enfin's reality

and what comes after, we don’t know

joey c. don’t mess with me

so it’s been exactly nine months since my father passed away.  it’s easy for me to say that it feels like no time has passed, and it’s also easy for me to say that over the past nine months i’ve had my ups and downs.  his passing didn’t hit me until November and every month it gets progressively worse.  this month though… i’m not sure.  i am filled with a deep sadness, but perhaps because i’ve been thinking about what comes after life lately i’m a bit preoccupied with curiousity rather than ruefulness.  i wish he hadn’t passed, and i’m sure anyone who has experienced a tragedy like losing a parent to a freak accident can and will attest to what i just said.

for the first time in my entire life though, i feel like i know him… even though i really don’t.  i see where my sarcasm stems from, where my love of hardcore rap, the 80s, and good literature originated from.  i’ve learned of his abusive childhood, of his beautiful handwriting, of his mistakes, and his triumphs.  i forgave him before he died, and i’m glad i did. its difficult to say that i don’t feel guilty, and i know that i had nothing to do with his death, how i had no way to prevent it. but i still wish i could have apologized to him and told him that even though his mistakes were mistakes i forgave him.  i regret not speaking my mind, simply because life is too short, and with that, from this day forward, my mind will be spoken, and i won’t hold back.  he’s taught me that vivacity is key, being frank and upfront is necessary, and sugarcoating is just another way of beating around the bush.  i wish he were here to see me graduate, to see me live life, to see cole enter high school and move onto college.  i wish i wish i wish. but wishes never come true. here are a few things that are dedicated to him:

someone told me that my dad gave them the best present they ever received. he got them their dog, their best friend, their companion.  another person told me that joey c used to bring them thanksgiving dinners when they had to work the late shift on thanksgiving.  he seemed like a guy of giving… just to his friends and not to cole or me.  perhaps he was scared he’d mess us up like his father messed him up.  i’m really glad that he shared cooking with me though, because that’s one thing i’ll never grow tired of! someday…someday i hope to meet him again. and who knows when that day will come.  all i know is that i miss him dearly, and i know he’s with me when i need him,

enfinlove (oh and enfin needs some support)

enfin's reality, writing

i’ll keep an eye on you if you’ll keep one on me

they walk by me like i don’t even exist. its heart-breaking to most… i feel as though im treated rarely like a human. and i suppose that’s all i want. along with a type-writer, but that can wait. i want some praise in my life, but then again i don’t. i don’t really feel like  i need validation, but there are points, like today, where i just want someone laudare.  the taste of black coffee is always stuck in my mouth. today i was turned away by several people. and i have things i want to say to each. thus, i composed the following letters to each person. because im unable to confront most, there name’s are omitted.

letter one

i don’t know why you’re scared to be with me. as friends. did you read a notebook of mine? did you read my poetry? did you think it went to you? well… it’s not addressed to you, now is it? and does not have anything to do with you- believe it or not. you’ve only once caused a stream of emotions to trickle through my ice cold heart. and that was quite sometime ago. recently, i see you for who you are. someone who thinks that if they don’t meet their standards, are destined for failure. you were shrouded with this sense of perfection when i first began hanging out with you.  too bad its all gone now. i can see right through you. i can hear your thoughts. and i know your excuses like i know congress street. deal with it. and if you want to lie, y’better know i’ve memorized all the lies in the book.

letter two

we’re both flakes, and that’s completely acceptable. i always hate being the sole flaky one in any relationship, so that’s why i can accept your excuses. not to say that i’m glad with them half the time, because i think you’re the bee’s knees and that’s why i like spending time with you. if you were honest with me, instead of coming up with excuses, i’d be okay with it! believe me! i would be. especially for you because you’re sweet as a button.

letter three

i feel as though sometime in the near future we’ll walk by one another on the street and we won’t share a single word with each other. that’s not how family is supposed to act. you think you hold yourself with poise, but your insecurities are eating you up. and i see it. they’re like parasites, they’re starting at the crown of your head and soon enough they’ll reach the tip of your toes. we used to be very close… just like family should be. i haven’t “heard” from you in a year. in front of important people, like your friends and your mom, you act as though you love me. maybe you do. you should. through thick and thin, we’ll always be family. you taught me that. i know i may have hurt your feelings multiple times over the course of the past year, but when i use friendly words you don’t respond. with every excuse i use to get to you, i’m shut down. i didn’t know you could be this cold. i don’t wait forever, and this isn’t just your tragedy. he’s gone for me and cole too. so pull yer shit together, and be there for us. because we’re hurting too. the world doesn’t revolve around just one person. the longer you wait, the harder it will be to get through to me.

