Hey Bonds, This One's for You Kid (the third letter to Russ)

Dear Russ,

I'm writing this to you from the quiet section of the Greece Public Library. Ponts is sitting across from me working on some law shit, and we are surrounded by so many unknown faces, and I simply can't help but to wonder what they are all doing within the confinements of these walls at roughly 5:00 on a Tuesday evening. Having said that, I'm also thinking about what you are doing too, wherever it is that you are, brotha. I wish you could tell me about it, or send me a postcard or some shit. I wish I could come visit you too, 'cause I like to think the weather there is much better than this place we've always called home.

Yup, I hate to tell you, but Rochester hasn't changed much since you've gone away; the air still heavy with particles of winter, a chance of rain everyday, and it's all ironic 'cause I thought Baseball season has started and this is suppose to be Spring. Anyway, I like to think the weather where you are is sunny, but not sunny like the Carolinas' I miss so dearly, but sunny like a rare perfect Rochester summer day- like the days we would plan on going to The Ditch to crush beers and laugh till the moon wanted no more of us. Or maybe you're just kickin' back with some lame light beer in your hand as it rains poker chips all over your head as you watch re-runs of games from back when the Bills were good (if there ever was a time... HAHA). Speaking of that wack-ass squad, I'm sure you've heard about good ole Ralph huh? You think now that he's not around to run the Bills anymore they have a chance to do something? (sorry, is that too soon!).

But on a more serious note... I fuckin' miss you, man. I can't stop thinking about you lately. I don't know if I'll ever stop. Just the other morning, I found myself going through my stupid Facebook messages searching for some of our old convos', and to be honest, I was just doing it to make it feel like I was talking to you. It started off as a pretty emotional moment for me, but of course, still, somehow you made me laugh. The last message you sent me was when I was in Italy and you were telling me to "hurry back from my GREASY journey" so we could hit the links and play 18. I don't know if I was laughing at the fact that you had to throw an Italian joke in their, or if I was thinking about how badly you suck at putting, and chipping, and you know... driving the ball too. You weren't too bad with the irons though, that's if they already weren't thrown into the woods!

I don't have much to say in this letter to you though, and I think that's why I'm just babbling and crackin' the same jokes hoping your out there somewhere just laughing like always. But I also think I'm writing to you right now because so much is changing in my life again. I'm flat out broke, living paycheck to paycheck just to pay rent, switched career paths, and besides all that nonsense, I fell in love recently, and I wish so badly you could meet this girl; she's amazing. But I'm telling you this because If you could, I need you to look out for me in these upcoming months... they are going to take a toll on me, brotha. Seriously.

And I know, like always, you're gonna' laugh at me, but I wrote you another poem:

I heard your laugh somewhere within the rain,

and I let it soak my heart until I was sobbing in smiles.

I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered where you were,

sipped my whiskey until it was gone, 

and then I pictured you:

You were you. Just you.

And I felt okay again.

I love you, man. We all love and miss you so much.

-The Omaha Kid

To the Dying Art of Love: Part II... My Friend and I Still Donate Our Hearts.

I've been thinking a lot about my writing lately; I find myself asking a short list of questions about it too: When did I truly begin to write? Exactly why did I ever start? Have I gotten better over the years? But the number one question I always ask myself is: Has my writing changed over time, and if so, why?

The answers to these questions came to me pretty easily, and I think it's all because of one of my best friends, Chris (I rarely call him by his first name, nor his real last name for that matter) Anyway, he and I go way back to those confusing days of middle-school, you know-those days when everyone was lost in their own skin, constantly trying to peal back the endless layers of what everyone else wanted us to be, when in reality, we were only searching for the people we would later become. While digging through my body, which was over-dressed in clothing from stores I would soon despise, I found a boy made of only brittle bones and a heart that I later grew to realize was not of this Earth. I walked those judgmental halls for months with all my stupid athletic-apparel on, feeling like a king 'cause I played three different sports, already was able to grow a weird beard, and got invited to parties filled with cocky doushbags and young sluts who never gave a shit about each other. Don't get me wrong, I admit it, I was once a walking epitome of your typical middle-school kid, but beneath the surface I was nothing like everyone I knew... until I met Chris, the blue-eyed, blonde-haired boy, that will one day be sitting on a porch with me, when we and our wives are old and gray, talking about all the memories we had together, as well as all the fucked up things we did that should have killed us by that time. 

