeral," July 7, 2010.

I wrote this today as the submission to the Contra Costa Times Life in Perspective board. The prompt was to write a 500-700 word piece on something that changed my life. This is what I wrote.

In May, I was having a pretty rough time. My longtime girlfriend had dumped me, my grades were slipping, and my prospects were bleak. I didn’t know how to resolve anything, nor did I know in which direction to proceed. I needed to start over, but I knew that living life full of anger and angst as I had been for the last two years would only bring me to the same conclusion I was living presently. Something needed to change, but I couldn’t put a finger on what. This only served to worsen the condition, because I couldn’t escape the bad emotions and mindset that engulfed me. I needed to move on.

I pondered what to do for quite awhile, until I found what I needed in a place I didn’t expect to; a funeral.

A family friend had died, but it wasn’t someone I was particularly close to, so it wasn’t as gut-wrenching as the event could have been. Still, I was being surrounded by two hundred sad folks, and the mood in the church rubbed off on me nonetheless.

Since I didn’t have people to converse with besides my own family, I was left alone with my thoughts. As the people in the church looked solemnly ahead, singing, I wondered who would turn out for me when I bit the big one. I wondered who would care enough to attend, and who would roll their eyes and sigh when they were told they had to go. Everybody is different, so it’s fair to assume that the turnout for my funeral would be much different than this family friend’s. The priestess kept referring to the fallen as being a joyous person, lighting up the entire room and bringing other gloriously good things to the people she knew. With her saying that, I wondered what I am to others.

Most of the people I know don’t take me seriously. They think I’m too angry, or too mature, or even just too intimidating. With these people being the ones who make up my life, who would miss me? Who would think that something genuinely good had been removed from their lives when I passed away? In truth, the majority wouldn’t. My death would make a difference to some, but not to as many as I’d like. It doesn’t sound like that big of a thing, but all that anybody really wants is acceptance. If nobody cares that you’ve gone, does it mean they didn’t want you there in the first place?

While the priestess was giving bread and wine to those in the audience, I experienced a rare epiphany.

If I wanted to have a fruitful life, I shouldn’t let things like a girlfriend or bad grades affect me. Neither of those things change who I am. I am the only thing that changes me. I determine my mood, and I determine how I treat people. It wasn’t something that was up to other people, as I had thought it was. It is something I am responsible for, something completely within my control. If I wanted to be happy, I should be happy. It sounds rather elementary to say, but after all, I am still a child. Childhood is when you get everything together.

As I exited the church, and drove home with my family, I felt relieved of my problems. The only thoughts that passed through my head were of what tomorrow could bring. Not of the failure that could be, but more so the possibilities that reigned.

I Know I Don't Know Why.

How could this get any better?


After pondering for a brief second, he realized it simply couldn't get any worse. His situation was firmly planted at the peak. The peak of their relationship, anyway.


He had one of those friends that was really beautiful and wise, but the downside was that the relationship was limited to that of a 'friend' status. If they became 'serious,' it would all fall apart and their relationship would fall from the great heights achieved through years of friendship.


They were truly great friends, but they were only great because they were just friends. If they even spent anymore time together, the balance would be upset, and there'd be no turning back. It would be completely and entirely ruined.


These truths never kept him from wondering, though. They would have long-winded, deep conversations, he would rub her back and they even cried on each other's shoulders. It was everything lovers would do, but he knew very well that they could never be lovers. Their personalities, though agreeable, couldn't handle the stress placed upon them by love. 


The thoughts were limitless, and spurred by her every appearance. He knew the smile she flashed him was strictly platonic and that the parting hug routinely given didn't mean she'd miss him, but that she was sorry to see him go. He knew the tears that so often fell from her eyes were never, and could never, be for him.


He never made a move; he never said a word.


Still he thought;
still he dreamt.

4th of July?

I wish I was home.
Or, I wish it was last year.


But it's alright, I guess.
Tahoe's teaming with women.
Plus, there will be explosions aplenty later.
I just wish I had something to do.
I do this a home, though.


But here, I'm at 7,000 feet?
Can't do that at home.
Yay, thin air and exhaustion!

Shine On.

Winding roads,

understeer,

torque shifts,

apex.

Sunset,

retreat,

set off,

say goodbye.

Sobriety,

calmness,

slowly,

legal.

