were wrong/are right

'This constant reminder of how wrong I’ve been'

in class you sit and stew and realize you were wrong, again. that all things you are bad at are just all things, the few things you thought you maybe, might be good at it, you are bad at, too. you can't really write. in 7th grade eric marveled at you doing long division in your head. like, hard long division, in seconds. dividing 16437 into 2348912 and remembering each decimal as you went through tenths... hundredths... thousandths. you had the lowest score on your team in the state competition because you changed an answer you knew was wrong because you couldn't have gotten it right, to a different answer. the first one was the correct one. you played yourself. your mother doesn't realize how well off she is because she enclaves her self in those who have more. you were never gifted. don't think you were. a good ACT score is money.

you can no longer do that division in your head.

your brain is a constant source of telling you that you were wrong. even when it turned out ok. you were wrong to protest your parents sending you abroad because you had fun and grew and learned and found something to hang your hat on. maybe you were wrong to protest them. maybe that's the point. and it reduces and reduces into it's not you were wrong but you are wrong. the books you read were trash, the grades you got were trash, the way you kept your room was trash, until all things that are built or consumed by you were trash and that renders you what, exactly?

you will hurt people. it is unavoidable. everyone does. and yet the way in which you can hurt people seems worse. for the longest time you viewed yourself unfixable, and so why put anyone through your existence? you got better and yet, cruelly, that just gives you more room to hurt. isolation is not an answer. living in fear is not an answer. it's an incubator that warms and warms you until you incinerate into ash and leave a messy form on a mattress that hasn't been changed out in 15 years.

every mistake is a potential mark, a potential heartbreak. you keep a running total in your head of how you've fucked up. of hands on shoulders, of faked signatures, of high school grades, of your fiancée coming home to a knife next to you, edge unmarred by blood, thankfully, still a few years clean of that one.

you told her earlier that day the one time you knew you were right. you were wrong to get there, that's the irony; your parents dragged you kicking and screaming, but in a moment of clarity, standing there, sun setting over the pacific ocean on a warm evening, you realized this was right. this was right. you are scared and constantly reminded of being wrong because you can't let those get in the way. you were wrong, again. wrong about love, about a future, about happiness. you have them now. even with the knife there, the pills upstairs, the tears shed, the pain you caused, the lack of power, the fear, everything, and how you wonder if you'll ever be good enough for you or your family, how you hope to god that you can hold on to her forever, you realize that this was the result. no, not what you did that night, but holding her, lying down next to her, being there, and you drill into your brain to never do this again, because just like the sunset over the ocean, you wouldn't want to tarnish anything about this for the world. this time, you're right.

Copycat

A cursory examination of many institutions reveals a sort of demonstrated copycat functionality when one particular formula achieves success. A team wins the Super Bowl or World Series, and immediately, other teams embark on copying the winning team's blueprint. A campaign successfully gets a seemingly small odd challenger elected, and suddenly, we are inundated with attempts to be the most Trumpian.

Alas, this pernicious and insincere form of flattery likely - nay, certainly - leaves on consummate popular pop poet Robert Frost if, such a thing were possible, rolling in his grave. For his most famous poem - an elucidation of taking the road less traveled by - is, the second it is written, an immediate refutation of itself. How many times are we told to not follow the crowd, to be cool by not being cool, to be different, be ourselves. In a more macro sense, no industry perhaps better displays this than that of travel, in which some moderately well off yuppies "discover" a developing, formerly colonized country, extoll its virtues of limited western values and industrial domination, only to, in turn, bring upon it the very forces that will lead to that.

Indeed, one can imagine that, in Frost's supposed yellow wood, metaphor or not, the success of the poem quickly lead both paths to be equally well worn and documented. Given the impending nature of the rapid and seemingly unstoppable forces of global warming we have unleashed, in part upon our constant consumption of the very thing that we use to lead us down said road, a 21st century amendment to the clause might read that one who takes neither road has found that to make all the difference. Until, of course, we are all stationary, staring down a path, unable to make up a decision on which way to go.

