Below are some examples of my writing.
"I hate the Beatles."
Wap! Guy in the front row pops me right in the head haha. The clouds funnel up as arrow of lightning erupt down on me making the noise of a hippy going “…dude.” Harsh words responded with harsher looks. Close minded thoughts met with closed fists and open mouths.
I hate the Beatles. Isn’t that just like broken glass to the feet, or nails on the chalk board, or that idiot in the movie theatre squeeking his sraw against his lid? Four words, so much pain. “how could you hate the beatles” Same way I hate myself, don’t want to try. Don’t wanna try a new genre, a sound, a new… anything. Don’t wanna try getting up in the morning and feeling ok. Not a chance. “I just don’t get it” is what I’d say. Haha. I don’t try to get it.
I hate the beatles, they want me to just let go. Let the music take me by the arms and crack me over the table. Break me. Free me. Hey Jude…. Don’t make me mad. Don’t make me think. Think about what it’d be like to be free. Free like the last quarter note of the measure just waiting.. waiting for it’s time to shine.
There was that kid.. that free soul who cringed every time I said “ I hate the Beatles; Who would have done anything just to get me to listen to one song. Try to trick me into by saying it was someone else.. but I always knew. But I didn’t know. I didn’t even know what music was. Only my story, not his. Not his incentive to roam the high school with his guitar strapped, harmonica humming, and heart exploding. Every day it was a new love that he had found and I hated it. I hated the Beatles, I hated freedom thinking, I hated that he didn’t believe in God anymore but he was still happier than me. I hate hate hate hated the Beatles for that along with everything else he could have but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t let go of my conservative bull shit, and couldn’t for one second jus stared my ego in the face and say “Drum Roll” Screw you! But then I did..
I finally did.
But it was too late.
I guess all that freedom made it hard for him to know what was real anymore. It rained… Smelled just like suicide too. And damn it if the only thing that would come out of my lips was, “ When I find myself in times of trouble, mother mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom.. let it be”
Well now I have to love the Beatles.
His Never Ending Story of Unfortunate
"Tell me," he said, " What you are so afraid of."
"You Tell me," I said. "Am I afraid? Or am I just crazy?"
Because your eyes, this desk, and this chair, are all telling me I'm crazy.
But I'm paying you this fancy bill so you could go to a fancy school to obey this world's rule so that one day THIS DAY you could pretend you know exactly what the f**k I am going through.
He starts to sweat.
So I ask, "What is this matter? What are you so afraid of?"
I'm the one that can't stand the way my house walls look at me when I just wanna be alone, can't stand the way the front door looks at me when I just wanna be alone, can't stand the way my mom looks at me and yells, "Get out you are all alone." I'm the one whose childhood memories gunshot cash the hell out of him when he tries to sleep at night.
Tell me. Are you afraid that this fat "loser" knows more about life than you and your P H dumditty D ever will? If life really is a box of chocolates then some jack a** stole my box.
But if there's anything that I've learned...
It's that the candy store is always open... Life keeps going..
and I don't need some guy behind a desk for me to realize that.
Faded Man
Anymore, it's become very difficult for me to express myself. Having let go of too many things but held on to only that which troubles me has left me fractured. To think that at a certain point I sincerely believed in purpose comes off as mere fairy tale. Where is that boy who never questioned himself? Where did he drop his sword and will he ever find it? Does he in fact still live within the soul of the faded man? Or was he killed by the reality of the man? Was he murdered for his impractical dreams? Or is that what saved him? Despite what the others say...
He still lives. Locked in a black lunged dungeon. Strapped to a gurney tortured not physically but with the mental images of what the man had done to his life.
There is nothing worse than feeing like you are trying to be someone you've always been, but barely remember being. All I remember is being.. feeling and doing things that are completely uncharacteristic of what everyone remembers me for. It is pretty hard to express yourself when you cannot pin point what you truly want to represent.
Yet somehow, I find all of this encouraging.
A faded man is still a man. Mind faded but heart alive. Pumping. Desiring. Demanding.
I'm not the man I was, but I'm not the man who killed him either. Maybe I am their heir. Maybe I am merely a symbol of their fable. Something that will live on.
Something that will live on...