things to remind yourself

"Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish." 

                                                                                              - Herman Hesse

There’s a shortness of breath when I think about writing in this blog. A slight palpitation of the heart that asks “Do you really want to say this?” And if you’re one of the few people that really know me well, you’ll know that I’m very good at avoiding questions that I don’t want to answer. Maybe it’s not even that I am good at avoiding questions, but just that I’m stubborn enough to keep them at bay.

I guess that is one of the reasons for having this blog. My attempt to deal with the questions I ask myself and choose not to answer. A way to analyze snapshots that have remained with me over the years, and figure out how they factor into who I am today. And hopefully, through this, I can put into words what others wish to say but don’t know how.

So I say to myself…

Be honest. Be hard on yourself. Feel foolish. Tell them everything. Tell them sometimes you’re afraid that the reason why you’re so critical of people is because that which you dislike in others you also see in yourself, and you like them that much less because of it. Tell them you’re a better friend than a boyfriend.

You probably should tell that one girl you dated for nearly two years that she never should have put up with you and the way that you were, and admit to yourself that she’s glad that she’s not anymore. But you should also tell yourself that you shouldn’t have put up with that other girl you dated, and remind yourself that you’re also glad that you’re not anymore.

Realize that sometimes it’s hard to say what you mean, and remind yourself that it’s easier to say if you don’t think about it. And remember that one of the worst things you can do is to not mean what you do say.

                Recall that one day in elementary school when you were on the swing set by yourself, the time when you thought you were going higher than you ever had. The same time that the older kids behind you saw that you were wearing tighty whiteies, them being cooler and older and having upgraded to boxers, and the way they made fun of you to the point where you jumped off the swing to run away.

                Remember how you felt when you went home that night, and told your mom that it was time to wear boxers and that same week, you went to school with a brand new pair.

But most importantly, remember the feeling. That smirk on your face when you got back on the swing in your new pair of boxers and you were the only one on the whole playground that knew. You were the only kid on the playground that knew you still had tighty whiteies under your boxers. Remember that, and you’ll always be yourself.

never look away

                I sit at a coffee shop. My laptop battery has the impressive lifespan of two minutes and there’s only one outlet within sight. It’s located ankle-high under a bar, three stools wide and a mirror the full length in front so you can either stare at yourself or creep on everyone who walks behind you. Never do I go for the seats where people can walk behind you. I always stick to corners, places where I can feel the comforting force of a wall against my back. When you sit against the wall it protects you from times that could have easily been avoided.

Like that time when you were in seventh grade and you sat in the fourth seat of the far left row of Mr. Taylor’s English class and Tyler sat behind you and on this particular day when you should have been sitting with the wall against your back. You wore a baggy shirt and you were leaning, slouching in your chair because that was the best way to go unseen, and Tyler grabbed the collar of your shirt, pulled it down and yelled to the class “Oh gross! Tom has back-ne!” and you wanted to pull your collar back, tight against the back of your neck but if you did that, it would just then expose your chest-ne. And this small event would stick with you throughout all of college and two years after it happened, you would get uncomfortable as your friends Tovin and Steve joked about the all the different forms of acne, concluding that the best kind would be knee-ne, and no you won’t change names for confidentiality when you recall those days because that’s what happened.

                I still sit in the back corners of classrooms. When people get bored, their eyes start to wander. You stop looking at the professor and look at the person in front of you. You look at the back of their neck, that spot where the spine slightly juts out from the skin. You notice they have dandruff, maybe their haircut is uneven, and they have a patch of dry skin that you wish they would moisturize. Next to you, the kid has his legs crossed and his shorts are slightly hiked up because of this. You notice the tan line around his thighs, and realize how pasty he really. You see a patch of skin that’s peeling off from sunburn, flakes barely attached, and suddenly you wish you didn’t know what dust really was.

                The past two years have been unlike any other. I finally went on medicine for my acne, I co-started a band that has given me something in my life that I never thought would exist, and I have met some truly amazing people along the way. I started this blog as a way to talk about the things that I want to say but never do. A way to chronicle the progression from acne-plastered loser to what I am today, and what I hope to be in the future.

Because today, I can look above the broken webcam in the screen of my laptop that I used to worry might be on when it shouldn’t, and look into the mirror of the coffee shop and think to myself, “Tom, you don’t have to look away.”