We played baseball together, back on those tiny fields in Greece Little League. And I'm not lying when I say this, at the time, this man-child threw a fast ball like no other, and I remember I was so envious of that. I mean, I was ookkaayyy on the mound, but nothing like him. But it wasn't until off the field, when we started hanging out, that I realized how much alike we really were. Of course, we looked different, had different friends, came from different types of families, etc. But we were the same in so many more important ways. At an early age of just twelve years old, he taught me that I didn't have to hide who I was anymore; that I could be that person I was beneath the surface. Although we kept on going through school, playing the role as young athletes who never had a chance of playing sports after high school, we began to unveil each others true purposes for existing. 

We spent countless nights jammin' to burned CD mixes of bands like Taking Back Sunday, Brand New, The Used, and one of our favorite bands: Fall Out Boy (long before they sold out, and the rest of world found out who they were). It's amazing what music can do to the soul, especially when one can relate to it's lyrics. The reason I say this, is because all the music we listened to back then, I believe has shaped us, in small way, into the men we have become today. Those words about love, hope, and heartache, have become our religion in a sense, and I can't help but to think, without music, without friendship, what is the point to ever even playing this song of life? This makes me think of something: they say that some people suffer from a beautiful disease called "Synestheisa,"  which means that when they hear music they can see colors... how fucking amazing is that? 

But before I explain how Chris has helped me answer all the questions about my writing, I need you to read the poem below. I've always known him to be a closet-writer, and though' I am one of the few that has had the pleasure of reading his words, I wanted to share this one with you, because not only does it hit home for me, but it is simply astonishing....

Synesthesia

Ever since the day they met, 

her words carried more than the definitions assigned to them.

For what a simple way to look at the world, he thought.

26 strange brush strokes surely cannot capture the elegance 

Of the things we hold dearly in life.

A word, a phrase, a sentence…

On its own, they are merely seemingly random combinations of those brush strokes.

But from her, words had colors, they had taste.

I love you:

How could these three words warm every atom and piece of stardust from which I am formed?

How then, can I feel her as if she is with me when I know hundreds of miles separate us?

Such a simple phrase that can be uttered by anyone, yet from her, it elicits more.

Strange, he thought, as he took another sip of her soul and read further.

I miss you:

Substitutes miss for love, this phrase, also eight letters,

A similar taste and sensation, but at the same time entirely unique and beautiful in its own sense.

All of the sweet, citrusy, summer time flavors that awaken his senses,

And remind him of starry sky’s, her long brown hair, and talks of dreams and the future.

This is the End:

A much darker taste, hints of bitterness, a touch of something he cannot quite place.

He reads it again, hoping to taste more. Surely, there must be more to this.

Her words used to be beautifully constructed as if she was a master chef

A classical composer feverously piecing together her life’s work into a symphony. 

Now he is empty, devoid of any emotions:

She has gone silent, nothing to taste.

No explosions of color like fireworks lighting the night sky.

No blasts from the horns, or gentle vibrations emitting from the orchestral pit.

He must now simply exist:

Exist as defined by those brushstrokes and not by its true meaning- its taste, its color, its warmth.

For to take away emotions from one whom thrives off their energy

Is to take away that which makes one whole.

                                                                   -CDP

Those words, written in such painful elegance, they remind me of the days when him and I used to just sit in my room and listen to music playing from an old boom-box. Those words, they remind me of the words he used to write when we were younger, back when we believed that one day love will find it's way back to Earth. And I like to think that it's still flying to us from the stars, making its way from the moon that once hung over our naive heads telling us that everything will be okay. But as of late, I just don't know what I believe anymore.  His words: stanzas of stolen dreams and metaphorical lies of love, I feel them dripping from our young hearts, and being caught by these older chests we wear so loosely today. 

