It was at that moment I realized that there was something wrong.  Strangely and wonderfully wrong.  Here we were, in my car, debating whether or not I would or should go inside.  His place was familiar to me.  Almost like another home, matched in its comfort to my own.  He—the man I had prayed and fought for, sat next to me, begging me to go inside with him.  The soft murmur of music from a downplayed radio was haunting the awkward silence; the silence that began with a repetitious refusal. 

Some would wonder, why would I deny him?  Deny our primal urges and moreover, my insanely obsessive addiction to a man that I had wanted for what seemed like years? I was beginning to question it myself.  As I said the words denying us of what I knew would be a pleasurable time, I looked down at the negative space between my mouth and where he was sitting.  Looking down as if I could see the words shoot out of my throat and drift towards his general direction.  Then it happened.  The flash of insanity and brilliance overwhelmed me.  It consumed me and I loved it. 

I have felt that flash before.  I had grown accustomed to that invigorating sensation years ago, but had since been absolved.  The flash is something indescribable.  It’s as though you just awoken from a slumber outside in below 20 degree weather and ran into a fire.  Drenching yourself with smoldering ash and ember.  It was inspiration and motivation, but it was more; more than the trivialities infecting common life.  It was different.  Special.  Mine.

Allow me to preface this journey with a simple notion.  Can the mind stimulate itself enough to the point where it creates its own drug?  Can the mind create a drug and then deprive the body of that drug, and then again reintroduce it back into the system?  My mind did. 

It wasn’t a placebo.  No amount of sugar pills or fake treatment could get me to where I wanted to go.  No pharmaceutical could achieve this either, for that matter.  I grew tired of the world and the meanderings of the average, ordinary life.  I wanted extraordinary. 

I always knew I had a different kind of mind.   I saw the world differently.  I learned the world differently.  I had an interesting yet unusual aptitude for learning.  I taught myself how to read before my fourth birthday.  I learned all the multiple facets and distinctions of a language and a culture within a year.  I could derive concepts from languages I had never heard before.  English was never a problem either, as writing was, more or less, a knack of mine. 

Not only could I learn at a quicker rate than most, but I had the slightly offsetting ability to gain trust within a matter of seconds.  In kindergarten, I fooled teachers into thinking I already knew what they were talking about amongst each other.  By fifth grade, I duped people into thinking that I had an understanding of politics and was running not only the school government on behalf of the children, but on behalf of the teachers as well.  By the time 9^th grade came around, I had an innate sense of knowing what people expect and could say anything to get people to believe me.  Eventually, I would join the workforce and gain so much trust, that bosses and other higher associates would include me in confidential conversations.  And it only got worse.

I never claimed to have many friends or to even really like people.  Was that because I don’t have social skills, therefore leading to a lack of insight into the human race?  Perhaps, I knew too well, what people are like.  Either of these scenarios didn’t matter because I had the people eating out of my hand.  I was in control.  And then, it vanished.  It evaporated like ice thrown onto hot concrete in the middle of summer.  Reduced to a puddle, then sizzled up until nothing but a memory remained.

It’s like heroin.  It’s enticing in its appeal and allure.  You go into it with the wrong ideas and come out even more distraught and disturbed than you were at the start.  It’s a drug of a different kind.  War is, all together, different than everything you ever felt or experienced.  War is a drug that politicians abuse at the expense of civilian lives, and I was warned.  Unfortunately, the sound of proud applause and visions of glory distorted my thinking.  It was at that moment that I first became under the influence.

People say that drugs are all gateways to something worse.  Potheads will automatically begin abusing crack and heroin which they pursue until they find death, or death finds them.  War was the starting drug in my life, I jumped right in.  Nothing to hold me back from the disillusioned image of becoming the soldier that Hollywood made seem so attainable: just sign your name on the line.  War was the starting point, my substance of choice, and then I found a better drug.  The high was greater, the intensity was unbelievable, and I was hooked instantly—her name: Shaylee Dawson.

My story is like every other; it has a beginning, middle, and an end.  While most people would ease you through their life starting with the beginning, I’m going to start with the good points.  Because, if there was one thing I learned serving in the Army—it’s that you never know when the end will come, so you gotta get the most important information out first.  She was the most important thing to me and she always will be.