letter four

i miss you so much! you’re my best friend and i can’t get over how close we’ve become over the past three years. i look forward to coming home daily just to be with you, whether or not our time is spent in a quality way! we’re very different people, but we’re very similar. my roots to you will always remain firm. i suppose almost all of my anxiety stems from the fear of losing you. i know you’ve said that all along, but its taken me sometime to admit it. i’m proud to call you my best friend, and my A.

letter five

i hate long distances for this main reason. i can’t see yer face daily. i suppose the distance though is for the best. space gives us time apart, which ultimately makes our time together much better than it would be if you lived with me. although that will happen soon enough. i’ve already poured my heart out to you multiple times, and you know how much i appreciate you and everything you do. i apologize for all the wrongs i’ve done unto you (whether you’re aware of them or not). you’re my best friend and i can never take you for granted. i can’t wait to see yer pretty little face en avril.

letter six

i avoid you now. sort of. avoiding reasons to talk with you because of the fear that i’ve recently acquired. you speak to me… in one way or another. its always been apparent to me that everyone has so much more than would appear. and i knew, upon meeting you, a few years back, that you were one person who hid behind this layer of mystery. being let into your mind, i’ve been given new perspective. i’ve received comprehension, and i feel human again. i know these are things you probably don’t want to hear, but for fear that life is infact too short, i thought i’d let it out again. i don’t know how to even convey what i want to say to you. i don’t want to be judged, but i want to be heard. and that’s why i find you to be… absolutely extraordinary. but along with that comes your fickleness, and perhaps your egotism. any relationship needs to be 50 50 and thus far, it has been. my worry though, is that soon it will be 75 25. and i hate dealing with those sorts of things. i don’t doubt that you’d stop that from happening, and i hope it never comes to that, because i appreciate you, oh so much.

letter seven

i just feel bad about everything i’ve done. my drama isn’t yours to deal with, and i pin it on you. i can’t even look at you anymore. i haven’t muttered a single word of kindness since before january 30th to you. you were the one person that could cheer me up. and that respected my wishes and listened to me when i threw fits and tantrums. i’m sure i’ve burnt whatever we had to the ground, in one of my wreckless moments.  believe it or not, its hard for me to contain my actions sometimes. unfortunately, i chose to do what i’ve done to you. i’d be..so grateful if you understood where i was coming from, just once more, and then we could take the final plunge into what was a very worthwhile friendship from the start of it last year.

to all recipients: enfinlove.

Uncategorized, writing

the book that changed everything

my words are methodically printed on the sheets of this moleskine.  each letter constructed with exact precision.  my secrets are engraved with permanance, my thoughts go unscrutinized by the covers, my aspirations are announced.  sketches of the world around me lay within the boundaries of my journal.  secret messages that i am unable to communicate are enscribed, the possibility that perhaps someday i will be able to mumble these messages to those they are written for remain intact.  my moleskine is home to the inner catacombs of my mind.  tumbling and spiraling thoughts, that tower to the highest point of thought that exists in my psyche.  its waiting to be read…waiting to be explored, but as the author, i am not able to describe what lays beneath the red bound leather covers.  many a times, i’ve imagined losing it, imagined losing my one constant companion.  i’ve realized that if i did end up losing it, and someone found it, read it, and hypothesized about me, then they would, without a doubt, know a great deal more, about its author, than i do.  and of course, i am the author.  i know little about myself, about my inner-workings.  i think i know what makes me tick, what makes me smile, but there are those instances where the sound of a cat hissing, instead of making my head whirl, makes me at ease.  my pre-conceived knowledge about myself is erased constantly and rapidly.  for days at a time, i think i know myself, but the next week i’m in a state of uncertainty.

recently the thoughts going through my mind have circumnavigated around the notion of losing my notebook intentionally.  hoping the right person picks it up, takes it home, and reads it in their dimly lit room, surrounded by tokens of their past, by four walls regulating their lives, by menacing recycled air, and by the sounds of the world where absolute silence does not exist.  this person, the finder of my moleskine, sorts through it, decodes my thoughts, my jargon, my wit, my truths.  they know me without knowing me.  a spark of interest is ignited, and they’re enticed to learn more.  i lay at home in distress, wondering where, oh where could my moleskine be? who has it? and what do they know? but distressed is not the proper word.  its a persona, a phase i go through.  acting one way, when i really am not experiencing those emotions at all.  my therapist tells me that i’m a romantic.  she adds that she also believes i like expressing myself in a variety of ways- one of which is making myself appear mysterious.  creating all these different layers for the “real me” to hide beneath.  for different people, i appear in different ways.  the “real me” is shown to the rare few, and never shown through actual conversation.  the “real me” is expressed through minor actions, and through prose.  those who have witnessed the “real me” can and shall attest to that.

