He loved hearing linen flap in August wind. The warm comforting smell of Costco brand detergent skipping atop the warm autumn breeze. And the calm that balmy afternoons always brought to a neighborhood abuzz with loud, tricked out cars blaring bass heavy music, going speeds too fast for residential neighborhoods. In those days he was always outside, either because his grandma simply wouldn’t let boys in the house or there was a big football game in the middle of the street, and he couldn’t resist friendly competition.
As he sits, watching a couple’s smoke drift into the BAOBOB leaves overheard, memories flood into his mind about the land he used to call home. About the family that used to feel so far away, yet so near his heart. About his dog that absolutely insisted at least one, hour and a half walk a day. And about the cat who always wanted to sit in his lap at the least opportune moment and never wanted to get up, quick to flash claws and strike in dissaproval at the slightest movement.
He watches people passing by, wondering what hopes and fears they carry; and what motivates them to keep pushing for their goals day after day. People watching always helped him forget about himself and appreciate the infinite beauty found in the small details of the moment. He temporarily forgets the self imposed restrictions from childhood, no longer concerned with where he stands in the eyes of others. He sits with a smile on his face, happy to see others living in joy and empathizing with those walking with concrete shoes and bowed heads.
Foreign languages tickle his ear. He breathes in a helping of gratitude for how far he’s come and the risks that recently paid off. Enamored by the beauty of a land that should feel strange and foreign, but is oddly reminiscent of a past he can’t quite grasp.
A buzz from his phone snapped him out of meditation; fear of being stereotyped and labeled required him to never have alert volume past that. New acquaintances, soon to be friends, reached out to see if he was interested in the city’s well known open mic. Poets and musicians flocked to the monthly occasion like church, dressed in their best, ready to drink in the healing lyrics and quatrains from the night’s lucky few artists who got to share their gifts.
He always thought of himself as an artist, but fear is an old, victorious foe whose kept him in the cuts, watching from the sidelines. Each open mic brought an indescribable joy as he got caught up in the rapture of the moment. And immense pain from the constant destructive thoughts eating away at what little self confidence he carried with him after graduation. The gigs were bitter sweet, but he couldn’t help but go and drink from the amazing vibes overflowing at these types of venues.
He killed enough time staring off into space and into the souls of the ever steady crowd walking along main Street. The cafe he chose was the uniquely quaint, homey type of place you only find in these kinds of countries. Decorations were sparse, mostly there to cover up defects in the wall and paint. Everything had a purpose. And the food was cooked with love and respect.
But the wait staff was starting to look at him funny for taking up a seat for 2 hours while only ordering chai and chips during peak time. He couldn’t stand the glare of their eyes anymore, and it was close enough to the event time where he could start making his way. Walking was always preferred anyway, and now he could take his time.
It seems only foreigners appreciate the beauty of a street hustling and bustling so seemlessly. He often finds himself stopping to stare in awe at a scene only he seems to get the channel to. It’s as if everyone shared the same mind, and knew the exact position to be in, allowing what some would consider a hectic and chaotic situation to carry on with out a hitch.
The heavy smell of not quite refined petrol grips and weighs down his chest. Mini buses and taxis drivers overtake slower cars as if the center divide is a lane made just for them. Conductors from the minibuses, always half way out the window or door, scout for customers as the van whips thru congestion. Motorcycles, rush alongside traffic from the safety of the sidewalk; a smooth ride for them but terrifying for the unsuspecting. He loved seeing men balancing windshields on the back of bikes as if in the circus, performing the death-defying, grand finale stunt.
Sometimes this place feels like a vegan’s wet dream. Fruit and vegetable stands dot the main streets, livening up what is sometimes a run-down, dilapidated avenue with vibrant color from naturally grown produce. It’s going to be a long walk, so he pays 20 Bob for sliced and peeled sugar cane to power his legs for the 49 minute journey; Google has slowly become his best friend and trusted tour guide.
