Infamous Misadventures

"Knowledge of the self is the mother of all knowledge. So it is incumbent on me to know my self, to know it completely, to know its minutiae, its characteristics, its subtleties, and its very atoms." -Khalil Gibran

There is a growing gap between those that I've known and loved for years, and the young man that fights to attain peace of mind each day. I feel so disconnected from everyone, and it has reached a point where I feel like my family wouldn't recognize me if they saw me. My entire demeanor has changed. I often question if I really want to cross paths once again with the friends and acquaintances that I've met over the years. What may have attracted me to them in the past, may be foreign concepts to me now. My mind is elsewhere, and I've focused to exceed my own expectations, which could possibly be too high.

The solution to all of my life's woes for years was to run. I ran, and I ran, and I ran like a coward until I was in a better situation. I laugh mockingly at the attitude I once had and the mindset that hindered my growth as a young man. To think of who I've affected negatively due to my reckless disregard for consequence pinches a nerve, or so this is the feeling that ensues. Then, I thank my former self for the ignorance and poor choices. I thank the child that would fight until he was bloody but would run from a fight. Without the mirror's ridicule, I would have never learned to take a few punches to the chin and still remain proud.

Time continues to move forward, and I can no longer be the one to please others at their convenience. This is both a relief and a disappointment, but logic dictates that it is only for the best. It is strange to even begin to explain this to others, but all I ask of anyone is to trust in my ability to judge my own character, for no one can comprehend the feelings of those brown eyes in the mirror other than me. This is a period of necessary selfishness that must occur for my own self-improvement. And in due time, when I greet my disconnected brethren again, I will be the friend, the mentor, the teacher, or the student, who will be of better benefit to all I reach.

Peace.

For years, I've had a distinct problem with believing in anything. To get lost in a belief of an unknown spiritual being who supposedly knows all and can control all was like someone trying to convince me that I can breath underwater. And as much as I tried to put my faith in man, man was quick to disappoint me. Family, friends, the women I've dated, teachers, mentors, acquaintances; they've all been a letdown, or a letdown waiting to happen. I found myself alienated at 20 years old. With no urge to be social, go out and enjoy these glory years for what they're worth. I saw no point and had no purpose. I could even go as far to say that I saw no real reason for my own existence since I had even given up on the idea of marriage, leaving a legacy and being remembered for anything in this world. If I didn't have such strong objections to suicide, and if my own dignity and foolish pride weren't such looming authority figures in my mind, then I would've found a way to put an end to my own existence a long time ago. At one point, at 14, I even tried that, now that I think of it. I woke up in the hospital.

Whatever.

Love has been one of these absurd ideas that I found myself fighting. The potential of love gives me hope for my own future and for humanity, but since it has escaped me, I chalked that up as a loss, too. Blame it on the anger within that I experienced growing up, but every time I tried to acknowledge my emotions, it always backfired sometime during the process of any 'tender' realization I ever tried to have. This explains my past habit of serial dating women much older than me for the promise of that emotional stability and reciprocated love. The intelligence has always measured up (since I'm rather picky), and since I often targeted the 26-35 age group, I had this preconceived notion that they wanted exactly what I wanted. Go figure, an elder, and not even 21 years old who thinks death is around the corner. My train of thought was so melodramatic that I had no choice but to become a writer of depressing satire and cynical social commentary. Its just too fitting.

My social skills are hereditary; personality traits of both parents. My cynicism is a product of my own observations of all those around me. I quickly came to the conclusion at an early age that everyone in this world, everyone, is an absolute bastard that will put an incision in your trachea for the right price, even those who birthed you. But with the patience of my grandmother, and the blurred hope that my sister won't have to experience the darker aspects of life, I push these ill thoughts to the side and lived as best I could, moving from day to day in a methodical fashion. To substitute the lack of love, I started having sex more often, thinking that it would somehow suffice.  Obviously, it didn't, but that just gave way to the freedom. The confidence that I already had, plus the confidence in knowing I could find a "nice girl" for the evening, gave me a certain charismatic edge when approaching women for that one thing, and just like that, I had completely destroyed any remaining concept I had of a relationship.

Moving through my short-lived college stint, and joining the military, I immediately developed the "live fast" mindset. And surely enough, I did things constantly that should kill me. Weaving through traffic, going 120mph on the freeway? Sure, why not? Walking through an unknown part of LA, staring people down and provoking a fight? Easy. Fun, even. Cruising by a cop on the highway and shooting him the bird? Oh yea, count me in on that one. Death had ceased to be a serious matter, and if I found myself deceased, maybe I'd enter another world better than this one. It was a lifestyle that was more sustained through thought and attitude, rather than actively doing things that were downright stupid. I didn't mind, and I could muster up a smile thanks to my sadistic pleasure of loathing everything and everyone. I had no hope for a better tomorrow, and no hope for humanity. Nearly seven years of this mindset and now I'm rethinking nearly seven years of my life. I was a dumb-ass.