Just the other night, him and I were jammin' to some tunes, sippin' a beer, and talking about life, and I swear, I don't know if it was just the alcohol or what, but I saw colors flying out from invisible music notes. Although one can only wish, I'm not saying I suffer from Synesthesia, but I sure as hell suffer from the adoration to love, and I know he does too. So, what I'm saying is, from the moment I met this dude, I then felt okay wearing this skin I was given. I felt okay feeling my heart, because he was one of the only people I had ever met who was also built with parts that are not of this hellish and empty Earth. 

And as for my own questions about my writing I mentioned earlier... I know I may have just went down memory lane for a bit, but like I said, the answers came easily when I met this young boy who would later become my brother:

1. I don't remember the moments that I first began writing; I'm almost positive I was given a pen in the womb, or in a past life. 

2. I truly started writing because I knew not how to do anything else. It is as if the words will not allow me to breathe unless they are released. 

3. I don't know if I've gotten better over the years, or maybe I've even gotten worse. I've learned that I write for much deeper reasons than to care about progression.

and for the most important:

4. My writing has changed a bit over the years, yes, what doesn't change? But the main focus of writing has never changed, and that is L O V E.... this goes all the way back to when I first showed Chris my poetry, and he has always told me, since that day, it's okay to write about love, because it will one day pay off. So, our words together, have always just been our sense of hope...

they are our religion. 

Hey Bonds, This One's for You Kid (another letter to Russ)

Dear Russ,

For starters, I just want to apologize for not writing to you in a while: I'm sorry, man, you know it ain't anything personal I hope. But anyway, just 'cause I haven't written about you in a while, please know I definitely haven't forgotten about you. How could I? Losing you has changed so many things in my life: How I look at the world. Where I wanna' be. What I wanna do... Losing you has changed me for the better, man. I know that sounds fucked up to some, but many people understand what I mean, so I'm not going to explain it. It's a sad thing though, just like I said in my last letter to you... it's so cliche', but it's also so true, sometimes it takes losing something to realize all the beautiful things it taught you. 

A lot has changed since you left, man. The boys and I moved down to the South Wedge area, and every night I just wish I could call you up and have you over for a beer or somthin'. You would like it down here too, it's way better than Greece, I swear. Living here has made me see a new beauty in Rochester. I also have you to thank for that though. I never told you, but the months leading up to your death, I spent my days in the library just writing and applying for jobs back down South and New York City. That should have been the number one sign that I was lost and had no idea what my next step was going to be (think about it, I was applying for jobs to live in two places that are completely different from one another? Let's just say I had no idea what I wanted to do, so running away to anywhere but here seemed like a good plan). But what I'm trying to say is, nothing made sense to me during those days. It was as if I was drifting through time without a sense of direction, or purpose. Then it all hit me, not on the morning when I got the call that you had died, but later that week when the boys and I were at your wake and funeral. The memory of those two days plays over and over in my head like a movie I wish I could just pause to go find a time machine, so that I could go back and try to save you. But that's not how life, or time itself works, and the irony in it, man, is that you saved me- you saved all of us, I think. 

I remember standing outside at your funeral. It was awful, yet beautiful. But when I looked around at all these people I grew up with crying, I realized you were speaking to me within the way the wind blew that day. I felt your voice telling me to stay here. I know it sounds crazy, and maybe I'm being a little dramatic (which I know you you're probably making fun of me, wherever you are), but I'm not lying when I say it was that day that would change my life forever. Losing you made me realize what really matters in life. So many people spend their dwindling days chasing dreams, or careers they think will make them happy. But not me anymore, man. That day, your voice whispered something to me about how I should never give up on my dreams, and finding a good job and stuff still matters, but at the end of the day, if you don't spend every waking moment with the people you love, then there is no point to this short life we are given. It was that day that I decided home is where I wanna' be. Here, in this place you and I spent so many times together in. You made me realize what life is all about. I always told myself that love, in the end, is the only thing that could make a person happy, and though I always questioned if I was insane for thinking it, you solidified my theory for me, man... and for that, I thank you. You saved me. 

Alright, before you knock me out from wherever the hell it is that you are, enough with all this emotional shit. I wanna' tell you something: this past weekend, I watched Cuse beat Duke in overtime (I know, fucking crazy, right? me watching a basketball game..weird), but when we were at the bar watching it, I couldn't help but think about if they had televisions where you are, or if maybe you were at the game walking around the stands. I even had this crazy thought that maybe you were hovering above the court, and the game was just a video game for you and you were the reason they won in overtime or somethin'. Sounds silly, but who fuckin' knows right? 

