It doesn't matter

This is a story of Tracey and Mr. Intentional.
But let me introduce them to you first.
Tracey had inadequacy issues from her childhood that kept arising here and there in life. Although she never really thought of herself as important, she kept feeling like there was more to be had in loving others. To Tracey, there was always someone who needed love. She decided that she would do her best to support others in their love psychology.

She had seen Mr. Intentional around the way a few times. He always smiled at her and called her to his path. His path was always so shiny. So full of promise but she had heard of others who followed him. She heard of others who answered his beckoning and saw so many of them burn. For his road was paved with honesty, desire and purity. All of the things Tracey knew about but was too afraid to maintain them too often. She had heard about the heat and passion that lived in him and she did her best to avoid him.

But lately he seemed to be following her everywhere. To church. To family meetings. He was always at the hospital and always at work and always in a fly brown suit looking dapper as ever. Sometimes he had flowers. Sometimes he had a boombox playing her favorite tunes. Sometimes he had a lunch full of calories and sometimes he just sat there next to her reading the newspaper or a book of poetry or something. But he kept following her.

Finally one night when he had followed her home with the intention of cooking pasta, she succumbed to the feeling like there wasn't much she could do about his presence and she gave him her phone number. And they started seeing each other and talking to each other often.

Mr. Intentional was one of those guys who just needed a little bit more time. He was full of ideas. He knew all the coolest places to go and the greatest clubs to party at. He always knew what was exciting. He saw everyone for their potential. He was one of those men that had it. And he wanted to share it with everyone. He also knew that his name made people worried because if they stayed for too long followed without using their heads, they always ended up in his house taking off all their clothes and stripping themselves of reason on account of the heat and poor outcome. He knew his house was hell. But he wasn't going to stop anyone from going there. He knew so many good-intentioned people who ended up at his house. Because they wanted to be him. But when things went a wry, they didn't know who to blame. They didn't accept the mirrored walls, doors and staircase. They told everyone and everyone ran away.

Anyway, Mr. Intentional and Tracey had good chemistry. And sometimes Tracey thought he would be a great boyfriend, if she could just find out where he lived.

A short one.

I will never make sense of a person like me in this world.

The Worth of Change

I have morphed into an unknown. A being of completely circumstantial emotion and reaction. I am nothing like you. But you insist on being with me.
I continue to bite dust. I continue to burn holes in this life because of some substantial need to fill your life with purpose.
If you knew me like I know me. You might hate me. And as I continued to learn of myself, I saw the looseness in my knowing what I thought I knew was myself. So much of who you know is a product of pain, abandonment, insincerity, need.
So much of who you know is a product of circumstance. Yet they told me that somehow, I asked to be brought here.
I have to disagree with this, since so much of this life has had me questioning if I should continue. Should I continue this walk without the things that I live for? Should I continue this walk without the peace of mind I need. What would it have meant for me to be prepared enough not to give, or to shine, or to inspire or to…love.

I scaled the emotional walls. I tried to pass those tests, I gave and I gave, I forgave and forgave, I lied and I told the truth, I approached with honesty and dignity. I put God on my side, the left and the right, unashamedly I loved.

The sorcery behind my fate is to catch on that I should never have given, or tried or loved. One as selfish as me should have been more selfish and less concerned with the proclivity of others to hide, or to lie or to be false or to live behind walls.

I sit here. Broken, disguised, alone and bitter. Used up to my core. Sick to my stomach that… this, this… right now, is what I have to show for all of those moments of passion, conviction and purity. Its mine. I own it. Its tasty. Bitter.

Bitter like an aloe as I try to define the past and this current presence of mind.
Writing here and there to maintain my sanity so that I could try loving again this time stronger with less plea
To affirm that I am whole again, not borrowed or broken or blue
To affirm that I have made conscious choices and take responsibility for loving you.
And being wrong about it.

Now me with my heart behind a wall, am no better than the ones before,
But I will do my best not to take for granted the ones that want to know,
What is was like to love like God and still live to tell a tale.
A love journal here and a tear there with wrinkles and scars and pounds to prove that at least I tried it.

Music from hope, from heart, from heaven.

(Listening to Miles Davis "All Blues")

Music saves me.
It soothes me.
It helps me process this life.
Words and melodies arranged in a way that reflect my emotions. Or speak to my situations or agree with my decisions.
I want to say I "love" music but that is too base an understanding of what exist between me and this life entity.
Music doesn't need me to exist or even to appreciate it.
It just is. It just does. It just gives and allows me a position.
A creator, innovator, appreciator, or just a consumer. All irrelevantly relevant at the same time.

Representing this relationship in my movements.
Collectively shaking, spinning, gyrating, whining, head-nodding, foot-tapping or simply being elevated.
Independently elevated by sound.

Bouncing off of walls.
Spending all of my money.
Keeping up with the technology so I can unequivocally loose myself in its embraces.
Octaves and majors and minors and rests and renditions.
Highs and lows and semitones and crescendos of sound.
Allegros of want.

And I listen to this tickling of my heart and know that I live for it.
Would die for it.
Couldn't do without it.
Like air.
Like water.
Like sex.
Like love.

When this world ends...should it end...
Or since It promised us a "world without end"
In its transitions,
I'll listen for the beat, the snare, the drum roll.
I'll listen for the wind from his lungs and the pounding of her ivories and the strumming of those strings confirming that this is life.
I'll listen for the waves and foots steps and claps and shakes and booms.
I'll watch and feel all as if each sound was connected to a red blood cell and the arrangement were a sign.
That each breath, each rhythm, each clot was life.

Because it lives in me. On me. For me. Of me. Enveloping me. Making me awkward...
So that my soul could respond to this world, almost daily,
Like a lover.