He arrives 20 mins before the event starts, but at least half an hour after the sign up list closed. The list always closes mad early, but he couldn’t help but smell the roses and lillies of the flower stand that lined the sidewalk a quarter mile ago. Maybe he intentionally distracted himself because of his nearly crippling anxiety, but he’s not honest enough with himself to know for sure. Safe from potential embarrassment on the mic, he now confronts a whole new problem: socializing with people while acting like he’s not totally uncomfortable in his own skin.
His past is littered with memories of teasing, bullying, and rejection. But he never got a chance to adequately clean up these memories, so they lie scattered around his mental space, cluttering up his thinking; obstructing what could be a dope ass view of the present moment.
If only he could crawl inside his being and hide from himself. Every inadvertent gaze and tiny shift in body language feels like a threat. Each group’s conversation suspected of plots against his dignity. He walks through the room feeling completely alienated. He desperately searches for a niche or welcoming corner that he can hide and safely observe the world in.
Luckily he sees his friends and slides into their circle, finding safety in their familiarity. The lady he’s been crushing on since he arrived in town notices something is off, and takes the opportunity to ask him about it while everyone else goes to the bar for a straight shot of liquid courage.
“So what’s up G, why you got lines of worry framing that handsome face?” As the spotlight shifts to him, he feels his insides bubble underneath the harsh heat. He was hoping for some pleasant small talk about about the feature performer or the black community’s need for unity. Those are easy, handled with a deftness of charm and intellect most are easily impressed by. His inner thoughts and emotions however, those don’t roll of the tongue so easy. He was totally caught unaware by the innocent yet peircing question by the women he desperately wants to take out for a candle lit dinner. A moment ago he was getting lost in the twinkle of her eyes and the subtle curvature of lips that are always set in a half smile, warmly greeting all who bask in their glory. The way she asked, it didn’t seem like she was looking for a soul revealing question, but he cant decide whether to say what’s on his mind or give a standard answer to breeze past the question. He tries to explain, but she doesn’t get it. How does a guy who seems so Zen carry so much fear? Her inability to understand him is justified. He never really liked revealing parts of himself, as if fearing the revelation would cause him to lose more of what little he has left.
Luckily, the rest of the group comes back before she can ask more probing questions. His face eases into a look of relief, but through his relaxed half smile, he can see that she isn’t going to let this go easily and the topic will be brought up again. He just hopes she does it in an intimate setting where he doesn’t have to try and gauge the mental-spiritual space of more than a couple people.
He was spot on with the assessment. She grabs his hand and leads through the sea of people with a silent determination that he finds mind-bendingly attractive. His initial reactions of protest acquiesce into acceptance and yielding. He never could have imagined her hands felt so soft or fit so perfectly into his. They exit the crowd and arrive in a quiet nook of the venue only locals and frequent attendees seemed to know about. The distance between them and the choir of voices is soothing, and he becomes more and more at ease with himself in the reassuring semi-silence of the secret section of the rooftop.
She looks him straight in the eyes without saying a word. The strings of white Christmas lights dance salsa in her pupils. And he begins losing himself in the deep amber pigment of her soul’s windows, his mind cues up his favorite Hector Lavoe song. The trance is broken as she cocks her head to the side, curious what’s going on in his head.
“This spot is hella chill” he says, trying to deflect and start what he assumes will be a heavy conversation. “You know you’re beautiful right? How can a being so full of love be twisted by so much pain and sorrow at the same time? How is it that you seemingly have everything going for you, yet you feel so tortured?” He doesn’t know how to respond. After a few false starts and many attempts to tackle the existential question posed, he acknowledges he doesn’t know, but wishes he did. Tears well up in her 24 karat eyes, making them sparkle with a brilliance most will never get to experience.
There’s no doubt women have always been more connected to their emotions and more willing to let them be, rather than bottle them up. He knew this to some degree, but is still caught by surprise and is unsure the best course of action to take. She throws him a lifeline and begins saying, “it’s refreshing that you are willing to see yourself without the distorting tint of male bravado. You feel discomfort and anxiety but no one else sees it. We all see a man coming into his own and willing to do what it takes to make his dreams a reality. You inspire me to face myself with your uncompromising honesty and make me believe it’s possible to stay on the healing path and thrive. I carry a profound amount of anxiety too, and fooled myself into thinking I was the only one. I’m sorry you have been unable to let go of your past, and I hope you discover how it’s done soon, so you can truly appreciate the beauty that radiates from your being”.