the first time i tried to lose my moleskine was unsuccessful.  i was sitting in a stuffy classroom, that was engulfed by the lights of the fluorescent gods.  chatter was scattered sporadically throughout, knowledge was being hindered rather than facilitated.  it was a dry day in the middle of october.  the guiolltine windows were open, sounds from the construction company working on the building adjacent to the public establishment bellowed in, thus becoming the soundtrack to my day.  my history teacher, a stout italian man, flipped through his notes anxiously.  brow furrowed, mustache loitering, words were anything but omnipresent.  my neighbor whispered to me, motioning at their almost blank quiz, suggesting i give them the answers.  looking down unto my crisp piece of loose leaf paper, i too, hadn’t recorded the answers.  my shoulders shrugged in an almost apologetic manner.  my neighbor sighed disappointedly, and i began working promptly on the quiz.  my right hand gripped my ticonderoga pencil loosely, and my left hand steadily kept my piece of paper in place.  within a few minutes, after my hand was long tired, i refrained from finishing.  only two questions were left.  both of which i knew the answers to.  what had caused this sudden refusal to work? the mocking sound of the analog clock, had appeared louder than it was supposed to.  my eyes drifted up the wall to the clock which was adorned in a minimal way, what with just numbers, tick marks, and three hands.  my teacher cleared his throat, unaware of my short pause in time, and i continued onward to complete my exam.  shortly after i passed my quiz up the row along with two other quizzes that belonged to the folks sitting behind me.  fifteen minutes remained in class, and my teacher announced that we could begin our homework assignment.

instead of reading our history text, i took out my moleskine, and began writing a poem that i had started the evening before.  the ink flowing out of my pen worked at the same rate as the words emanating out of my mouth.  everything fit together in a satisfactory manner, i felt as though i had just written a poem just as good as any of Longfellow’s, but of course that wasn’t the case.  my serenity was interrupted by a fellow student inquiring what i was working on.  i retored, that i wasn’t working on anything that would matter to him, and he chuckled nervously.  his eyes surveyed my face, picking up hints of sorrow and hints of irritability.  will you ever let me read your poetry? he inquired, either genuinely or mockingly (still to this day i am unable to say which) and to this i responded coldly that i don’t share my writing with just anyone.  this comment of mine had hurt him, so much in fact, that he began to resemble a dog licking his wounds.  i began to regret what i had said, but being the exemplary capricorn that i am, apologies were not in my nature.  i began to pack up my stuff in my green shoulder bag, wedging my US History Book, published by Amsco, between my Honors Biology Book and my Honors Latin Prose Guides.  My ticonderoga rested tucked behind my ear, and my mobile phone was checked, in regards of whether or not i had received a text message all day.  i had not.  on my desk remained my moleskine and my water bottle.  the teacher shouted over the gossip of his pupils that the homework was due next class and to make sure to review for the section test.  no one but me heard his announcement.  he began to add something else, but the bell cut him off.  the majority of the class flowed out of his room, but a few remained.  i remained inside, solely to put my jacket on, and to avoid the rush.  others remained inside to discuss their mediocre grades, and explain why they were unable to pass in the homework due next class.  i lauged at what i heard, but i gathered my bag and water bottle and began to leave the room.  i subconciously knew that my journal was not on my person, but, i suppose i didn’t want to admit that to myself at the time.  i walked through the curved corridor, making my way to the main stairs.  the hallways were deserted, partially because it was a friday, and partially because school was over.  scrap pieces of paper, and graded assignments were littered across the floor- very typical for my high school.  as i started to make my way down the main corridor, to the main set of stairs, i heard the pitter patter of feet gaining speed and proximity to where i was currently located.  the hindered breath was resounded about the hallway, and i turned around, all to find the boy, who had inquired about my poetry, running towards me.  in his hand, was my moleskine.  i had hoped, secretly, that he would have found it, brought it home, read it, and delievered it to me on monday.  hey, you forgot your notebook in class he huffed, mustering up enough strength to speak.  i asked if he had looked at it, while i grabbed it out of his freckle dotted hand.  he shook his head no, and added that he respected what i told him, about only a select few are able to read my work.  i looked at him bewildered as to why he hadn’t read what i wrote.  why he had obeyed and listened to what i said.  he smiled at me, told me to have a good weekend, and then turned and sauntered away.  i stood in the hallway, looking curiously at where he had been standing until a janitor asked me if i was alright.

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