I’m looking for someone.
A childhood superhero of sorts. Maybe he wears the cape and mask and all.
I don’t know.
My memory is fuzzy, at best, and I’m not sure how I ended up here. Or where I was before this.
All I know is I am here,
looking for someone.
He’s supposed to have actual superpowers. Like, he can control gravity or something. Bend light and warp time.
Or so they claim.
I don’t know if I buy into all that, but I suppose he’s all I got right now.
Because, more importantly, this man’s got some secrets. Secrets I am keen on finding out.
This man is supposed to show me who I am.
So that’s why I came here, to Oakland.
To find him. To find myself.
They call him Kid Wonder.
“Sometimes, it is more painful to dream, more disheartening to hope, more demoralizing to imagine.
it is easier to open your eyes and never sleep,
sleep but never dream,
grow up and never look back.”
The mission is over, but one mission just un-dramatically bleeds into the next, much like how our days pass here.
The journey has been taxing, and it is no simple sluggishness to sleep off, but an insomnia of both flesh and spirit. A monster of its own nature.
The Kid is alive, but he is losing his magic.
The reverie – it has been too long.
The Kid needs to return to his sanctuary of wonder soon, lest his world loses its color and becomes gray again.
-Eli Bennette [09.06.2017]
I can feel the ground trembling beneath my feet when I walk to work each day.
Chinatown is a loud place.
I quietly pass through, keeping my head tilted down as I weave between pedestrians and rowdy vegetable sellers.
My boss is a loud woman.
“Yelling” in half-Cantonese as she takes orders, and half-Mandarin as she gives me orders.
I’ve been getting quieter and quieter at work lately. Mixing up ingredients, forgetting a topping, confusing one tone for another.
Overall, making more mistakes. Overall, getting scolded more.
I leave work feeling let down, having let down someone.
I walk out the door and head towards a shady parking lot tucked in beneath an underpass. I see the guy.
“Mm… 4 dollars.”
Parking usually costs 3 dollars a day but I’m starting to suspect the guy sort of just makes up his mind on the spot, depending on his mood.
I take out my meager tip money earnings of the day and hand it all to him.
I can feel the ground trembling beneath my feet.
On this side of town, the BART runs underground so I figure it must be the trains. It’s funny because normally, people would complain about the disturbance it causes. But this is the city, so no one complains.
Life on the surface is loud enough as it is.
I move briskly, weaving my way through the Chinatown labyrinthine and picking up syllables and words here and there. Catching fragments of meaning in passing.
One of the telltale signs that I’m emotionally shutting down is silence. I won’t always respond to you, even if I hear you loud and clear.
I keep my head down and work harder.
I have to get good.
I’m starting to understand a little more Cantonese now, enough to use context clues to fill in the blanks. There is just enough overlap with Mandarin to make close guesses, but also enough overlap to make embarrassing mistakes. Confusing one tone for another, and such.
“Sorry about that. I can make another drink for you.”
I only get 3 dollars in tips today. Seems about right.
I pray to the parking gods as I work my way through Chinatown and back to the underpass.
“Mm… 3 dollars.”
Whew. Close one.
I am Taiwanese. Or, a child of Taiwanese immigrants. Taiwanese-American? Something in between.
Traditional Taiwanese folk are a hearty and rambunctious bunch, so family gatherings are loud and rowdy. Sometimes, it’s real easy for me to just keep quiet and slip into the blurry peripherals of family photos.
I’m not like them,
yet I am,
just enough, to blend in.
I weave my way through the Chinatown labyrinthine, being careful not to get in the way of elderly Chinese people and their grocery shopping spree. Keeping my head tilted down, I quietly pass through and get to work.
I’ve been kinda sorta getting better at my job. I still don’t know how to make half the menu but hey.
I’m getting the hang of this customer service thing. You know, like making small talk and faking smiles. That sort of thing.
When my boss yells at me,
I am able to piece together the syllables, the words, the fragments of meaning,
to make the right drinks,
to do the job well,
to understand that yelling doesn’t necessarily mean she’s mad at me,
– at least most of the time.
If culture is a labyrinthine, I’m starting to draft a rough sketch of something that resembles a map.
Parking usually costs 3 dollars a day. But today was a 4 dollar day.
I can feel the ground trembling beneath my feet.
I could tell it was building up throughout the day,
no, throughout the week,
that something inside me was shutting down.
“I’m sorry I don’t speak Cantonese. I can take your order in Mandarin or English.”
So I get quieter and quieter.
I’m not responding to everything she’s saying. I keep my head tilted down, and work harder.