Also, while we're on the topic of sports that I don't like all that much, the boys and I joined an indoor soccer league... we named the team after you too. I hope you don't mind, but we're calling ourselves "EverRuss", and you better help us out out there, 'cause you know none of us are what we used to be when it comes to that athletic shit. I thought about you the other day too... Ponts, Wake, and I were at the Soccer Shack buyin' some turfs, and I had no idea which ones to pick out, lol. Hell, I didn't even know the difference between the women and men's, and I think I bought some unisex ones, but the colors are cool, lol. And while I'm on the soccer subject, I just wanted to tell you that I can't wait for the World Cup! I know you'll be out there covered in Red, White, and Blue screaming at the top of your lungs. I wish we could watch it with you...

Before I end this babble, I just wanted you to know that I still think about you everyday. I cry sometimes to my self when I think of you. It's weird though, I feel myself crying but it's like the tears don't come out. I think about that a lot too, how the days of your wake and funeral we all cried our eyes out... like fuckin' puddles came out from all our friends eyes... friends who I thought didn't even know how to cry. But I've been getting angry lately, not at you, or not at anyone else, but I don't understand death, man. It's like when someone passes away, you have a couple days to absolutely just lose yourself, and cry like crazy, but then the world just expects you to move on and try to go back to normal. You would agree with me too, I know you would. Why can't everyone just understand that things don't back to normal, they can't, because a once normal day is missing a piece that made it "normal," so why pretend that it's the same when its not. I promised myself that I would think about you everyday, and I won't move on like everything is going to simply be okay, but I will move on and grow old with your wings around me; because to me, this seems like a better way to live. I don't care what everyone else thinks. 

I'm not going to write another letter to you for a while, but today, I just wanna' let you know that I started something new: I'm gonna' write letters to you for the rest of my life- from time to time when these tears build up inside my body and I feel as if I can't breathe. I honestly think they're more for me, than they are for you, but wherever you are, I hope they somehow still reach you....

And I know if you do get them, you'll probably laugh and call me an emotional pussy, or a gay poet or something, lol. But I know, deep down, they'll reach your heart someday. Also, I never did this before, and you're really gonna' make fun of me for it, but I wrote a poem about you... I fuckin' love and miss you so much brotha'.

Love Always,

-The Omaha Kid

p.s. Here's that poem, bro. It's the first of many...

A Song That Will Never Die

He left this Earth to exist somewhere else:

a place where beautiful breaths don't have to end.

He left this place we called home,

to fly above us, or within our souls.

But I still see him, I still hear him, I still feel him,

here, standing next to us- and now we are never alone.

They say he left this Earth to go dance with God,

but I like to think he's dancing within our bodies,

stepping every step with us as we grow old.

I find him at the bottom of every bottle my liver breaks.

I find him in every exhale of smoke that leaves our lungs.

I find him dancing in everything we were ever were told 

not to dance with, but we moved so marvelously anyway.

He is a song that plays over and over in my head,

a song that cannot die like music that refuses to end.

Our friend. our Brother,

he fights my demons for me at night,

because his memory is stronger to me 

than everything I've refused to believe in:

He is our angel... He is my God

And no one can tell me that angels are people that have died,

'cause I feel him living in my heart: the only place that truly matters.

The Poet & The Liar

Words...
where do you come from,
and where will you go?
Will you ever mean something?
Will you ever be known?

Words...
are you from my heart,
or just from my head?
Are you going to be remembered
when all of this ends?

Words...
I know you have saved me,
and I know I'm alive,
but what will you be worth
if tonight I just died?

I've been writing since the early days of junior high, and I simply cannot explain how many various notebooks I have hidden under my bed, or all the ones I have burned because of what the pages scream from the inside. It's a funny thing, taking the time to alleviate your chest and scribble poems or confusing sentences onto loose-leaf, then just watching them turn to ash and blow away within the ways of the winds. It may seem unproductive to some, but you don't understand the relief of letting your thoughts fly into the air.

