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I grew up having ambivalent feelings towards my father. Along the way I swore every time I locked myself in my room after a harsh scolding, I would never grow up being like him. I would strive to be the complete opposite. But lately, I brought up the critical point of having a heart. What does it mean to have a heart anyway? Maybe to some perspective, it was the same as asking, “How good do you have to be to be considered as a good person?” I realized that perhaps I had no heart after all. Not literally, of course. I was so cold and harsh to anything that didn’t directly revolve around my life. It was cruel, I admit. I tried to bring myself to be a compassionate being among others, but I could not find an ounce of affection I had to spare. I tried to trace back to my roots and contemplated for the matter if I was always so cold hearted or had something triggered this? I tried to remember back when I had a heart. An earlier time, I suppose. Even after my father, I knew I still had a heart. I was only a child. I rationalized to believe that it was only society that had such a negative impact on me. They were the ones who had constantly put me down with such a cold shoulder. And maybe then, it was then when I started to lose faith in myself.My innocence and purity left. I was no longer a praised child, I became a mediocre adult. Growing up. Now I just scoff at that thought. I remember that time when I was young, I couldn’t help but to wish I was an adult. Every time I look into a mirror, I realize all the priorities I put ahead in my life were not priorities after all. Most of all, I see my father reflected on the other side. All these harsh things my father said, somehow wove beautifully with my veins and he and I were one. It was something I absolutely despised as a child and admittance made me despise myself. Growing up. It was my undoing.

Maybe we were just so young and frivolous we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. Naive enough to believe that having that cut rock slip on my finger meant we were so in love. Perhaps at some point we truly were. Every time I looked down at that stone I asked myself, “Where did that time go? We were star crossed lovers, of course.” But, I was only seventeen and I swore we were ready for each other. I’d like to believe now is just some quarter life crisis because back then, a year felt like forever. Now, being in love with someone I’d love to hate is what forever truly feels like.

I have these dreams and they are real. I smell you and I feel you. You’re something worth wanting. I want you and you want me. It depresses me. I don’t remember a time when when we were one. I don’t remember your smile and I don’t remember the way your face looks. I don’t remember the way we held hands and I don’t remember your voice. These dreams feel real, and sometimes I wish they were. I wake up and I forget everything. You aren’t here anymore but I can still feel you. You are here.

If I were famous, I’d say something like “Never forget the people that you met before you were famous. They were the ones that made you who you are and where you were. Even the people that you swore you hate. The people who thought loved you were the ones that supported you and was your backbone. That no matter what happened, they were there so you could fall back on them. And give your best thanks to the ones you hated. They were your motivation. They were the reason to become who you are right now. And about hate, hate is a sensitive topic. I don’t believe that you hate anyone. You hate the people you want to love because they give you the very reason that you should not love them. All they really want is someone to prove to them that they shouldn’t be loved but at the very moment yearn for the very feeling of being loved. To love and be loved. In life, we meet thousands of people. We pass millions of faces each day and the thing that you don’t realize is that you influence everyone you meet, or vice versa, even in the smallest way. Something small you do can be the highlight of someones day, or even the start to an epiphany. You don’t know what goes on in someone’s mind. And with the influence, perhaps you become a better person. Everyone becomes a better person over time. We learn about love, life, and death. Greed, hope and faith. You learn this from the people you meet. I wouldn’t act like I was better than them because I know that they were the ones who bettered me.” 

And sometimes old things fall apart so new things can fall together. That was the philosophy of life. That maybe, for the best, we found out on our own without the help of others. That from the outside, you begin to see things that are not as evident as it is inside. If it was meant to be, then simply, it would work out. And if it wasn’t, then in time it would fall apart on its own. That was the philosophy.

And some days I still have those urges to call you up and figure out how you’re doing and it never goes away.  But I all have now are these faded memories and old pictures and sometimes I wish I cared less or you gave a damn more.

My father was never an alcoholic and my father never abused me. That’s two truths and a lie. I was the youngest of three and I grew up on a farm north of New York and grew up to be an illiterate, but multicultural bastard. I was neglected by everyone who I thought ever cared about me because success came from the intelligent and I was not the brightest bulb of the bunch. And with the neglect came the alcohol, the prohibition, the prostitution, the wealth and the attraction for men who gave me the slightest interest. I traded my skin for cheap sex and tattoos and saw the world as far as my feet could take me, as far as the yachts could sail the seven seas and as far as the rockets could fly me out to see galaxies unknown. Of course it was just a day’s paycheck for the men in the black suits with their Fendi glasses and Prada shoes. I’ve done a million things in my life that my vivid imagination could never perceive, but the one thing I’ve never done was tell the truth. 