Normally, this situation would be deescalated by humor, or wit, or a bit of snarky scarcasm. But he was frozen in place by her unexpectedly candid words of vulnerability and praise. He never in a million lifetimes would have guessed that the two shared something so deep and personal. Shock sealed his mouth shut as he processed what he just heard. Her sudden lapse of openness made her start to regret speaking, so they both stared out into space together, trying to find their way back to reality. Sensing her uneasiness he managed a muffled “thank you.. I think you’re an amazing woman who deserves peace of mind.”
After clearing his throat, he shared with her that he has never felt so safe and at ease with anyone like this before. She agrees.
Both of them had been so wrapped up in their emotions, they hadn’t realized their hands were interlocked the entire time. He momentarily panicked and almost jerked his hand away instinctively. But a bond he never encountered before glued their hands together into an interlacing knot he was actually, perfectly fine leaving as is. He looked up from their hands and caught a flash of similar thought patterns racing along her eyebrows. He gently squeezed her hand, so she looked up and the two locked eyes, exchanging reassuring smiles.
“Welcome to our monthly open mic here at…”
Unaware so much time has passed, the two gently nod to each other, then proceed to go find their group of friends. The energy flowing back and forth through their clasped hands felt irresistible, so he used his photographic memory to lead them back to where their friends sat. Luckily, they left two chairs right next to each other for them.
The night floated by like a dream. They laughed and howled and snapped with the audience as each performer graced the stage, only releasing their grip for important stuff, like clapping during the occasional standing ovation. When the emcee announced the final act for the night, both their hearts sank. He squeezed her hand, wishing he’d never have to let go, wishing that his telepathic powers would kick in already so they could stretch time and spend an eternity in the perfectness of the now.
Next Chapter
It’s hard to explain how soothing the sanctity of home is; to call it her sanctuary is a severe understatement. The door akin to her draw bridge, and welcome mat something like a moat with a few dozen gators, she rarely afforded others the pleasure of a visit. The princess voluntarily lived out her days in an ivory tower, high above the petty concerns that accompany the unfulfilling lives most choose to pursue.
Her beauty, tho a blessing, became a liability mid way thru life. Caramel complexion reflected sun rays with the brilliance of Tanzanite set in platinum. Her stature was seemingly just the right size to fit into every man’s mold of a dream girl. Her wit was quick and intellect strong, but most never noticed because they couldn’t see past her body’s semetrical perfection. It’s rumored that an American caught a glimpse of her one day, and couldn’t stop thinking of her, so he crafted his company’s bottles after her shape to always remember the rare beauty. Blessed with supernatural awareness, her eyes remained wide; they were mirrors many men lost sleepless nights obsssessing over. Full and supple, her lips accented a cute little nose that she pierced with her mother’s first diamond. Words danced from her mouth with joy and exuberance, especially when her sunrise of a smile brightened her face and the surrounding area with warmth.
She always wished she was darker. The way melanin flirted with the sun on humid summer days was awe inspiring. She wished her skin was akin to black holes, and that raw, awesome, Celestial power was readily available to her. She loved the radiance of blood rushed checks behind ebony skin.
Her hand floats to her chest as she takes a deep breath, and remembers to live in gratitude. The book her Love recently blessed her with has helped her learn to open up a well of compassion wide enough to swallow whole her monstrous thoughts.
Everyday at sunset, she stares out her window at the wonderously wild, yet incredibly serene city. The sun’s rays play tricks with the angles of buildings, softening the harsh, misplaced European architecture with the love only equitorial sun can. There’s almost nothing on this world more beautiful.
A familiar light caresses her face as it enters the room, transforming everything to the most gorgeous hues of yellow and orange. Clouds rolled in on que only a few minutes prior, and she greets them as she always does, thanking them for helping to paint such a beautiful scene.