Flame,

flash fire,

arrest,

loss of control.

It's true, 

I cannot live with or without you.

In the places we always went,

in the places I'd say I'd marry you.

In the rolling hills,

in the fading light,

green pastures,

wide girth.

I know it's over,

I know it's done,

I know we will never again

have as much fun.

You were my love,

you were my queen.

I do not want to have to

replace you.

The Danger Wagon

was my last hope,

of pulling you in,

of bringing you home.

Charged with a daunting deed,

it could not deliver.

It was broken,

trying.

It idles peacefully

as emotions flee my body.

My mind.

My heart.

I've ruined everything.

I have to begin again.

Without you,

alone.

Darkness fading,

curfew looming,

I climb inside,

and motor away.

You were supposed to be there,

giving directions, giving support.

But I pushed you away.

A void, hard to fill.

Isn't.

Every drive

is a lonely drive.

didn't have to be, 

but will be,

forever.

The End.

I always thought it was going to be explosive.
I thought that it going to be the end of me.
Things were different, though.
We were different.
We were closer, and we were better.
We could always be together, as long as we wanted to, no matter what.
And that's what made us so great.
We could both issue and take repeated beatings.
We never did it on purpose. 
Sometimes we did, but we survived even that.
We were solid in every sense of the word.


But things changed.
Everything gets brittle and breaks eventually.
Like a paper clip.
You can only bend it so many times before it snaps.
And that's what we were always doing.
We were bending us so that we worked.
I had, and still have no doubt that we could figure it out.
But we ran out of time. 
Too many stresses, too many problems.
We could have figured them all out,
but we 'broke'.


It's happened before.
We couldn't deal with it, and we had to turn our backs to each other for awhile.
We still loved each other.
There was still the fire that burned within me everyday.
For two months. 


It's not the same now.
She doesn't love me, or she doesn't know.
She's angry, and self-righteous.
And I understand.
I mess up frequently.
I just pushed her too far, this time.
She wants to do her thing.
And she doesn't care much for me, anymore.
I'm not angry.
I'm not sad.
I understand.


It's over, for a good long time, at least.
She wants to do things, and she doesn't want to compromise.
She's changed how she thinks.
I have, too.
I wanted to work things out, though.
I clung on for a bit longer than she did.
And it took me a while to realize it.
But we're done.


I'm not bitter,
so I'll keep all of the notes, gifts and memories.
I'll remember to good times,
and use the bad times to help my future relationships.
I did love her,
I still do,
but no longer am I in love with her.
It's too hard to do
when you have no support.


There will be things that always remind me of her,
Billy Joel,
fennel,
her weird perfume,
Alan Rickman,
Indiana,
the Fairy,
the toga.
They're warm memories.
Sacred memories,
great memories.


We had dreams,
and I don't think they'll come true,
but they still exist, 
and I regret nothing.


And if I've broken
every promise I've made,
I will always, always keep one.


The moon, 
that lights our sky,
lights our night,
shows the way,
sparks imaginations;


that's her's.
I gave that to her, 
and I will never give it to anyone else.
For my entire life.
For as long as I live.
I just threw a lasso around it,
and pulled it right on down for her.


Thank you, dear. 
You may gone,
we may be done,
but it was great.
The bad included.
All of it.
Everything.


I hope that all the wonderful, fantastical dreams you shared with me
come true.
Chances are, I won't be there.
But you'll be happy.
Which triumphs all.
Always.


October 30, 2008-November 1, 2009,
January 25, 2010-May 1, 2010.


Carpe Diem.
"Elle c'est quelques-unes sorte de merveilleux."

Thanks.

Thanks for saying yes.

Thanks for being what you are.

Thanks for putting up with me.

Thanks for loving me.

Thanks for making love

exclusive to you,

thanks for being 

all you can be.

Thanks for accepting 

my religion,

my wants

and my ways.

Thanks for being beautiful,

your soft glow,

your warm smile,

your spectacular eyes.

Thanks for waiting,

for me to figure out,

the ins, the outs

of your mysterious self.

Thanks for understanding

that I try,

to make you happy,

to make you content.

And baby,

thank you for knowing

that there's stronger men,

smarter men,

and better men,

but that no man's heart 

is bigger, and in a better place

than mine.

