This Xanga is a big part of me. Approaching my Xanga is always a little different each time I come back. I want to write about this or I want to write about that but in the end, I rarely do since they're usually fleeing thoughts; I write a few sentences and I drop it and decide to just check Facebook. That's where my daily mumblings belong. To me, they've never belonged here. This Xanga, it's an odd thing. It is completely useless to me yet I keep it and cherish it. It's a photo album I keep in my dusty attic. I pull it out every so often to reflect on me. When I look through these "pictures," all I look for is an old me and all I find is an old me. Each "picture" is tied to an event in my life when I learned something, thought something, or found something in me. This Xanga, it's a trip into my past and sometimes it's the mile marker for my development, maturity, or just change. It's the yellow brick road where an old me found courage, or an old me found heart. I've always lacked a brain.
I have kept this for so long so I could learn about myself and see how I've developed, matured, changed, whatever you want to call it. This Xanga, it's an odd thing. It doesn't work in only one way. As much as I like to see how the pieces of my life have come together, I always find them staring right back at me. How would this old me view me right now? I like to come back to this when life is complicated and my thoughts are jumbled. How would this old me figure this out? And no matter how far I go, five years, two years, whenever, there's always the same message emanating from my old "pictures."
It's nice to come back to my roots. There are some things in life I don't ever want to lose.
I will instinctively check out your shoes. I don't really think about it, it just happens. I like when I can name your shoes as you walk by. Nike Dunk there. Vans Old Skool here. Oooh, nice colorway on those Adidas Samba!
But it's all so disappointing for me. I want to greet you and tell you how I feel, how your shoes are entertaining my day, how I may wish to ask you where you bought them so I can go buy them too... It's so disappointing because I can't go up to you; I have to fight that so very strong urge to compliment you.
Why do I feel so much pressure to not talk to you? To not let you know how much I enjoyed your shoes? It's not hurtful, it's a compliment I am sure you would enjoy. And yet, at the same time, I know that your instinctive reaction is to label me and that moment, 'awkward' or even worse, 'creepy'. I guess, in the end, you wouldn't enjoy it, because you'd rather judge me a weirdo than take it as an honest compliment, from an innocent perspective.
But then I think of all the talk about making someone's day, about staying positive, and spreading the cheer. I hear about all those "heroic" stories of people who are touches of happiness to everyone they know. I think to myself, maybe I am one of those people. In this moment, I can be one of those people. And then I'm reminded of all the times my group of friends rips on people they don't know, and I think of all the times I eavesdrop just to hear someone judge "that kid" that just so happened to walk by. And I remember, for all my intentions of being a good person, the loads of judgment I spit about you, passersby.
In my compliment, I am the passerby to you passersby. I put myself in your shoes (oh, your lovely shoes!). I am the one being judged, and no longer the person judging. What would you think of me? A stranger, with nothing else to do but check out your shoes. What else have I been judging? How long have I been staring? Why is it you that I compliment? Is it really your shoes that I like?
I see it now. I cannot compliment you. It's too dangerous because the risks are too high. Because you and me are so programmed to prejudice, and I feel so stripped of my personality to be judged this way.
Society teaches me to be nice to you, passersby, to make you happy and spread my joy to you. And yet, you don't allow it; you make it awkward, and you make it difficult. You are society though, why the contradiction? Why the hypocrisy?
Life is like this piece. It doesn't know where it's going, and it doesn't know what it's supposed to be. It grows as it goes; the more that's written, the more detailed it becomes. What comes before makes what comes next. Every sentence is a further development of thought based upon the previous sentence. The next thought is randomized, from a seed of a writer. Every word, like a puzzle piece's edges, is random. In the beginning, the possible words to use are many; any word can help the piece. With each word though, the potential of the next one can only be less vague. You can do anything at the start of the piece, like, add conjunctions to add new ideas to an existing one, and add some emotion with sm:)es. The possibilities are endless. But, as I conclude, the potential is drained, the everything is to be summed up. There's nothing new here. And though the puzzle pieces are individually random, at the end, the reader realizes each random piece was placed with purpose. The puzzle takes shape, and we realize those edges weren't fit randomly: they were all meant to come to this point, to show this beautiful image. Life is like this puzzle.
Every couple weeks or so, there's a new post about how people immaturely or prematurely use the "L" word. The prominent reasoning is that using the "L" word is immature because the person using it generally doesn't have a clear understanding of what the "L" word encompasses. Either it's that the person is too young/inexperienced or the person doesn't know his/her SO long enough to be able to understand what love is, or simply both.
While I do not deny the possibility that one doesn't know his/her SO well enough for such little time to be able to make such a statement, I completely disagree with the thought that age or experience defines the "L" word. I used it when I was 14, and I don't regret it. I still use it today, if the situation deems it worthy.
A couple years ago, my friend told me, "you're 17 now, you have no idea what love is." So, tell me, wise man, what is love?
I guarantee you that wise man will have no better answer than what my 14 year old self has. Although his answer may entail more relationship aspects or perhaps have more sound reasoning, he does not know love. At the very least, he cannot know my love.
Love, like everything else in the relationship realm, is relative (beauty, attraction, chemistry, you name it). When I'm 22, 28, or even 44 (hopefully with a wife), I will still have no definition of what love is. At what age does one suddenly have a clear understanding of love? At what age does one definitively start using it correctly? Oh, if only love were that convenient.
When I tell you "I love you," I mean, "as far as I know in my life, from my experiences, what I feel for you is beyond my own comprehension, and I can only imagine that it is love." So, when I said it at 14, I meant, "as far as I know, what I feel for you is love." When I say it now, I take into account my new understanding through experiences, and I mean, "as far as I know, what I feel for you is love." A dictionary definition will not dam my emotional river, and if my river flows passionately, then the word "like" will not suffice.
Is my theory of relativity far-fetched? Are my views too idealistic? Or do you agree that the "L" word is relative and determined on the experiences and analysis of the user?
I am standing next to the counter and my hands barely skim the top of the counter. Mom always says, "You can only eat one cookie a day, Chi Chi." I don't care; I want another one. My arms start to ache, so I sit back on the floor to rest. Pouting, arms tired, all I can think about are those cookies.
I get back up and reach once again. I get on my tippy toes. I think my toenails are the only things touching the ground at this point. I am blindly swiping my hands at nothing. I claw at air. I want a cookie now! NOW! I have to have it now! My toes start to hurt, so I sit back on the floor to rest. Pouting, toes hurting, all I can think about are those cookies.
I know! I'll hop on my toes! With this ingenius idea, I get back up and try yet again. I get on my tippy toes, and prepare my hands to swipe really fast. 1... 2... 3... I extend my toes, jump, and swipe in the most coordinated fashion a 6 year old can possibly handle. SLAM! The cabinet knob pegs me in the chest, I fall backward and hurt myself. My whole body hurts, so I lie there on the floor to heal. Pouting, arm bleeding, all I can think about are those cookies.
My mom hears the commotion and hurries to the kitchen. "Are you alright? Are you alright?" she repeats. I show her my arm with a facial expression pretty much begging for care. She wipes the blood away and quickly gets a band-aid for me. I wear it with pride. I play in the living room for awhile, just thinking about how awesome I am wearing a Power Rangers band-aid. My mom comes back from the kitchen with a cookie in her hand, "You can have two today."
Reach. Reach for what you want. Don't be afraid. Because, even if you don't get what you want, what you get is exactly what you need.