I haven't burned a poem in years, because I actually promised myself I would keep everything I ever write, and hold it close, hopefully 'til the days of my last breaths. I think this may allow for a more productive relief; a release of thoughts, but chaining them to be forever remembered in my heart. 

Although writing into hidden diaries has always been a brilliant escape from reality, as I grew up I realized that the last thing you ever want to do is escape from reality, rather express your thoughts of where the mind drifts, because someone may also feel that way too. Showing your work to world is what makes an artist real... or at least that's the way I've been feeling lately. 

Having said that, I feel like an absolute hypocrite!...'cause yes, I show as much work to as many people as I can, but there is always more out there that could feel the words I write, if only I would just balls' up and do it. I keep telling myself that I am a poet- an artist of words, but in the grand scheme of things, I am nothing more than that little boy I once was burning notebooks. It's time to be heard by everywhere, by everything, and to stop lying through my teeth when I say, "I am a poet". It's time to give these paragraphs a purpose. It's time to do more, to become something better. It's time to take everything I write and burn it into the atmosphere, but without the flames. No ash, no fading, no disappearing... just let it sink into those breaths so many are dying to take, right at the time when they think they cannot breathe anymore. 

I'm not saying I will ever amount to the words of Shakespeare, or be remembered along side that same darkness of Poe. I'm not saying I will ever write the beautiful choppiness of E.E. Cummings, nor will I ever even understand the words of Whitman, but I am saying is...

My words, they are true, from my heart and soul, stitched together like sweaters to keep you warm, because I know so deeply how cold life can become. It's time to stop claiming the glorious title of a Poet, and actually be heard. Then, maybe, just maybe... one day, I too, will be remembered...

...or at least, when all is said and done, have my words not be forgotten. 

96 (a new place to call home)

The snow fell that night,
a man sat thinking on a bench,
and I watched him fade away
into a beautiful white-out.

With my feet frozen stuck,
my body- somehow still warm,
I began to disappear too.

We both stared at each-other,
with gargoyle eyes and
slowly-cemented chests.

He told me about his life,
how he wouldn't rather
sit anywhere else...

in the whole entire world.

I'll save my breath and not waste your time with the tedious details about how it all went down, because it's not about how we ended up here, but more about what is to come; what is right up ahead. Plus, I don't really think I could explain to you how it all happened, everything just happened so fast, and now I find myself laying in a new bedroom at night. You'd think a switch-up of this magnitude would have helped my sleeping problems, but no, I still find myself writing poems with my eyes glued to that little clock that continues to read: 3:00 am. I title them "Insomnia", because I guess you could say it's merely fitting, right?

In an old city house that has five bedrooms, a very opened layout, and wooden floorboards that date back to before I was born, it's safe to claim that the nights up ahead will be far from silent. It's okay though, as I said before... I suck balls at the whole sleepin' thing anyway. Although I have fallen in love with this house its'self, I personally think I could share a box with the homeless person down the street, 'cause it's not about what I'm living in, it's about where I am living. Also, I like to think the homeless man has made that box his own- an old lamp from the antique store on Monroe possibly taped to the ceiling, some modern artwork tacked to the cardboard wall made from egg-cartons and spoiled milk jugs, and a message somewhere on his door in which was cut out using a broken rusty razor blade that the neighbor threw out when they realized that there actually is beauty out there somewhere. Sloppily scribbled in red colored pencil, the message will read: Will Work For Love... And Hope

I've quickly grown to realize why people have so much trouble leaving here- the homeless man and his cardboard castle... the statue of the man sitting in the tiny park up the street, on the corner of Alexander and South Avenue, it's not that they don't want to leave this area, it's just they simply cannot; it's much too breathtaking to risk not breathing again. Yeah, so what? I may or may not have just dramatized the description of the lives of two men I have never met, but you must understand, this street... it sings poetry every single day, every single night.