I know you might have to leave me,

I know we might be losing our luster,

I know our time is limited (...?) ,

so I want to tell you I love you,

that I dream of you,

and I want to give you the best I can give,

even if it's not good enough for you.

And I will,

until I die.

For you,

for whatever reason.

I love you, dearest.

I think of you, every minute of every day,

right up until the final minute

before I go to sleep.

You may be gone now,

you may leave later,

but my love for you,

will undoubtedly

last forever.

Failure of Competition.

I, suck.
I am mediocre.
And I see this because I value competition so highly.
There are ump-ton billions of people who can do anything I do, better.
And what does it matter?
Why do I need to be here, if someone can do what I do better?
If someone knows more,
if someone can do something faster,
if someone has a greater amount of accuracy,
then why should I try?


Not many are going to get 100%.
I don't get 100%.
I know many people who get better grades than I do.
Most other people.
And I don't know how they do it.
I don't know how they motivate themselves, 
I don't know how they perfect themselves.
I want to be good at everything.
I want to put forth the effort.
I want to do well.
Everyone says I do well at stuff,
but really?
How am I going to go to college?
How am I going to get the things I want?


I don't know.
I have a wonderful girl.
She's different from all the rest.
She's smart,
she's brilliant
she cares,
she's different.
She's good at all the things I want to be good at.
And she can't help me a single note.
It's not her fault, though;
it's mine.
I resent her wonderfulness.
I resent the fact that I don't understand,
that I can't be her.
I love her,
I need her,
and I foresee myself spending the see-able future with her.


I have to develop myself, first.
And I can't be who I will be with anyone's help.
I'll be the only one to determine what I am, who I'll be.


Easier said then done, though.
Just gotta thread the needle.

Buzzing In My Lap.

It's a typewriter, man.

And electric typewriter.

It's like I'm getting closer to having a computer, but it's till a typewriter.

A worthwhile hybrid.

Man, I dunno.

Does it get better than this?

It's the right font, it's the right size....and I hardly have to do anything.

It's like the Gods of writing are pushing me forward.

Well, they aren't.

It's an electric motor, not celestial beings.

And it's making the type write quicker than ever before.

It's getting hard to procrastinate.

It's getting hard to want anything more.

A good evil.

Trialin'.

            It was a scary prospect for me. Going away, that is. I was invited to go to a faraway place to be a journalist, and write. It wasn’t with anyone I knew, and quite frankly, it was nothing I knew. I’d drive 45 minutes to Orinda, from which we’d drive another 45 minutes to get to San Jose, where the event was being held.

            It was a scary prospect from the beginning, because all of the people that I was going with were from a rival school, and had previously been enemies. My team had competed against them, and lost, leaving bitterness and resentment. Then, all of the sudden, they were my team; my friends, even.

            But it seemed to work out fine. No penetrating, hateful glances were issued to me; instead I was given introductions and firm handshakes.

            The real issue, it seemed, was the fact that I knew absolutely nothing about these people. They had their inside jokes and their precedents, and all I had was face value. Over the course of the time that I was with them, I rarely spoke, because I knew I’d be off-topic and annoying. The person who is off-topic and annoying is the person that I loathe most.

            The other issue was the fact that I wasn’t really connected to them as a team, in terms of my role. Being the journalist, I didn’t have to participate in the normal activities and proceeds that the others did, so I had even fewer topics to discuss with these new people. A whole day could go by without seeing the other team.

            Although I couldn’t talk with these people, I still admired and related to them. It was easy to tell that they were close friends, with only a few social rifts existing within them. They were always having a conversation about some sort of injustice done to them or others, or various past experiences. Again, I didn’t know what they were referring to exactly, but they always seemed to paint a pretty clear picture as to what had happened and how they felt. I wasn’t a part of ‘them,’ but I could tell that they had the kind of relationship that they’d be hard-pressed to forget.

            In this sense, it was like I was watching my own life happening in the third person. I could match these people to people I was friends with. We had similar conversations and similar viewpoints on the most pressing of matters, like how school and others's social lives. I knew who I was, and I knew who my friends were through this real-life representation. I often found myself grinning at this realization, seeing how peaceful and relaxed they were among each other. 