I don’t even know what I’m feeling today. I feel like nothing is worth it. In the same sense, it feels as if nothing is worth it anymore. I turn off the lights and majority of the room drops dark and silent. The brisk spring breeze sweeps through the open window, causing the blinds to clatter like bare teeth on a chilly night. I lie on the mattress every night wondering when this will finally be over. 

I fear the dark. Not mainly because it’s empty and hollow, but completely the opposite. Have you ever sat awake silently in the dark? I can’t exactly describe the feeling you get, but, I would say that it brings you to some sort of divinity. It’s the one you get from the sixth sense, less commonly known as the extrasensory perception. It’s feeling physical things with your mind. The very feeling that someone or something is there, watching you, feeling you, and shedding some light on empathy. The darkness consumes, even as most slowly, it will conquer. It burns a hole in my heart and it makes my skin and the inside of my bones hurt.

The dark is full of things you cannot see and I’m scared. I knew a lady once who claimed that the dark is the safest place. When you are in the dark, no one can see you and no one can get you. They can’t see you and you can’t see them. You do not exist. If this holds true, then why am I here and why do I feel the way I do? I have no choice but to disdain this thought because I know there is a higher power out there. I have felt it and I have seen it. I’ve had a word with it. And in the dark it whispered, “Now is the break of day and the sun will set and darkness will rise. On a normal level of equilibrium, there will be an equal hour of darkness and an equal hour of light. But as time goes on, there will be certain days where night is longer than day and day is longer than night. There is nothing to fear in the light. But in the dark, be aware. This is a warning. What do people as well as most beings do in the dark? Sleep. Sleep is the root of all evil. Sleep is the reason why certain people are a certain way. Sleep is the reason why something has happened or something has failed to happen. Most of all, sleep is the cousin of death and it will never end.”

Instead, I stare at the ceiling and tremble softly against the sheets. My head is spinning and the walls are caving in. This closely resembles an eerie nightmare I had for quite the time when I was only six years old. It begins with sleep. I am sleeping. I am sleeping. And I am awoken from my slumber on my bed, but only not to be where I began. My bed is out there somewhere in an alternate galaxy and there is no one around. Sure, it was a great spectacle. Just stars everywhere and I’m passing through Lepus or is that Cassiopeia? It’s a beautiful sight but only one problem. No one is around. What a beautiful sight, but depressing to know that there is no one to share it with. But no, I am only six years old and I have not experienced loneliness yet. Well, I have the slightest clue of what it is but that is not the problem. The problem here is that I’m stuck upon this bed in outer space all alone. No one can hear me and no one can save me. I am floating further and further away and it is only until time that I become a small annoying speck or I get absorbed into a black hole. I don’t know what really happens. All I know for a fact is that I’m screaming for help and no one can help me. Then I disappear. And ultimately, I wake up. But besides the whole point, the feeling that is released from this silly nightmare is the same feeling I’m getting now as I stare at the ceiling. And as I repeat, my head is spinning and the walls are caving in. It doesn’t stop and before I know it, I’m one with the walls. I’m the thick air before the morning rain. I’m the bright beams during the most decalescent hour of the day. I’m the crickets chirping past your bedtime during the bleakest hour of the night. 

My heartbeat accelerates, the comes to a complete halt. It teases me with death, asking, “You want out? Here it is.” Only to be relieved from the horrid life, but to torture me by giving me light once again. And then, I’m let alone here drowning in a pool of loneliness. Then once again, amidst all the silence, it begins again picking up its pace. The heartbeat speeds up and continuously rings in my ear. But then, begins to slow down to beat slower and slower. Slower and slower. It imitates the Waltz and  it is almost as graceful as this slow dance. But, it has the same beat and does nothing but to perplex my elementary mind. I think harder and what if. What if it is not a dance and it is also not the sound of my heartbeat. It’s the sound of the footsteps of my soul walking away from my lifeless body. I am ecstatic and I am bewildered. And now I am on my own, because even death can’t slow me down. But the rhythm goes faster, ba-dump, ba-dump, and I am running. I am free. And unfortunately as so, it was just another conundrum and I was so gullible to believe that it was something more. It was just my heartbeat all along and even if it beats slowly, in my head, it’s racing and it won’t stop. I am ashamed and I am humiliated. I want to die.