* * *

“Hey, do you have some sort of a death wish?”  Those were the first words she ever said to me.

 I looked at her quizzically, not sure why she was asking.  I answered with a wry smile.  “Maybe.”

“Well, could you not die around here,” she motioned toward a group of tables and chairs in front of a small café.  “It could be bad for business and cut down on my tips.  If you feel the need to walk into oncoming traffic…” Her voice faded out.

“Did that sentence finish, or was there more?”  As I stood there talking with her, I was struck by her beauty.  Her hair was golden and was more brilliant than the sun and her eyes were bluer than the ocean that was visible between the buildings that loomed in the background.

“No, that’s as far as I got…” she said with a laugh.  “So, do you make it a habit of walking across busy streets during rush hour, or is this a new thing for you?”

“Actually, I came here to…” I saw her looking at me and I couldn’t get the words out.  I didn’t want to tell her that I crossed oncoming traffic just to talk to her before she disappeared behind the intimidating, large, glass doors of the café.  “To try that sandwich,” I lied, pointing at the illustration of a sandwich on the sandwich board.

“You’re not originally from here, are you?”

“You know, you ask a lot of questions…” I said teasingly.  “No, I’m not from this part of California.  I’m from Jericho.”

My words sparked something in her eyes, as they suddenly lit with expression, though her voice hardly showed it.  “Oh.  Well try not to walk off into the street again…around here that’s not a good idea.  People here don’t care if you’re in front of their car.  They will drive through you.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“Anytime.  Now, were you serious about that sandwich?”  She seemed to glow as she stood in front of me.

“Well, the picture just makes it look so good.  Have you eaten here before?”  She smiled at my comment.  “What?” I asked, as she continued to smile and look away.  She began wiping tables.

“The food here is okay, at best, and they over charge you.  And that sandwich, by the way, tastes like feet.”

Finally grasping that she works at the not-so-little café, I am confused by her attitude which most have shown on my face.

Answering the question on my face, she said, “I work here because they needed the help and I needed the money.  That drawing of the sandwich is misleading.  The food is just bearable and the ambiance is lacking.”

“Drawing?  That’s not a photo?”  I walked over to the board, and could then identify the medium used for the advertisement.  It was colored pencil.  I looked at her and saw she was trying to hide a smile.

She tried to avoid me, when she saw that I noticed her smiling.  She kept wiping at spills and crumbs on the chairs at a nearby table.  From that moment I knew that I had to have this girl.  I swung around the table and sat myself in a chair directly across from her.  Looking up at her, I caught her eye.  “Did you draw that?” I asked pointing to the sandwich drawing.

Looking down, concentrated on a spot left on the table, she answered softly. Humbly.  “Yes.”

“Wow.  That’s amazing.  I thought it was a picture, like from a camera.” I said, barely being able to get the words out without blurting out my feelings for this stranger.

Obviously embarrassed, she changed the subject.  “Well, I should get back to work.  Are you going to order something or not?”

“Well, you made it sound so appealing” I said laughing.  “I’m gonna say, not.”

“Then, um, could you leave ‘cause you’re taking space that could be used for the other customers.”

“Clearly there are so many.” I said looking around at the almost vacant café.

“Well, that’s not the point.  These seats are for paying customers only, you know?  So, it was nice talking to you, but you got to go.”  She spoke in a teasing tone but I could tell she was somewhat serious, as she motioned to shoo me away.

“Okay, okay.” I said, “I’ll go under one condition.  Tell me your name.”

“I’m not going to tell my name to some random weirdo, who crosses streets of stupid California drivers, during rush hour, for a sandwich.”

“You scared?”  I asked, unaware that my voice was going to come out raspy as I said the words.

“No.” She protested with playful defiance.  “I’m Shaylee.”

“Shaylee.”  Her name rolled off my tongue.  “It was nice talking to you.”  I said longing for her to tell me to stay, but walked off rather quickly.  I knew that I would see her again.  I would make certain of it.

* * *

I went to sleep that night, replaying our conversation over and over in my head.  Her name was so sweet.  She was so beautiful.  Shaylee.  Shay-lee.  Shaylee.  My mind threw her name around over and over, and as my conscience grabbed hold of that sweet sound, I realized that I had nothing left to go on but her first name and a drawing of a sandwich.

