I Can’t Let Go

Author: Fedo Copyright © 2007
Blog: Annals of a Space Cowboy
Location: USA

I can never let go. I seem to be unable to let go of anything I’ve held on to dearly; people, time, space, not even words, which are supposed to be inert in nature to begin with. You know something’s wrong when you can’t let go of something that is supposed to be dead. Each one of us has been dealing with words since birth, but do we really fully understand them? Some of us are really good with them. Others just can’t seem to say the right things. During our early childhoods we used words simply for survival. “Water,” “mama,” “baba,” and “potty” constituted our initial vocabulary database.

We grow up and begin experiencing different feelings of anguish, jealousy, envy, greed, joy, and anarchy. Further into our development we begin experiencing certain levels of hostility and violence. We get into school fights to position ourselves within the social hierarchy of our network of peers. We eventually outgrow those. That is when we start becoming aware of our sexuality; a girl with a crush refusing to succumb to it, a boy being mean to a girl he secretly likes. After all, all these sensations are new and we don’t know how to manage them. What is to become?

We reach our late teens and begin relating those feelings to lust and desire. We learn about “love.” We love for the first time. We begin making attempts at poetry and verse. We begin listening to bubbly ballads and pop love songs in privacy; no one wants others to see them in their moments of surrender and weakness. We get our hearts broken once, and from there on, we begin finding ourselves. We listen to different music, we watch different movies, we don’t watch the same TV shows and cartoons, we eat different foods, we say new things, and we think differently, even our feelings are altered indefinitely. The changes from here on are most dramatic and vast. This is my speculation. What is to become is beyond me; I’m just 21 years old. All I know is…

I can’t let go.

Exile

Author: Fedo Copyright © 2006
Blog: Annals of a Space Cowboy
Location: USA

I was completely oblivious to this. When I first set foot in this star-spangled realm, I never really paid much attention to the dirt on my feet. It seeped right through my heels, penetrated my skin, and found its calling in my bloodstream. Now it exudes with every arrogant breath I take. I’ve assimilated. I claim to be different, but am I really? Am I brainwashed? This is what happens when you find out that home is not where you belong; it’s just wrong.

They like me here, but not too well. They tolerate, but never accept. They see, but don’t recognize. So far, it seems like I’m an entity that is not bounded by a category or a generalization, yet I abide by the rules of dumb. Only God knows what I go through; seriously, he’s the only one. My iPod, my laptop, my bed, my wardrobe, my pen, my brain; I’m not the same. What should I do? Should I continue to stay suspended between the two? I’m jetlagged both ways, and culture-shocked every single day.

And I see home in the eyes of females. They keep me sane and in school.

Feeling like Crap after a Nap

Written by: Fedo (USA) Copyright © 2006

I wake up. What? What time is it? What day? What year? Oh, now I remember. I swing the door open, go to the bathroom, and lean on the sink. I look up and start to think. Why did I walk in here in the first place? I walk out. I sit on the exhausted couch in the living room. Roommate shows up. We have a casual conversation. Why are you laughing? Oh, I’m in nothing but a pair of boxers. So what? I open laptop. I slam laptop shut. I look for remote, but give up sooner than I thought. Roommate leaves. I wear a t-shirt and pair of shorts, reach for my cigarette pack and lighter, grab my lawn chair, and walk to the front door.

I lethargically unfold the chair and post it on the ground. I sit down. I pull one out, light it, and take a drag. Just then, the reasons why I smoke are justified once again; unlike people, it’s there whenever I need it. People are walking down the stairs. I seem to be a novelty to them. I can sense them already formulating a stereotype under which they want to label me. I squint, take another drag, and go back to being passive, empty, irrational, and indifferent.

I’m too lazy to even think about… stuff. So I stay blank. Substance? No thanks. No ID, no real achievements, no goals or hopes whatsoever, and definitely no meaning or feelings. This is what it did to me. I had to find out the hard way; “friends,” “love,” “success,” “justice,” all relative, all words we came up with to give ourselves a false sense of worth and/or belonging. I chose not to believe in them anymore way back when they all seemed to make some -if any- sense. I’m done explaining myself. Tired of being “out there.” Maybe I should just keep whatever I have to say to myself. It’s safer that way for you and me. So let it be.

I take the last drag, flick the thing to the ground, step on it, and go back in. Sorry, but you’re staying “out there;” you’re not coming back in with me. It’s for the best, trust me.

You can keep it up for a while, but in the end, you’ll eventually get sick of playing pretend.