            The pitfalls, however, put dampers on all of the thoughts that travelled through my head. I was never included in any conversation, and not really paid any attention. I felt very third-wheel with them, and I eventually excused myself as the night began to dwindle on.

            I often wondered what they thought of me. Sometimes, I could catch one of them stealing a glance at me, and wondered if they felt positive or negative things. Perhaps it was only curiosity that shifted their glance towards me, or perhaps annoyance; I’d never know, though. Our distance apart would always be the same, and not even positive feelings could bring them closer to this unknown person.

            It wasn’t pressing, though, for me to be accepted, or even liked. I knew that they had gotten along this far without me, and they could easily do without me at this point and for far into the future. I was just another face, one that didn’t stand out or seem particularly noteworthy. They had the safety and knowledge of each other, and I knew that was more than some new person could ever give them, especially in only three days.

            So I didn’t feel too guilty excusing myself that night and going off to write them a tribute. They seemed noteworthy because they seemed so idyllic and perfect. It’s odd to say, but I’ll never forget a single one of them. I had connections with each, if only just in my head. They might not have any connections or any remembrance of me, but the opposite is true for them. Each one of them was in my memory as I wound through the beige corridors of my mid-grade hotel. 
            Soon it would be over, but only because my purpose had been fulfilled, and they were satisfied. This, in turn, made me feel fulfilled and satisfied. I didn't win any award, and I know I didn't win a place in their minds; they made it worthwhile, indubitably. 

Join Together.

It's odd to think that, in 50 years, most of the people I see today will be thousands of miles away.
That, or dead.
So, what is it?
They'll be successful,
or they'll die stupid deaths. 


It sounds like right now is the hardest time to live through.
So many drugs, man.
And it's changing everything.
It'll change mindsets, priorities. 
...if they get that far.
I could kill myself driving.
Driving on the railroad tracks.
I could light something  on fire.
The possibilities are endless.


What if I died in a car wreck tomorrow?
Or, I got hit by a bus?
What markers do I have to say I've been here, and that I've done something?
This blog.
A headstone.
It's just the same with everyone else.
Their absence won't make a difference, really.
Unless you're one of the people that got in with them.
And I can't say I have that many people who would really remember me.
I should do something.
I should write a book.
I should build something. 
Achieve something.


Ah, well.
I'm just a person.
My impact is small.
If I die, I will.
I've done most of what I've wanted to.
I've lived a pretty full life, at 15.
Maybe I'll just try to live at this point.


That seems to be out of character for a 15 year old.
Oddly enough.

Silent, Sleepy, Still.

It's early morning time.
Nothing moves.
Nothing creaks.
All but dead.
A slender figure moves through the dawn.
Cutting the still air.
One squeaky shoe.
Nothing else.
The silent rustle of cotton and wool,
with smells and memories.


Hair.
From her.
Never before seen,
such a perfect being.
Perfectly composed,
perfectly presented,
perfectly dressed.
One gin and tonic
had the perfect color
to match her skin.
She was not ghastly,
she was not stupid;
she was of her own.
Now, but only a memory.
Of the night's events.


Cigarettes.
Not his, obviously.
He tosses them into the gutter
after a moment's thought.
"These could change me,"
he thought. 
Forever sophisticated,
without eternal life.
The cool
takes from your life 
in the end.
Is it worth it?
Another moment's thought.
"Maybe next week."
As gravity carried the cloves
to their end.


Anti-perspirant.
Not his, again.
came to save the day.
He finds that
even a small thing 
like sweat 
can keep him
from having a 
good time. 
Still,
the horrendous stench
of a third party
caused him to
not have a 
good time.


Phone Numbers.
One was too tall,
one was two short,
one could barely stand.
Six 9's,
four 5's,
three 1's,
three 7's
two 8's,
two 3's,
one 2.
With any luck,
he'd dial them in the right order.
But,
without luck,
these ladies' 
answering machines 
joined the cigarettes.


Pen.
With great potential,
was always at his side.
Writing silly things,
important things,
forgotten things,
redundant things,
irrelevant things,
things that didn't matter.
His name 
was the only thing 
worth writing,
but the pen would lie dormant
for now.


The long walk
seemed very long,
without end,
never tiring.
He didn't know where he was going,
just where he'd been;
what he'd had.
He didn't have much
from the past;
but the future,
though bleak,
was pretty clear.