Morning came too soon and not soon enough, all at once.  Half-asleep I wished that my body could sleep past sunrise and I could continue to dream of the angel I had met yesterday.  The life we would share, played out in several different scenarios, but the other half of me was excited and anxious for the day to start so I could see her again.  I would see her, I knew that I had to.

This is where it starts.  The unleashing.  The chronicling of my thoughts.  This is the start of an introspective observation of my life and what I make of it.  No holding back.

This is going to be an anthology of immensely insane ramblings…get ready or not, ‘cause here I come.

The things we have doesn’t make us who we are; the things we’ve lost defines us completely.  In the last few months, I’ve lost myself.  Amongst the chaos in this ever-changing world, I lost who I’ve always been.  I have become the chameleon.  I change according to my surroundings.  Perhaps that IS who I am.  I am the chameleon, forced to change with my surroundings, never really showing myself.  Do I even know myself?  I’m not so sure.  But I know what I want.  The difficult part is keeping up with my ambitious expectations.  For now I just live inside my own thoughts.

So guess what guys?!  I found out that I am a child of Satan, or at least that was what I was told by the Born-Again-Christian/ Non-denominational Christian, Paul, that rallied at school today.  He has the audacity to call (let me see if I remember the entire list) Hypocrite Christians, Lost Jews, Muslims, Mormons, Hindu, Buddhists, Boozers, Dopers, Transvestites, Cross Dressers, Sluts, Fornicators, Pedophiles, Girlie-Men, Mouthy Women, Lesbians, Gays, Moneygrubbers, Revelers, Clueless Fools, other Sexual Weirdos, Liars, and Thieves SATAN’S CHILDREN.  (There was more on his banner, but I forgot some of them).  I saw this, just as he was setting up—and debated with im until he left campus.  I marched directly up to him and asked him what made Muslims Satan’s children?  That was the first word I saw after the bold, red print—Satan’s Children.  I was curious why they were being slandered as Satan’s children.  He said because they don’t believe in God. Obviously, this sent fireworks into my brain.  One of my best friends, and one of the most unselfish, caring, devoted-to-God people in the world that I know is Muslim.  While this aggrivated me, I figured he was ignorant and someone should tell him that Muslims believe in God too, they just call him a different name.  So I told him Allah is God.  His response—do you agree with how they treat there women?  They beat them!—he says.  Now I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t aware that only Muslims beat there women.  Silly me.  Every domestic violence case, Ike Tuner, Lou Diamond-Phillips… must be Muslim because Lord knows that a Christian man never beat his wife.

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If original tought is no longer possible, is someone thinking my same thoughts?  Wow….scary thought.

You’re welcome. :]

• Get life together.
• Stop going M.I.A all the time. You have good friends, they are fucking gems, and when they reach out to you, actually respond. You have a great group of friends, you don’t want to lose them.
• Try to resolve issues with a certain person. At least try. Seeing as how you two…

Has anyone ever thought about one insignificant thing after the other in a repeating parade of stupid?  Like: Who sat down an decided to make a Pez candy dispenser?  What is the reason for marshmallows?  Why do older cars have the tiny, triangle windows in front?  Who is either [a] so lazy or [b] so indifferent to their pets, that they created automatic feeders/ water dispensers?  Who thought that keeping a hoop in motion, circling your hips would have “caught on?”  Or why women started laquering their fingernails in the first place?  Why M&Ms are called M&Ms instead of Q&Q or T&S?  Who thought to make them talk?  (Probably the same geniuses who did the California Raisins campaign of commercials and televised movie).  I could go on forever…but I won’t.  I’m too hungry…

There is poetic justice in eating alone.  In a long corridor of white, linoleum tiles; white walls; scattered doors; and no windows.  The walls scarcely containing images relating to science.  Few people pass, and even fewer smile.  But I like to see them pass.  Wondering about their lives, making them up in my head as they walk by.  Counting steps.  I like people.  I always have.  But I find satisfaction in being alone.  I am in a corridor of faces and still have the sanctum of being alone in my thoughts.