But she is very particular this day, because depending on her mood, she adjusts her expectations of me.
Today was a 4 dollar day.
The yelling grows louder and louder, only this time, she is definitely mad. This isn’t just yelling, this is scolding.
And the scolding leads to other things,
like mixing up ingredients,
forgetting a topping,
confusing one tone for another,
– overall, making more mistakes.
Which only leads to more scolding, and more mistakes, and more scolding. I get quieter and quieter, trying to shrink and retreat inside of myself where no one can hurt me and I can’t hear them yelling at me.
Then finally, a customer loses her temper and I set off her age-old, well-rehearsed tirade.
“I order green tea, not black tea, okay? Is there something wrong with your brain?
My god, why can’t you speak Cantonese??”
I am Taiwanese.
But there is enough overlap, I guess, to make some mistakes.
And my boss turns on me, takes her side, and shames me publicly.
“What’s wrong with you. Why can’t you get it right.”
Something inside me snaps. Shut down.
I leave work feeling let down, having let down a people group. Once again.
5PM comes and I walk out the door without saying goodbye.
I’m moving quickly, weaving in between Chinese grandmas and my inner demons, making my way home.
I’m adjusting to the fast pace of the city, but if I stop myself,
just for 2 minutes, just enough time for one red light,
I can feel something trembling beneath the surface,
screaming from within.
Chinatown is a loud place.
I quickly change out of my work clothes and into my regular clothes. I am breathing heavily.
It’s been about a month and I kinda sorta know my way around now. I know which sidewalks are less crowded, where to find the cheapest parking, and where to sit during lunch break without getting penalized for loitering.
If culture is a labyrinthine,
there have been days when I could draft a rough sketch of a map,
and there have been days when I felt hopelessly lost.
There have been days when I could hold a decent conversation in Mandarin, and there have been days when I worked in silence.
And though I am Taiwanese, there is enough overlap to make some mistakes, on both sides.
It’s been about a month now.
I finish changing and collect my things. I put my working clothes in my locker, one last time, and my boss hands me my final paycheck (which in Chinatown, is wad of cash).
She tells me to be careful on the road, take care of myself, eat more food because I’m too skinny, and thanks me for working at her shop.
“Thank you. Bye bye.”
I think I mess up the tones a bit, but close enough.
She’s not an evil woman.
She’s just… her. She grew up learning and living the labyrinthine, then plunged into another completely different one. Just like my parents.
I grew up trying to learn both, and only got half-good at each.
“Wait!”, she stops me. “Here’s something for you – ”
She reaches in her purse, digs around for a few seconds, and hands me a red envelope.
“新年快乐!”, she says in Mandarin, with a smile.
She messes up the tones a little bit, but close enough.
You’re not an evil woman. But I can’t work for you.
So I leave the job.
No dramatic plot twists, no life-defining lessons learned. Just a sobering acceptance that we haven’t changed all that much and this isn’t going to work out between us.
Maybe our relationship would be best kept from at a distance.
I forgive her, and spend my evening commute trying to figure out how to forgive myself for letting them down yet again.
I’m walking through the loud and rowdy streets of Chinatown, weaving between grandmas and vegetables. I make my way to the shady parking lot tucked beneath the underpass.
“Mmm… 3 dollars.”
// originally published on the raconteur collective.
“I just wanna be somebody.”
I just wanna be… a rockstar. No, too ambitious. Maybe a low-key SoundCloud artist that only true hiphop heads know.
15 – 20k followers.
Mmm… 5 – 10k.
If only somebody would notice. Look my way.
I am so close, yet so far. Talented, but not quite enough.
I walk across the platform to the edge, past the yellow paint and caution signs. I stare into the gaping darkness ahead of me. I think of jumping. Just fantasize the idea.
Where am I going?
I am here, just waiting. Too much waiting.
Then the wind picks up and I hear a distant howling in the tunnel in front of me. It picks up and the howling becomes metallic, growing louder and louder, closer and closer, and the wind blows my overgrown hair aside.
I close my eyes, and jump on.
Post-grad life is riding a crowded subway train that only goes one way, and the lights are turned off. The passengers hardly talk to each other, and when they do, they somehow convince each other that everything is fine, even though we are all begging the same question – “Where are we going?”
When does it stop?
I lean my forehead against the glass and watch the florescent signs flash past me. The train sways side to side and groans.
I just wanna be somebody.
I just wanna be… a renowned short-story writer with at least one Ted Talk under his belt. Or Moth StorySlam winner.
No, too ambitious. Maybe an underground Medium blogger with 10k followers. Mmm… 5k.
