Half a Step at a Time

You know, the world is ever changing, yet it stays the same. Decades go by, but the human spirit remains. 

One thing that is new is all the feelings one discovers on his own.

No matter how many times that feeling has spun around the world, it's still new to that person. 

And by feeling I don't only speak of the feeling of love, or it's opposite, but any feeling that resides in between. 

The world is ever-lasting and many things come and go, but those innate feelings don't go away. No matter the background or the common ground, those feelings have no language or creed. 

But for one to overcome such innate feelings, that person has to confront the truth, the inevitable. One has to accept what is lost, or at times what is gained. One has to let the world sit in front of him, dissecting every passing bit, but without the finest tooth comb. Compassion, if possible, should lead the way. Because many feelings might not bring out the best emotion in a being, but with empathy comes understanding. And with understanding comes rest. The Beatles beautifully said:

"And when the broken hearted people Living in the world agree There will be an answer, let it be For though they may be parted There is still a chance that they will see There will be an answer, let it be."

http://rudyfrancisco.bandcamp.com/album/scotch-tape-ep

If you were to find an old calendar, strap it to a hospital bed, tie it down by its weekends and then C section the belly of 1999 you'd find... a seventeen year old version of me. Back when I was a tsunami of awkward moments splashing against the shoreline called rashelle moss. A young lady who introduced my jaw to the floor whenever she flaoted into our first period classroom. This girl was a dandelion seed stradeling a wish, she was a dream I never thought would turn flesh, and grin but wire hangers like me. Let's just say we don't become captain of the football team, the only thing we are good at is stopping ourselves from saying I like you to a girl that holds the remote control to our smiles. We are blurry silhouettes against the backdrop of popular. Often wearing our skin like a costume of someone we didn't feel comfortable pretending to be anyways. We swallow earthquakes and then tremble at the smell of perfume. We are bashful, tong tied, and we are nervous in high definition.  So the question is if a boy falls for a girl that's out of his league and there's no one around him to hear him does he make a sound? the answer is hell and the first two letters of nothing. When I was a senior in high school I was a pocket full of chalk dust, I was elevator music on a CD that stuttered like a volkswagon with a really bad transmission. At this age, I was a ballot box stuffed full of everyone's opinions expect for my own. My swagger was like watching a walkman trying to swallow a DVD.

At this age, I walked as if I was concerned with how the ground would feel about my footsteps. And if could just find a way to write a letter to that boy who was an old sweater with itchy sleeves that I will someday grow out of. I would say, I would say I would say there will be days when you will feel like peacock with no feathers, you will feel flightless and undeserving of attention. 

But listen, listen to me listen, you have to stop getting out of bed like you were an oil spill. You're not a flat tire at 2 am, so stop acting like an accident. You are an apple on a pine tree in a room full of lemons. And you come from a long line of swiss army pocket knives: men who are small, sharp, and dangerous when not handled carefully. Somedays I wish that my arms were 12 years long so I could reach all the way back there, grab you by the shoulders, punch you in the chest and say listen, listen to me listen: You are the main character in a movie that I watch every time I see the inside of my eyelids. I told myself a million times that I wouldn't spoil the ending, but I will tell you this: your story starts off... really slow. But it does get better. You don't have to believe me, someday you will see for yourself. 

And when you see Rachel Moss at the senior prom, ignore the washing machine in your stomach. Tell her that she looks beautiful tonight, extend your arm like a drawbridge to a castle that no one has visited in years.

CLOTILDE: I had to hear it from my husband.You didn’t even tell me.

GEORGES: I will not be stopped, Clotilde. I will marry her.

CLOTILDE: You’re just one of them, after all.Just another selfish, brutal man. Just another thief.

GEORGES: No.

CLOTILDE: It’s not enough to be loved. You must be a king. It is not enough to be loved.