I write, because my fingers have nothing better to do. I’d like to think I can dance, but only when I am snuggled in the warm whiskey blanket that I find late evenings with friends. Jumping around in circles, enjoying the feeling that not caring, can bring. I could braid your hair, but it could get tangled and a little messy. At least you trusted me, to help you look even more beautiful then you already are. Practice makes perfect and I think my fingers can learn a thing or two, from you.
I can type much faster than I can write, and my keyboard has become my kaleidoscope of inspiration. I can sit down and see nothing but a blank page made out of a electronic screen, that responds with every touch that I say and mean. If I tried to write this in my journal, I would get too tired, too quickly and never be able to conjure up all of these thoughts, while my hands struggle to hold a pen to paper, for long periods of time.
I cannot pluck the strings of a guitar and make music with my extremities. I have never been very musically inclined. I can read your body like braille, but I would fail at singing, to you. I tried to become a singer in the 5th grade, my teacher was retiring and my mom kept insisting I tried out for choir over and over, even though the teacher kept sending me away. By the 3rd time, she told my mom “he cannot hold a note, please don’t have him come back.” I guess that is how teachers are at the end of their elementary school careers. They become the biggest bullies of them all. At least this one did.
So I gave up on singing and I fell in love with basketball. I have always been the taller kid, even though I have internal dwarfism; for the record that is a self diagnosis. I made the first cut during try outs and that was with little to no knowledge of how the game was played. I kept getting in trouble for this thing called “reaching,” I just thought it was called defense. The second cut came and I remember coming into school after hours, entering the gym with everyone crowded around the board, there was a list of names. I remember wanting it bad, I wanted it more than anything and I don’t think there is a good enough word to describe how much I wanted a spot on that team. I remember this fellow student came running towards me, so happy that he made the cut and I thought it could be possible, he was uncoordinated and short, to name a few things. I guess the teachers didn’t see my potential. In the end I didn’t make the cut and I realized in that moment, that height and speed weren’t good enough. It is the kids who do their homework ahead of time, that make the team. I wanted the prestige and I couldn’t run from that truth.
So as a mature young teenager, I quit basketball and mean mugged that teacher everyday and cheated on every test the rest of the year, just because I could. Then I got back into hockey, where I could reach for the puck any I time I fucking wanted too. After all, I write because I like to reach for things, I like to turn over boulders and look inside the darkness of the tree hollow and wonder what mysteries wait inside.
I write because it allows me to lose focus, and enjoy endless conversations with myself, where I explore memories that I would never, normally think of. The keyboard, and this feeling of openness, where I use this page like a mirror and I explore every complex contrast, that exists upon my face. Every scar, every blemish, every stain made by every tear that I have shed, each year, of my life.
I love the self reflection it creates, for some people this is scary, but I can't help but crave it. It’s almost like people who pierce the skin on their backs and hang their bodies from ropes and suspend themselves in the air, for fun. It gets them high. It makes them feel good. I am sure those piercings hurt, I am sure their parents didn’t approve of it, at least I know mine wouldn’t, but those piercings are worth it. Older folks would think “what has come to this generation?,” all while they ponder how much they fought off pleasure growing up, because society forced them to label it a sin and told them to look to god instead.
I write, because… I want to swim in chocolate and surround myself with pillows. I want to be comfortable, and I do not find comfort keeping these thoughts locked inside. I want to feel the heat that my dogs bring, late at night when sleep, takes me away. I want to lay naked under the sun, and not worry about the future burn I could create or who spots me while I rest. I want to play my music loud and not give a shit if my neighbors hate me. I want to be angry when necessary and be passionate when no one else wants to make it a priority.
I write, because I want to bring up important subjects with people that have important things to say. I want to never talk about the weather again. I hate weather talk, I can see outside… I know it’s a rainy day. Good god I am sick of hearing you say “I’m good,” every time I ask you how you are doing. It’s just like when someone plays tennis you have to hit the ball back, otherwise… you lose.
I write because I want a lot of things. I don’t think it is selfish to want a lot from this world and to put those thoughts down on the electric or paper muse… hoping that maybe reality will hear the faint echo of my voice and realize, the sheer realness of my words and possibly…
change directions entirely.
