Oh, by the way...

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        Secrets.

        We all have them. They're the hidden epoxy that holds together any relationship. Behind all the pride and the posturing and the appearances, the truth slinks like a jungle cat in the reeds. Poetic, no? There's just one issue: I don't want to be responsible for the information that I have. Somewhere along the path of my life, I've been the confidant of far too many people. I've done my job well; kept my mouth shut. There are widely known whispers among my immediate family that I still haven't divulged to other members solely due to the pact of secrecy that was taken.

        In my family, there has always been an attempt to soften the blow to any tidbit of dark history. We could be having a harmless discussion about how someone's day has gone and then, "Oh, by the way... I've discovered Dad's secret sex drawer. Oh, by the way... I'm pregnant (that one I received verbatim via text message). Oh, by the way, these are the evil events that lead to your uncle's estrangement." Every year that passes, more familial secrets are passed on as some twisted rite of passage. I was raised with a single philosophy concerning the outlook I should have toward my family: in the end, we're all we've got in this world. A family sticks through the difficult times and strives to help each other out of any situation. Good times and bad. Till death do us part.

         Sometimes it can be a bit overwhelming. I have developed a relationship with my mother over the past two and a half years spent as her chauffer. I've heard her vent about work, and my father, and our financial standing, and pretty much anything else she could think about. I'm a good listener. This is one trait that is shared amongst my gene pool. It's frightening when I attempt to catalog the knowledge I've gained just by shutting my mouth the fuck up and opening my ear holes. In some ways, I understand the therapeutic benefits of full disclosure, but at what cost? I'm not claiming some self-righteous goodness or personal purity, but some things you would just rather not hear.

         Instead, I've heard everything. I shake a fist at my memories. I recently saw a posting on Facebook discussing biblical readings and their pertaining toward the quest for knowledge. And (paraphrasing) how the attainment of said knowledge only brings greater suffering. Generally, I assume we can all agree on that statement. They say ignorance is bliss. Agreed. But at the same time, how are you expected to experience life and all it has to offer if you don't understand the intricacies of both the light and dark side of morality? Let this be my confession. I've learned far too much.

         I'm an addict. Have been for many years. Alcohol, cigarettes, sex, cocaine, just to name a few of what I'd consider to be my most destructive vices. The latter of which I no longer partake in, but I had some great times. I've almost ruined friendships following the signs given to me by blood rushing to my loins. Yes, loins. I've cheated on girlfriends. At a bank event at Rockefeller center, I got sauced enough to make out with some middle-aged, mother-of-a-couple, who happened to be a friend of my Mom. I once slept with three women in a day, and although some childish man-boy alter of my ego is high-fiving himself with those memories, I feel disgusted by some of my actions. I've both taken advantage of and been taken advantage of. I've stared at a face in the mirror, studying its bloodshot, rimmed eyes and bags in such a state of numbness that it was only when I moved did I recognize myself. Yes, that fucked up. Name it, I've probably peed on it whilst blacked out. For a while, the whirling miasma of my brain activity kept me from sleep. I've uttered the phrase "I hate people" and genuinely meant it (and recently, as well). I've dealt with depression and insomnia, fantasized about murder. About quiet rooftops and high-powered rifles. I've got the Army ROTC to thank for that marksmanship training. What would any of that solve? I may be living my life as a better person day by day, but I've wronged far too many people with my secrets than I'd care to count. If I believed in Heaven and Hell, or God, I'd be certain of my eternal resting place. I'm very much a work in progress. Case and point: my current girlfriend, my loving and supportive girlfriend of over two years is the older sister to one of the youngest loves of my life. I came clean and told a girl just how I felt about her, opened myself up to all the hurt and pain that was about to come crashing down. She never did respond to me. I smoked myself into a mentally retarded stupor devoid of all moral decisions. I thought she had snubbed me. I had heard she was sleeping with an ex-boyfriend of hers. That secret made my blood simmer. I wasn't privy to the fact that she may have felt the same way about me. That she may have loved me as well. I escaped to Tennessee with my friends and burnt all the stress out of my form during a festival of musical fantasies. The THC-induced stupor changed my outlook on life; I became a soldier of Love. A shining beacon of life. I was having sex with her sister no less than 90 days after having uttered the words "I love you". That's evil, but it's lead to something beautiful. There's always a silver lining, I guess, but that doesn't make me feel any better for the wrongs I have committed. Taylor, I am sorry.