So close, yet so far.
But what about low-key, hip SoundCloud producer?
School taught me few things, but multitasking was not one of them. I have tunnel vision, like subway conductors.
I just wanna be a writer,
but also a musician,
that I’m afraid that I will be neither.
That I will be nobody.
I jump off the train.
The light is blinding, so I squint as I step out into the arid LA-summer heat and frantic, fast-pace LA pedestrian traffic. Even the pedestrians have sidewalk-rage here.
I am weaving, and from the clamor of sirens, angry drivers, and stereos attached to bikes, he calls out to me.
“Young man! How you doin’ today?”
I slam the brakes, and look in his direction. Middle-aged, clothed in tatters, cigarette in mouth.
“Doin’ alright. How bout yourself?”
I shake his hand; his skin is wrinkled and cracked.
“Alright. Can’t complain, ya know?
About to buy me some more cigarettes.”
“Whatchu up to? You a working man or what?
“I uh – I just graduated”, I deflect.
“Ah graduated, hah! You got plans?”
I did at some point, but I don’t know anymore.
“Yeah uh, I wanna be… a writer. I think.”
“Writer! Okay, I write stuff, too.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Oh, just whatever inspires me. You just have to channel that inner-energy, you know, that inner…”
He puts his head over his heart. Gives an ugly face, like when musicians play jazz.
“…of ribbiting passion and…” – he contorts his face again – “…You feel me?”
“Uhh… yeah. Sure, man.”
“Here, I wanna show you something. You got a pen on you? You know, true writers keep a pen on them at all times.”
I feel around in my bag and pull it out.
“You got paper?”
I feel around again and hand him my journal.
“Haha shit, you are a writer!”
“You got time?”
I glance at my phone. I think about the overpriced espresso drink with my name on it, waiting for me just 6 blocks away.
“Yeah. I got time.”
“Give me a topic.”
“Just give me a topic, it can be anything.”
“Uhm… outer space.”
“Space! Mkay, I can do that.”
He scribbles away, transcribing his thoughts as they come, pausing ever-so-often to mutter ideas out loud.
“Orion belt… cycle of.. captivated, eye-boggling wonders, because – execute patriotic… new found life.”
Sounds promising. He stops and puts down his pen.
“See, take a look.”
I read his piece. It almost makes sense.
“See I’m a writer, but really, it’s all just in here.”
He puts his hand on my chest now.
“You a writer, too. And true writers already have it inside… that ribbiting passion… that nature of ribbiting..”
“Here, gimme the pen.”
More scribbling and muttering. I can’t stop staring at him, like he’s some mix between mad scientist and mystical pokemon creature. He finishes another paragraph-long sentence.
“Check this: Black holes!! – who knows, can say?”, he recites to me proudly. “Bottom line it is, amazing with motomic essentials – and this part is important, listen here – motomic essentials that brings nature into a *reality*.”
What the hell is motomic essentials?, I’m wondering.
But instead, I just say, “Whoa…”
So close to making sense, yet so far. I don’t know whether to disagree with him or simply be fascinated by him.
“And that’s the thing – nature to a reality…”
He picks up the pen and he is off again.
The more he writes, the deeper we descend into his mind.
“Reality factual… brings out of a.. beehive – no, not a think, not a thought… however a working grade.. of a solution… yeah, solution. That’s it.”
This goes on for another 30 minutes. I get tired of standing but I cannot leave now because there’s something curious about this man. Like there’s some hidden treasure inside and I want to be the one to find it.
Like despite his clear lack of coherent thought, deep down inside, he just might actually be a writer. And I, his audience, am hooked. I am captivated.
I am… ribbited.
He looks up from my journal and shouts, “HEY BENNY!”
Benny looks over at us and quickly looks away.
“AY! Benny!! How you doin’?!”
Benny, who has a lady friend walking closely beside him, looks clearly embarrassed and walks faster.
“Let’s go say hi to my friend”, he says enthusiastically.
He takes my journal and pen, and I follow behind.
“Hey Benny, come over here! I’m doin’ a writing class right now. Come on!”
Benny gives him a glare and says through clenched teeth, “Not now, man…”
“Ahh okay. Benny on a date, I’ll teach him later haha… Where was I…?”
“Ah yes, of course, motomic essentials – ”
He picks up the pen and our lesson continues.
“Inside that space that journey… above that footprint in the sky.. is unknown, however…”
He mutters, writes, puts down the pen, picks it back up, mutters some more, and I lean in to try to catch everything. Our elbows touching, I catch a whiff of alcohol from my teacher’s breath. I lean closer anyways.