As expected, he glides thru the door, steaming from a quick shower he hopped in 5 minutes ago. The Beloveds embrace. Staring out through their bedroom window into what feels like an eternity of reds, pinks, and yellows painted across the sky.
She turns to look at him. His eyes are always a deep maroon after they burn trees. She loves the way the corners of his eyes wrinkle as they smile back at the sun. The way the scar on his forehead perfectly balanced out his soft eyes was one of her many favorite things about him. She also loved his beautifully long eyelashes and that two locs permanently jut out from his thick, reddish-brown mane as if antennas. He always carried around that same, calm, half smile she first fell in love with. He’s the closest to nirvana she’s ever known.
He regularly breathed from his stomache, expanding his large rib cage ever larger. The long, drawn out rise and fall of his breathe already rubbed some Zen off on her, and she loved it! She loved him! She loved them together. It’s amazing how welcoming silence becomes after a bit of self love…They both drink in the moment’s healing tincture, distilled down just for them; just for this special occasion.
He’s surprised that he hasn’t wanted to run away yet. Up until this point, life has been a track meet with no end. If only he signed up for the 100 meter dash instead of the 5K cross country race… he would have been done by now and could have been sipping water, joking with the rest of the team. But with each uncomfortable moment perceived as a starting pistol, he always started running soon as enough air inflated his lungs. His calm, chilled out demeanor made lovers sometimes wonder if he liked boxes of chocolate or had a best friend named Bubba. He’d been running since before he could remember, and only God knew when he’d tire out or decide he had enough.
It’s hard to run away from self, cuz you always seem to get caught. He slowly becomes aware of this inevitablity, but the urge to run is strong and his feet are restless from the life long habit. Been running so long, he forgot why. All his memory holds are the faint traces of a terrifying demon. And the smallness that accompanies indescribable fear mixed with self described weakness. He still freezes in terror when rekindling the thought; his body obviously unsure if it can break out of this deep-set flight mechanism or unsure if it’s sturdy enough to fight and defend itself without being life threateningly mamed.
Her beloved has the same look etched into his face she’s noticed beforewhen his being becomes ensnared in that same rut of a negative thought pattern. His eyes are open, but the light in them are gone. The self excavated sunken place is the worse… She looks at him with a profound sense of grief, empathizing with him and the life or death fight hes having with the demon.
Just the other day she noticed that the fights are happening with much more frequency. As if someone is about to lose, and the soon to be victor can smell blood in the water. The fights have been happening so much, that the same look of exertion is building muscle memory and remoulding her sweetheart’s face. She fears if he doesn’t end this battle soon, he will never be the same again. She worries that this eternal change won’t be positive and she doesn’t want this demon to come after her as a second course after devouring her man.
She’s been staring at him for close to 10 minutes and he has yet to notice. She watches the winces and smiles flash across his face as if he was a 70 inch high definition TV. The unofficial scorecard of the bout indicates her man is losing 4 rounds to 3. He’s always been a slow starting late bloomer though, hopefully that trademark second wind carries him to victory this time around. She places her hand on his chest, just above his heart and rests her head on his shoulder. He is too caught up to be aware, but she’s praying that he can feel her sending him love and energy into DreamWorld. Hopefully her magic is enough to help him finally put an end to this awful demon once and for all.
Another 5 minutes passes before he breaks out of the spell and returns to the perfectness that is the present moment. He gains consciousness as the sun says it’s final goodbyes with a purple masterpiece across the heavens. He looks down to his beloved in prayer, gripping his torso as if trying to stop him from flushing down the horizon with the sun. A tear slips down his eagle like nose, hitting her eye perfectly in the forehead. She meekly looks up, unsure who won the day.
When he wins, her man has the loveliest of grins. His aura smells like a picnic on a lovely day and peanut butter ice cream topped with hazelnut spread. The walls of their penthouse studio do not the feel so small and oppressive. And birds seem to sing with a little more enthusiasm to commemorate the victory.