       And there's no way I could ever apologize for it now, but that's not going to stop me from trying.

To all that have been wronged by my secrets, I am truly sorry. If it's any consolation, it is memories of my horrible actions that continue to haunt me, in this, one of the happiest chapters of my short life to date. Those secret memories are the reason why I'm awake at five in the morning, pouring my thoughts out in text. To then post them on the internet. For the world to see. That's frightening.

       All I'm trying to say is we need a little disclosure in this world. Secrets are tearing my insides apart. Should I tell you that I've never stopped loving any of my past girlfriends? That I had my first kiss on January twenty something of my fifteenth year of existence, and then three short months later was no longer a virgin? I feel like a bastard. I may claim utter acceptance of myself, and currently that may be true, but in the past I really fucking hated the person I was becoming. There's no room for trust from others when you can't trust yourself.

Thinking of you...

       You can always hear from anyone about "the one that got away". At least gentlemen have this phenomenon take place in their minds. I mostly see when it's the ladies speaking about their ex's that there's never an amiable reminiscence, it's usually "he's such a scumbag... Can you imagine him doing that? Etc." Like somehow we've all wronged you. I'd like to say that throughout my dating history there have only been two occasions when I have been the "Dumper" and not "Dumpee". Looking back, I was incredibly foolish. Remember the girlfriend with the many boyfriends? I left someone for her. That latest delve back into the Latina Tunnel o' Love lasted two months, when the friend I had walked away from and I had had the most amazing summer of my life. We were kids, and I still feel like a kid in many ways, but looking back is trying to comprehend a 16-year-old's decisions when it comes to girls and sex; the crazy amalgam of hormones and emotional connections.

"Hello ma'am, would you be interested in some sexual positions and emotional investments?"

       For a while, that's all I thought about. And then you look back on the countless smiles and hugs, the heartfelt kissing til your lips are sore and you're entirely enslaved by their every movement. As I sit and reminisce, I know that it's not always going to be same. I know that time has passed and things have changed, but it feels like the same possibilities lay around the next corner.

       It's upsetting when your hopes always tend to backfire. 

       I have a tendency to make things more awkward for myself. I let people know exactly how I'm feeling, and twenty minutes later we all get to find out how those feelings that I'm having will not be coming to fruition.  

       Act normal, you shan't want to rock the boat!

       I am a master of my emotions, but only after the first sign of disappointment. We met again, after the long years, and I, desperately wanting to begin anew, getting lost in those same eyes, I played the part of Casanova well. I listened, made jokes, kept physical contact, enjoyed myself and smiled the whole way through. I heard about how things weren't going well and how there was a way to act happy whilst trying to hold everything together. I was thinking about sandy feet and soft pillows and she bore through me with her stare. I bought it. I wasn't led on maliciously, just need to be more careful when there's been drinking involved, I guess.

       And the following night, I was a true gentleman. I shook the hand of her best friend and he and I laughed and drank, cheersed our glasses and drained them. It was tearing at me, and I needed answers. I got 'em. Nothing had happened, but I felt as though I was being hushed into making everyone else see that nothing had happened. Does that make sense? No? Good. 

         I've spent 6 years living with my mistake. 

        What will be will be, and I just hope that our paths cross again.

But I'm more than just a little curious how you're planning to go about making your amends to the dead...

On another note: Abercrombie, the "kid" version of A&F has recently started selling crotchless panties for their teenage patrons. The world is fucked, and I'm beginning to feel the disconnect more and more every day. Disgusting.

Thinking of you...

 

Our farmhouse...