Love exists.

I am drunk off this feeling and enjoying it, but when will it takes it\'s toll? I\'m wandering around with no place to go and all I really want to know is where I stand with you.

Appearances can be deceiving. The often cliche term is applied in many situations, but in most, it still remains true, especially for him. The man, seemingly lonely, leaning up against the wall as the rain begins to pour and struggling to light the damp cigarette in his mouth. The wick catches and he takes a solemn drag as the cigarette is nestled between his index and middle fingers. His fingernails, dirty from a hard day's work and his lack of concern for his own cleanliness, because clearly, he has a bigger weight on his shoulders. He never shifts his body, or so much as breathes out of the norm as he continues to lean on the wall, as if he were holding it up. One drag, and a slight pause, two drags, and then a slight flick of the cigarette butt to ash onto the concrete, which is now wet and glistening with sky's water. No hat, and wearing nothing more than a khaki colored jacket and blue jeans, the rain falls harder and harder and he doesn't even acknowledge the fact that his clothes will soon be soaked. And with somber movement, he looks down to the ground and tears begin to well up in his eyes, the loneliness has hit him like a bottle in a bar fight. Struggling to maintain his composure while he leans up against the wall, in a coming rainstorm, on an empty city street, he reflects on the events which occurred just several minutes before.

The man without a face, without a name, without an identity is lost in his newly arrived transition in life. He's stuck in a position of fickle indecisiveness and a surfaced depression. He has no answer to his problems, no solution, no remedy for his pain, so he continues to wallow in his own pathetic sadness, chain smoking and reminiscing. "Where did it all go wrong?" he thinks. The better question he needs to ask himself is, "Why am I so emotionally weak and dependent on someone that cared nothing of me?" Perhaps his reflection shouldn't be focused on why it happened, but what he can do to improve his life. Nonetheless, he lights up another cigarette, with slow movement, in the exact same fashion as before and allows the tears to roll down his dry cheeks and fall to the ground with the pouring rain. As he continues to look down he is startled by the distant approach footsteps. "Heels," he thought to himself, and felt a bit ashamed by his public display of self-pity and loathing. But instead of trying to gather himself, he continues to drive his chin into his chest, and take his slow and concentrated drags of his cigarette.

As the footsteps get louder, he becomes nervous, almost paranoid and fought back balling hysterically. The weight of his own sadness began to grow heavier and heavier and his immediate solution was cocaine. Knowing where to get the poison, and believing that it could be his temporary fix to his temporary problem, he went into a trance of sorts, thinking about his bank account. Inevitably, it added onto his woes since money was an issue. The demanding sound of footsteps, louder than ever, and the aggressive splash of water startled him and he looked up to find beauty in a blue peacoat.

"Are--, are you ok?" Her green eyes were radiant, even in the darkness of twilight and complimented her silky brown hair and olive skin. Even in his rut, he couldn't help but make some sort of conversation. Nervously, forcing enthusiasm, he replied,

"I'll be fine, just a tough night."
"Tell me about it."
"I'd rather not."
"It was an expression, stranger. I was agreeing."
"Oh," he paused, embarrassed, "sorry."
"Don't sweat it. So, um, do you have a name, or do I just call you stranger?"
"Eric."
"Marcela."
"Igualmente."
"I don't speak Spanish, Eric, I'm Persian. Nice try, though."

Eric's embarrassment continued and his cheeks grew hot. His attempt to show that he's cultured in a predominantly Hispanic city backfired tremendously. But her mere presence alleviated some of the pain from earlier that evening.

"Look, I'm just passing through, but I'm not sure where St. Mary's Street is? Could you help me out?" Excitedly, this was his chance to find what was missing in his life, or what he thought got taken from him. Eric's response showed more enthusiasm than the small talk he made before.

"Yea, actually, I'm headed home, just trying to get some fresh air. I live a few blocks down, in the loft apartments by Rosario's."
"Oh, thats actually the only landmark I'm familiar with. I just moved here about a week ago, and I'm still a little cautious in this neighborhood."
"I understand, but there's nothing to worry about 'round here."
"Are you going to walk me home, or are we going to stand here in the rain, talking about the lack of crime in the neighborhood?"
"Let's go," he was warm, in a new world, even, and eagerly shifted his weight and took his back off the wall.