To my right side, there is a tattoo shop, and next to them is a coffee shop. Across the street there is a fairly new Mexican restaurant, and on Thursdays in our parking lot there is a farmers market; what more could you ask for? I can almost here the buzzing sounds of ink being forever pressed into so many different shades of skin, and at night, from the coffee shop, I can smell the strong burning scent of espresso being made. I love espresso too, the way it enters your body like a liquidated pinch of adrenalin. Although I cannot claim myself to be a Mexican food lover, I'm going to have to try it just because. And for the farmers market, I simply can't wait to go to every stand and buy the freshest fruits and veggies. Speaking of farmers, why don't they get paid more for what they do? Without them, we would starve. They should seriously stop production one year, just so we could all know what the homeless man feels like on every brisk night when only he and the moon sit down for dinner and imagine  what it's like to slice dollar bills with golden forks. I feel as if it is difficult to cut loose-change in half with plastic silverware, don't you?

But besides the fact that this location is simply wonderful because of all the amazing businesses around, it's the natural ambiance that truly gets me. Just the other night, I walked up and down the street as the first snowfall of the year touched my body, and everything just made sense during that moment. Have you ever felt reality in the form of a snowflake? Though it may appear solid and freezing, it's still hollow enough dream at the same time. I haven't exactly felt a wintry cold Rochester in quite sometime, but something about the other night, it just overcame my soul. I walked up and down this winter-wonderland like a child, throwing snowballs at nothing, staring at trees that looked like Christmas; I just walked with no destination, no purpose, and it felt nothing short of liberating.

I'm going to love this place, I just know it... and maybe one day, just maybe, I too will freeze myself to death every night, or turn to stone, just so nothing can make me move away. 

I Live in a World of Legos' and Love

This morning, I awoke to the sounds of nothing, and I now believe that silence can eat away at my dreams far worse than any alarm can make them disappear. But it was what it was, and today is what it is, and I think it's going to be a great day for some reason... at least that's what my sheets told me as I left them, though lonely they laid. 

I went outside earlier than normal, so early that the day was still letting go of the night. It's an interesting thing though, aint' it? you know, the darkness becoming daylight. I understand it scientifically,  but I can't help but always wonder who actually lets go of who? Does day let go of night, or does night let go of day? I like to think the moon is control, but that's just me. 

I saw my breath leave my lips three times before I had the chance to gaze the snow this morning. The barely covered blades of grass somehow still looked like Christmas to me, and I went to the fireplace to search for presents from years before. I found wonderful memories and also a couple swords that were just never real enough to stab out my eyes. I also thought about how badly I wished I still believed in Santa, because for some reason today I wanted to venture a fireplace with him and risk burning. How exhilarating it must be.

I keep yawning, and my eyes feel like they're mad at me for opening them. I guess I may have woke up too early today huh? But that's what happens to me when I go to sleep before 1:00 am, I cannot sleep through the night. I can tell though, I am not exactly all there at the moment. After all, I did just briefly mention risking burning alive in a chimney with a make believe man who brings us presents every year and somehow can eat cookies at every house he goes to. Plus, they say the human body cannot even handle consuming that much milk. I liked it better when I didn't know anything. 

Iv'e been trying to figure out what I'm writing about for about an twenty minutes now, but I think I finally understand where I'm going with this one (oh yeah, by the way, I had no intentions of even writing this morning), but anyhow... I believe it's about how I think today is wonderful, mainly because I felt the need to feel air no matter how brisk it made my chest feel. I think today is wonderful because it's not yesterday, as in I had the glory of seeing another day. I think today is wonderful, because there is a tomorrow- I hope.

But if doesn't come for some reason, I'd just like to say that I learned one of the most precious lessons today when I sat at that fireplace and thought back to when I was just a little boy. "Little boy", that's a funny statement, because my limbs haven't longed for much more since those days, but my heart...my heart, fuck... that thing has gotten far to big, so big It nearly hurts from all it holds. Then there is my mind, not the deep depths of my soul type mind, actually like my brain- the part where I have attempted to store everything I've learned over the years. But what I learned today is that I hate my brain so much, yet I love my soul (...they are far different). To be naive again is how we fly, so I think this year I'm going to leave cookies and milk out again in hopes they disappear. 

Knowledge is nothing but a curse to imagination. Reality is my dreams worst enemy... And this fireplace, I think I'm going to burn anything that's ever attempted to rot my soul, but I'll keep everything that lives in my heart, though it heavily weighs against my chest. The air brisk within it, but beautiful it will become.