        Imagine: leaving your life of solitude behind the computer screen and traveling into the woods. Each morning the members of the commune would rise and begin their work: feeding the chickens, milking the cows, tending to the llamas (yes, llamas), working the fields and general upkeep. Become self-sufficient. Pump water from a well to irrigate the fields. Collect solar energy for heating and electricity. Grow hemp; use it to make clothing, fuel, paper, and countless other products. 

         You know that book you want to publish? Do it. 

         You see the beautiful forests for hiking and exploring? Walk in them. Breathe the fresh air. 

         But who are your companions? Who are these workers striving for a simpler life? Friends, family, any and all welcome if they do their share of the work. Together anything is possible, so why not attempt to create a life of peace? Utter tranquility.

         There would be freedom from judgment and worry. Work the fields, breathe the air, follow your dreams. This life is the one you're living now, and we can't waste it away hoping for it to get better on its own. We need to make the changes. We need to find our bliss and run with it. I'm a smith of words, or at least I fancy myself one. It was a long process full of dips and turns to find out that the written word was my passion. I need it like I need that fresh air.

          Imagine our fore fathers. The settlers of America weren't intending for Black Friday sales with greeters being trampled by the masses scrambling to purchase the new whatsitcalled which has a new 8.0 megapixel camera with adjustable shutter speeds and twelve different flash settings. This was a land that provided for the tribes of Native Americans and life for them may have been hostile at times, but it was peaceful. There was a oneness with the environment. Now we're all slaves to the clock and to the banking system. We set aside our silly dreams of a peaceful existence so we can break our backs working meaningless jobs. This land was meant to be something better, not some horrific parody of "Reality TV" and believing that we're all meant to be rich and famous.

           I say fuck your wealth. Fuck those slips of paper that we've all given so much value to and find your peace. Sure, there's start up costs and maintenance costs, but becoming a self-sufficient commune was never made out to be a simple thing. The fact of the matter is maybe we've all considered this idea from one time or another, but in a discussion with a friend via text messages, we set our minds to find this simpler life.

           Join the movement. Get involved. Keep the ones you love close, whilst learning that we're all in this together. We may experience our lives as separate entities all processing the reflection of light off the world around us, but as human beings, our abilities to connect and create and reason are unmatched-- and none of this world's issues should exist. I'm talking about a separation from the masses. A seclusion of creative minds. A collaboration spanning the mediums. Artists, scientists, engineers, authors, musicians, and appreciators. We need to band together. Time is slipping by minute by minute, but we can step outside the binds of the expected life. We can create an opportunity for ourselves to live life to its fullest, to chase any and all of our wildest dreams. There is nothing that can't be done. With enough Love, the world can be taught to change. 
Know this: I love you, and you deserve to be happy. We all deserve to be happy. Let's build some happiness together.

A little bit about myself...

So I figured starting this up has been far too long overdue.

I've had blogs in the past, which ultimately contained my verbal harassment of ex-girlfriends who turned out to be dating me on the side of other relationships. No, that didn't happen with more than one girlfriend, but yes, it did happen more than once with her.

A little about myself: I'm too trusting. That's what I've been told. I believe I'd like to chalk it up to my ability to see the fair qualities of anyone I meet. Some people are just lonely and need an ear to listen. On more than one occasion, I've been the awkward person listening to some drunk at the bar rattle on how everyone needs to be "donating more blood" and how "we must learn to love ourselves before we're able to love anyone else". I do love myself. And I love everyone else. It's a horribly, wonderful curse.

I'm 23 years old. I feel as though I'm floating through life inconsequentially. I'm worried when winter comes it's going to suck the lifeforce from my pores, trap me in a world of constant darkness, and I'm going to fall into a hole. I have the support of a wonderful family and a great girlfriend. But, I feel a disconnect from it all. I'm a slave to my memories and my emotions, the latter oftentimes stirred up by the former, of course.