But when he loses, the world loses color and vigor. Sepia tones are all he seems to move in. Every movement devoid of passion and every syllable lacking the luster or enthusiasm to move anything but the air it forced to go along with it. The ability of this man to completely lose himself in 15 minutes is astounding and terryfing. Never before has she cheered so hard for anyone to win at anything.
Luckily he won today. And the warm reassuring smile lets her know that she won’t have to resucsitate her love or risk sleeping with a stranger tonight.
“How long was I gone?” He asks. She explains that this time wasnt too long, 15 minutes compared to the 45 minute bout a month ago. She wonders aloud if he’s getting stronger. “I don’t know… This time I felt soo tired…I got the wind knocked out of me. And I laid on the ground exhausted, watching the demon walk toward me with a sinester look and that same wicked blade he always carries. The look in his frigid white eyes let me know that he planned on ending my life as soon as he reached me. But he enjoyed the look of terror on my face too much to rush. He monologued something as he cleared debris from the rust colored horns lining his chest. His pointed teeth dripped, as he salivated over the thought of devouring me. I knew right there that I could either be the answers to my prayers or lay prey for this monster. So I gathered up all the strength I could summon. I rolled over to where my blade lay after I had been kicked to the ground. Without even thinking, I parried the demon’s death blow just as he sought to pierce my heart. Then he vanished… Whispering that he’ll ‘be back’. Warning me that ‘my time will soon come’.
I can still feel the forboding fridgedness of his presence. Those words ring through my ears with the same blood curdling tone he uttered them in. Over and over again, I hear the same God aweful words as I replay the near death experience in my head. I know he won’t give up…. I’m so tired babe.”
She wants to tell him everything will be okay, and that this was all just a dream. But his ice cold sweat and manically rapid heart rate tells her that these words just won’t help. This experience was very real to him. And he barely made it out alive. He’s visibly shaken. She clutches onto him tighter to give an anchor point. Gradually, his breathing slowly returns to the normal zenness she’s come to know and love.
After spending time with him, she’s understanding more and more how someone who seems so centered externally, can carry so much pain and torture. It’s become clear to her that the Zen everyone witnesses was borne from necessity. He has been a walking prison for this demon. A mobile detention facility with pretty architecture and beautifully manicured lawns, but a jail house nonetheless. And one that houses some of the worse criminals, whom society has decided it is in their best interest to lock away and incinerate the key.
The city is still, and frogs from the nearby river can be heard serenading the Milky Way like their ancestors have been doing since time eternal. The buzz from traffic, and convos and television sets finally died down. And nature can finally rejoice in the short, relative peace humans have afforded them.
They fall asleep under the moonlight. Two lovers intertwined in only the way young lovers do. The two rest easy in the stillness of night, at ease from the peace the other inspires in self. She plays with his locs, singing the sweet melodies her grandma taught her as a young child. His touch is heavenly and their mattress is a cloud after the full body massage where he paid special attention to her thighs and glutes. He can sense all the tension in her body and knead them out with the gingerness of a well trained Buddhist monk. But he always leaves a fraction of tension left… She hasn’t decided if he’s consciously doing this or not because she doesn’t want to believe he means to leave her with pain. She is pretty sure since he hasn’t completely healed himself, he cannot completely heal her. Time will tell. The two lovers melt into the peace of the night, grateful for what’s been given and ready to take on the Universe’s next set of challenges.
Chapter after Next
His empty apartment felt warm and comforting. Voidness always allowed him the space to stretch out and breathe. He could finally lose his baggage in the freedom of a silent night with the fear of judgment from peers. The wee hours are best at about a quarter to 4 when the late night revellers have gone to bed and the working world has yet to rise. He basks in the openness of the world, free from the chaotic buzz of the hive mind. And relishes the harmonious serenity brought by the twilight hours.
He’s felt pressure his whole life. But he couldn’t figure out why knowing from the beginning his ancestors had great plans for him didn’t make it any easier.