Dear Rochester... I Love You.

It's not exactly easy for me to say what I am about to tell you, mainly because I am one of the most stubborn people I know, but anyway...

There once was a time where I was gazing out at the Atlantic, Miss Atlantic, and I would watch the way the waves would fold over with no acknowledgment of what lied in their path. It was a reckless journey to say the least. But while I watched these white-tips turn over and smash into the areas of the sand where its particles were always caught in a war between breathing or drowning, I would find myself kicking up sand castles just to watch them disappear into the backdrop of a burning Southern sun, where birds would fly freely with no clouds above. It was perfect, so perfect, that at the time I truly believed I never wanted to live in Rochester again... you know Rochester, that little place I sometimes called home, you know, when I wasn't too busy attempting to pretend it held no beauty. 

So, this is the part that is difficult for me to admit, but it needs to be said: I'm starting to think I want to live here for the rest of my life, you know, call this place home, like it always has been since the first day I left my mothers womb. Having said that, do not twist my words, which people so often enjoy doing when they don't truly understand something. I am not saying I am done traveling, or seeing different places, I am merely explaining that I am ready to tell you that this is the next chapter of my life, and I truly believe it's meant to begin and end here, you know, in this little place I should have always called home. But let me explain why...

I recently had the glory of seeing Fall for the first time in four years. I know what you're probably thinking: What do you mean, see Fall? You have definitely seen Fall in the past four years Michael! And although you are mostly correct, because I have seen it, mainly from a distance, driving through different states and what-not, this doesn't mean I have SEEN it. To me, a season where the leaves slowly change, you cannot truly appreciate the process of a once green leaf changing from reddish-orange to yellow from a distant passing in a car. Honestly, you may have a better chance of  catching the day turn into night (you remember that, when we were younger, how we always wanted so dearly to catch the magnificent moment when light would become dark, or sun would become moon... a complicated process far beyond the simplistic measures of claiming nightfall). 

Also, I am looking forward to Winter this year, which is another difficult thing for me to admit, primarily because if you're from Rochester you know how bad the snow can pile up here. But after all these years, I've learned something about Winters here, it's not the snow nor the brisk air that makes cold months ironically a burning hell, it's the people that have forgotten the beauty behind the changing of seasons. It's astonishing how easily influenced we are by the weather... it's amazing how weak we all become too, as if our bodies become so brittle, we act like we all hang like icicles from a porch just waiting to fall and break, and shatter like pointless glass that never served a purpose. You see that right there? That was over-dramatizing a situation. It's similar to when you act like a complete selfish asshole and bitch about brushing off your car in the morning or shoveling a walkway for three months out of the whole year. You know, being over dramatic about a minor task you need to do when there is far greater things to worry about. But I'm not just talking about certain people, almost all of us are guilty of this. 

Speaking of dramatizing something, I don't want to overdo this one, so please allow me a moment  to conclude what I'm trying to say:

What it comes down to is simple... in the air, I need change. I need the ground to challenge my feet on some days. I enjoy that not every morning is the same here, and as much as I'd like to murder the rain, without a storm how is their every sunny days? Since I've been home, I'm beginning to remember how good feeling every season change is for the heart, because I believe the process of them changing keeps our beats fresh, in sync with our soul- that thing we so often forget that is more important than our eyes and skin. Don't get me wrong, letting my body burn in the hot sun everyday overlooking the ocean is beautiful and all, but that too can become repetitive. Plus, I don't want to get too much into it, maybe some other time, but the truth is it is not the place, it's the people. You could stand in the sand and look out into any ocean all you'd like, but if you don't have someone next to you that you love and have known for your whole life to turn to and explain how beautiful it is, the waves then don't crash the same, if you know what I mean. 

If you keep up with these, then you know that I usually begin them with a little poem... this one I did not. This is because when I was walking around outside this morning at roughly 6:30 am after falling asleep at 5:00 am ( yup, nothings changed, my sleeping habits are still fuckin' crazy), I wrote poetry in this Rochester air with my breath...and it went something like this:

I cannot breathe 

without the burning of leaves,

I cannot see without the snow.

I need to see the seasons change,

and I'm beginning to believe

that I need this home.