Scene:

A five year high school reunion. Over 100 faces from a life that I had started to forget all packed into one half of The Ginger Man in Sono on November the 25th, 2011. Initially, pockets of the old cliques started forming, everyone whispering to themselves how "this is weird". I assured people I had hardly ever spoken to in high school that it "was only weird, because they said it was weird". And then I'd strike up a conversation. 

The goal of the night was to ingest more than $50 worth of booze in a two hour span of open bar. I believe we all succeeded to our heart's content. But in the writhing masses, when you're pressed against bodies to let servers with saucers full of drinks squeeze past, there was no where to glance without catching eyes with the vaguely familiar faces of ones' childhood. It was brutally amazing. Awe-inspiring to me, and a wonderful time was seemingly had by all. I refused to talk to those who strived to make my life a pile of shit whilst we were in school. This manifested itself in a "I'm going to walk up to a group, strike up a conversation with just one person, tell a hilarious story or joke, get laughs from everyone present and then ditch those fuckers". That sounds malicious, doesn't it? It may have been. I really just didn't care to talk to some people, and that's the short of it. Did I mention that copious amounts of Gin was involved? No? Well, good, 'cause I actually held myself together rather well.

Whenever you hear someone recount a life they once had in school or in younger years, I feel like there's always some level of regret, no matter how your life turned out. I strive to keep the best memories as the most vibrant in my mind. I think of Starbuck's coffee and walks on the beach. I think of laying in the grass at Tilley Pond, soaking up the sun. I imagine that somewhere deep in my heart that I'm still sitting in a car parked in a driveway that's no longer mine, trying to stay there for just a few minutes more.

I don't think of how I turned and left it all behind for the girlfriend with many boyfriends. I don't think about how I've been trying to get it all back every day since then. I don't think about the painful longing that has sutured itself to my heart valves (or frontal lobe, whichever you feel more comfortable with). 

            She said,"Recently, I was out drinking with a friend, and this friend and I have a terrible knack for getting FAAAAR too drunk and then recounting our past."

           "Well, that seems completely normal."

           "We definitely talked about you and me."

           "Funnily enough, I was recently recounting those memories myself."

           "With who?" she asked.

           "Myself."

         I didn't speak to anyone I didn't want to. But I spoke to far more familiar faces than I had initially intended.

The issue with my childhood was there was limited physical abuse as far as bullying went. We all discovered the power of words at a very young age. Some were used to tear peoples' worlds apart. Some were used to bring luminous entities together so we could all see them shine. The abuse at the mouths of others was incredibly worse than a beating ever would have been. The abuse everyone felt was one of seclusion. I'm a very tactile-focused person. I strove for physical contact; was very affectionate with my friends. Hence the wrestling team.

         Definitely a hugger.

         That being said, I still would have preferred the beating. Not because I would have been beaten up, but because most things are resolved after physical conflict. Especially something as insignificant as a schoolyard brawl-- we all could have been best friends (whenever you hear someone recount a story of a fight they had long ago, the end result always seems to contain the combatants realizing their own faults and becoming incredibly close), but our town is one of exclusivity and private roads. There's always a trickle down effect, and we perpetuated what we were learning about the world around us. 

         But in five short years, all of that changed. For some of us, it took much longer to get over the pettiness of our childish behavior. To become accepting of all, no matter their financial standing, race, sexuality, etc. For some of us, and I'd like to selfishly include myself, this had never been an issue.

         I have the capacity to love anyone.

        That's my super power.

        All this being said, I feel proud to have grown up with the group that I did. If anyone deserves the Most Improved Award, it's us. Our five years out in the world-- higher education, partying and experiencing life-- has created a greater understanding of the fellow man. We've all chilled out a bit and become comfortable in our own skin. People call it "finding yourself", but we've all known who we are. It's just a matter of accepting ourselves. It makes you hungry to meet new faces, see the ones you can't stand to live without, become in touch with your deeper desires. It makes you strive toward the ultimate happiness of creating your own life.

        And it makes me feel like my life has been head tossed on its ass. All I know is that I have six months to figure it out. Winter's almost here, but I'm steeling myself for sunny forests and smiling faces. Summer's almost here, too.