When Heaven Was Blue

There's these two guys I know. One's older than the other by a year; and I call him the younger of the two.

I always made it a point to tell the other one that he's OLD. Usually, he'd get a displeased and stern look on his face. He'd say to the other, “Hey, she called us old!”

I always pointed out that I called him old and not the other one.

Why?

When you can not enjoy life anymore, you're old.

When you're bitter and pessimistic, you're old.

When you can't stare up into the sky and wonder...

When you stop creating...

When you lose your passion...

Age doesn't matter.

How you live your life does.

Like Perfection

It's like a dance – twisting and turning. They spit insults like it's foreplay and obscenities like they're pet names.

They argue and kick and fight. It reminds me of fire. Always burning and full of love-hate passion that consumes everything that they do. This...thing they have is smoldering and alive. This thing that has a name. It's a stupid four letter word. It's a word for pussies. This word should be kept under lock and key. God knows that if it was released, it would destroy this beautiful thing. This thing that's almost like perfection.

In the end, it's a cycle – a serpent eating it's own tail. Every time they part ways, all that's left is the ashes of the memory of it. Until the next time it starts up again.

Company

The best conversation I've ever had was with someone who hardly spoke.

I met him daily, and we stood in silence side by side on the elevator up to our floors. He couldn't be older than 30 – neatly trimmed beard, brown eyes, always wearing a hat, skinny build, and usually wore some kind of black band t-shirt. Sometimes he held grocery bags and other times he held a case of soda pop.

Eventually, it became routine to see him every day when I came home from work. We'd smile at each other on good days. On bad days, we would slip into a tense silence.

Nothing was said. It was like we were being united by loneliness, but maybe I'm just kidding myself.

One night this changed.

I was standing outside our apartment building and looking up at the sky. You see, I was hoping to catch a glimpse of a falling star. Not to wish on because there was nothing I wanted. I just needed a change of pace – something new to put my sights on.

He pushed open the heavy glass door and turned his head. His face looked quizzical.

“I've been waiting for ya for over ten minutes.” He didn't sound angry or annoyed – just curious. “Are we not doing our routine today?” His lips curved up into a natural smile.

“Nope. I've been thinking of doing something different.” I smile back and go back inside the building with him.

San Francisco

I once knew this girl...or thought that I did.

Her name was Issa and she had problems. She never felt love. She ran away. She hid everything from us and betrayed us. When the truth came out, it was like being stabbed in the gut and having a bag taken off your head.

Last time we talked, our conversation was strained. She said to me, “There's too much goin' on about here. I've been thinkin' about goin' away.”

Looking back, I was indifferent to her plight. “Yeah? Where to?”

“San Francisco. There's gotta be sumthin' out there. Sumthin' that ain't complicated.”

I remember how fragile she looked at that moment. The snowflakes clustered and rested on her head. The smoke she was inhaling and exhaling from her bent cancer stick – swirled out and up, up, up, up towards the dark sky.

“It sounds like you're searching for something.”

“I am.”

It was left unspoken, but I knew. She once told me that she had always felt like a lost cause. She was searching for redemption.

I could have told her that you can't find redemption. You discover it after many trails. You discover it after you learn to forgive yourself for being imperfect.

I could have told her many things, but she probably wouldn't of listened to me.

“Good luck,” was my only reply.

Save Our Town

This is the plea. The pitch to the masses. The hope that if you scream loudly enough that someone will hear you.

The hope that someone will agree with your words – no, your stories – and decide to befriend you. Someone to join your cause so both of you can stand on the corner of a crosswalk as passerby's watch you both with odd eyes. Some of them stop to listen, while others turn away and choose ignore you.

Your message is small and simple. You just want to be heard.

Keep screaming, kid. You will get through to them yet.