Pressure has been known to burst pipes, mold diamonds, and make good people great. Pressure is what keeps our feet on solid ground here in Mother Earth. And it’s what keeps every living being marching to the tick of time; inextricably linked by what flows common through us all.
Pressure has also been known to break men and crush the previously conceived indestructible. It’s influence undeniable, and inescapable. But this didn’t stop him from trying. And he’s been running every since he made the decision to take flight. In a never ending game with the odds stacked against him.
Once present, pressure can never be avoided, just understood and redirected. He’s begun to truly comprehend the existentialism of choice. Under the moon light, it dawns upon him that we cannot all together avoid consequences resulting from action; we get the good and the bad.
The buzz here is alot different than buzz you hear back home. At home, light rails could be heard screaching down their tracks every 15 minutes or so. Loud Harley Davidsons and muscle cars rattled houses for blocks around. Somebody somewhere was always jamming to some music as they boogies their way through the day. And the telephone polls buzzed from high velocity electricity jolting in from the nearby sub station.
But here in his new neighborhood, if generators weren’t running due to the most recent rationings, nights were still. Terribly inauthentic white flouresent light didn’t pollute the atmosphere so much, blocking out all the stars in the process. And an old creek could be heard meandering along to a hollow, bubbling melody; he always assumed before “civilization” came it was a much mightier river thriving with life of all kinds.
As he stared upon the city with glazed deep brown eyes, his heart speaks up for the first time in what felt like ages. He missed the soft, stern inner voice that used to guide him through troubled waters. He remembers how it soothed him during his time in the incubator for pre-mes. And during the innocent parental neglect influenced by a fad, that came and went, but left him with memories of sitting in a crib crying silently to himself.
He’s always felt alone, yearning for human connection. Craving the warmth only gental hands hold. Unsure if the reassurance he sought, would ever be found. As time passed, the roar of anxious emotions and manichial thoughts crashing against his grey matter drowned out this old friend. And he thought he lost him forever.
Gazing off into space, he allowed the sea of misplaced concrete towers to transform at his heart’s desire. And he watched in awe at the power he estranged himself from for so long.
Vines and hanging gardens sprouted from the from the brick as if they were plastered with soil straight from the fertile crescent. Tattered rags of the homeless family below became beautiful linens as they reached for low hanging tomoatoes from the neighboring building’s awning as a midday snack. Dirt sidewalks paved themselves with solar panels. And the smog gripping his lungs dispersed as he breathed in fresh, naturally filtered air into his stomache.
“All I ever wanted was
To live a life full of passion.
To explore the depths of my soul
And the vastness of the Earth.
Searching for the foundry of experiences
To help the observer know his worth.
Claim his power
And forge a king from a serf.
Leave your past where it lay, and
Follow your heart into the night
Claim what is your right
And appreciate today for today.
You fear the unknown
And rob her of her glory,
The best stories, not much is known and Mystery sets the tone.”
His heart poured itself out to him. Begging him to see that the light at the end of the tunnel is an internal reflection. And reassuring him that he he will always have a friend so long as he embraces his own love.
“When one faces the existential question, pressure mounts only upon hesitation. We are nature, and nature always knows what to do. The instincts you are blessed with don’t control us, and yet give the best, and often most insightful, nudges in the correct course of action. Wisdom knows that forced movement isn’t fluid enough for optimim performance. Mother Nature doesn’t force, yet questioning her suggestions are often I’ll advised and agonized over. Why resist that which must be?”
He explains that resistance is necessary. Resistance is survival. What doesn’t resist gets swept away with the winds of change like whims of others and the planet we take for granted everyday. If I didn’t resist, I wouldn’t exist. I would float apart and tear myself into bits if I didnt.
“Discount the strength of cohesion at your own peril, my child. Resistance is needed to repel the will of others, but only strong units have the ability to carry out that feat. Your body’s vitality comes from the synchronous execution of complex functions by a team. The Earth is the force she is because many have learned to coexist.
Please stop running away from this.
Commit to healing in actionable steps each day, or you will not hear from me again. The torrent of self abusive, sabotaging thoughts may drown out my voice in the downpour.”