it's too easy to be nothing

it's too easy to listen to music that makes you feel and makes you live and realize you'll never, ever create something like that. never bare your soul in a way that moves other people or makes them desperate to cling to what you do. is there a point? fame of any kind is fickle and full of traps and anxiety. you'll never write something like the books you read. never direct a galaxy far, far away. maybe you'll live with the small stuff. you go to a party with your scar laden arms bare and your shoulders bare in an outfit you'd never wear before, not because you didn't want to, but because you felt safe with the person you were with to do so. and even the touching; the hand petting, the nose poking, the flirting, the lap dance propositions, the loud noise and crowds of people. they're uncomfortable but you're there with her and have that. but is it what you want? you're torn because you know you have to commit to being out there, you still need friends, contacts, people to shoot the shit with, but why be here when you could be home? there are kisses and cuddles and quiet and safety. there's a place where you could maybe find some time to do what you want, your hobbies, the things you've written about you've still abandoned, like the occasional album or video game or book. but it feels different, it feels you still. you're finally you. dyed black hair and dainty clothing and all. you don't know. you never know. you won't create, you won't have a novel, a short story, an album, you won't have the time you once had, perhaps ever again, to sit down and lose yourself in The Elder Scrolls, or Final Fantasy, or listen to a bunch of albums in one weekend and really digest them, to power through an entire book in one evening. but maybe you'll have the degree, eventually. maybe you'll have the confidence to wear what you want, when you want, to tell people 'no' for the first time. she helps a lot with that. because you never thought you'd be in love, or safe at home, or happy about your future. all things are impermanent. you've given up bits and pieces of yourself to find others. you leave the halloween party holding hands, tired. you learned about yourself from it. maybe you don't need to create a book or an album. maybe you don't need to fix the world. maybe you don't need to be there for your family 24/7. maybe an occasional trip, a goal to return to a corner of the world you love, the occasional binge of some show or video game or book, some music exploration while at your computer, maybe that will be enough. because she tells you that you are good enough, whatever you are. and if you can learn to accept that, then the rest will fall into place.

Meeting Quotas

It's just a number, right? Not a character judgement. I guess it is in a way. Your character - your fitness - is judged by GPA. By income. By size of living space. By friend counts. By hours performed. Two minutes in bed isn't enough. Fun for everyone is the goal. Not just dudes. Where were you? Oh yeah. The service is so fast. Just a number. Coffee is out so quick. Saves you time. Time to go somewhere else and squeeze it in. It is work, I suppose. Always work to be done.

Four posts a month for October, November, December means you'd have written three more posts than 2017. An improvement! But wait; in terms of word count you've already blown past it. Earlier this year you wrote a four part blog post series with something like 30 thousand words. Does the post count matter? You're still down like 60% from a few years ago. You haven't written fiction in a couple years. This is the longest break in awhile. That's your passion, dude. You've wanted to be a writer for awhile. Since first grade. Sure it waxes and wanes but your number is small. It's zero. You can't write a story if you don't write a story.

The bank account matters. It's small now. You want so bad to wake up to the sounds of traffic in Kuala Lumpur or Penang or Ho Chi Minh or Singapore or anywhere really.

They say age is just a number, right? But your back hurts from your office chair and your skin is dry and your feet get sore when trapped in shoes for a long time.

In 20 minutes the washer will be done. The dryer will take longer. You can do the dishes in the meantime. Fit it all in. Work quota. You napped this morning, a mistake.

Your academic forgiveness was denied and your wage hasn't been upped in years. It won't be. I guess both make sense. The quotas that matter most say that you matter the least. Or at least, that you weren't good enough to matter more than that. There are people who think you matter. You hang onto them tight because they are all you have and all you need. But this is adulthood, some friends fade and disappear. You haven't had a heart to heart with your travel friend in many months. So it goes.

The toaster dings behind the counter. The coffee place is busier than usual. They will meet their sales quota today. The underemployed employees might make more money in tips. Another college says "no" to you, vain attempt to finish something you know you can't. That's ok. You'd say no to yourself if you could.

The number is one. It's one person who loves you more than anything. I guess as far as numbers go that's actually pretty great. That's 100%. More than a lot of people. More than your grades or your wage. It's not a quota. It is an incredible feeling. Someone said yes to you. Maybe you would too deep down.

someone died not far from here

someone died not far from here. around 10pm last friday she attempted to cross a street for the last time. a grey ford fusion and a 2nd car hit her. a man would step out of the convenience store nearby - the one she had just shopped in - and see her body on the ground. emergency services would arrive shortly and pronounce her head on the scene. she was 40.

two days later i am turning off of the street where the condo i live in sits and onto west michigan avenue. she died here, at this intersection. 100 yards away from where i lived, at most. a man in a button down dress shirt tucked into khakis is wandering the street aimlessly, in the middle of the left turn lane, seemingly at a loss. a young kid rides away on their bike so fast i can scarcely make out any detail. beyond, a crowd of 20 or so; heads tucked onto shoulders, tears running freely, a power pole smothered with flowers and balloons and cards.

the next day a lone balloon from the power pole has detached itself and blown itself into the street where the condo i live in sits. the slightly deflated mass sways gently in place, as if indecision by way of a light breeze has it rooted permanently.

the police say alcohol is not involved, and 'freak accident' is the term used. i recall briefly, though, how violent this town is, in the top 4 percentile nationwide, a violent crime rate that towers over most other cities, assault and rape and manslaughter seemingly insurmountably high here in a country already obsessed with guns and violence like no other. i recall how this town has 2.5 times the amount of harmful air quality days compared to the national average, one of the worst rates in the country. i recall how over 30% of the population here lives in poverty, much higher, again, than most of the nation. someone died not far from here, but 2 days later that news story is forgotten. someone not far from here was murdered.