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.