On and on he goes, often taking detours in thought, like weaving through LA traffic, as if his mind is one long run-on sentence. He talks just like he writes – mostly illegible, but full of resolve and conviction. Things I haven’t had much of in the recent post-grad wake.
Though he holds wild notions and his mind seems fragmented, like broken liquor bottles, he speaks with unapologetic passion that even incarceration, addiction, and homelessness could not shake. And I have an ear for that kind of passion.
So I let him ramble. I figure I can’t do much for the man right now, but I can listen to him and say, “I believe you.”
“You went to college, yeah? You show this to a college professor, and damn, they’re gonna flip. Ha! They won’t be ready. This – ”
he points to my journal.
“– This is gonna change the world.”
I feel like a parent, looking down at a child’s sloppy crayon drawing.
“Yeah, man. I think so, too.”
30 minutes stretches to an hour and one hour quickly bends into two. I figure out by now that if I let him, two hours can easily turn into four. So I gently hint to him that I should probably get going.
“It’s been an honor, man. Thanks for sharing all that. Oh, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Ah yes, gimme that pen again, let me sign it.”
In elaborate cursive lettering, he graces my journal with his insignia.
“Langston. Langston Presley.”
“Justin. Justin Lee.”
We shake hands, and closing words quickly turns into more writing, a personal dedication, another signature, and a P.S. note. Some final ribbiting thoughts.
We finally part ways.
I’m walking the six blocks towards my 4.5 star coffeeshop, but my mind is already buzzed and racing. As I walk, this feeling of longing looms in and though it is not my own, it is close enough to tickle some nerves.
This feeling of “so close, yet so far”. Like I just listened to an almost-professor teach an almost-lecture with knowledge that was almost-groundbreaking.
“Can I get a name for the order?”
Langston Presley. I like saying it.. just the sound of it has a certain flair to it.
As if he is half-way one legend,
that he is neither.
So close, yet so far.
But something happened and his mind was shattered. Now, nobody bothers to look his way, and notice his potential. Or what used to be his potential. 0 followers.
I sit down with my drink and it’s hard to down. But I don’t think that it’s necessarily guilt – just this awareness that just a few blocks away is Skid Row, and it’s probably teemed with other almost-Whitney’s and almost-Hemingway’s.
I feel my muscle memory reminding me to open my laptop, check my SoundCloud, and work on my music.
But instead, I pick up my pen and write in my journal –
“Langston Presley, the genius who almost was.”
The following piece is what Langston wrote in my journal the day I met him
1983 the ineact (pirates of silicon valley) <–2–10–> They sometimes call when pieces never look the fit, however it work. No this is not a blessing, not of …
The orion belt next to a wirlwind on a cycle of captivated eye bogling wonders because we only understand the things seen not the things that can write and execute patriotic newfound (history) life. Expessions with minds that understand what science presents in a sum that brings enlightenment to a need from long ago problem with a thumbs up of loss.
“(Black holes)” who knows, can (or) say? Bottom line it is, amazing with motomic essentials that brings nature to a reality. Reality factual brings out of a beehive not a think not a thought however a working grade of a solution. Why (definition?) (a thought is only a sentence you tell yourself)(Does that work?) No. Look it up nothing is faulty with imagination than what brings us the conclusion and the ribbiting facts of what is inside that 1) black hole.
2) that persons mind (behavior) 3) does this count, thought, know thing thoughts are back to this a (thoughts definition) means a sentence you tell yourself. Inside that space that journey above that footprint the sky is unknown however a place that presents a high grade of what brings the galaxy of inlightment, wonders, to a new found glory that gives one space to fly, passionately, to roll with a rythym that brings ideas to a place that is not normal however inventions like persay the internet. my friend what is above in that start is life. bringing us to now. Just go.
Placed by this person who will execute a tale that illuminates immaculately introducing a new found journey of ribbiting history Justin. In space your future is not a thought it defines passion. I see you now glory by capturing the ride the pen or keyboard introduces to you,
Looking forward to your journey.
9/24/17 / Just
do write it
In the shadows of one there is redemption, a new found “glory of life”
know this is the journey only you can bring a nature of production working the your stage into passionate equal rights to all.
On Hollywood and Normandie – Look at that wall.
It still feels like summer.
I’m walking down Marine at Balboa Island, savoring new flavors with old friends. Frozen bananas with other confused postgrads.
It is October, but it still feels like summer.
A new season, but still tinged with things of the past. The air is light and brisk, filled with small talks and old inside jokes.
Spirits are merry and things feel almost “just right”,
when all of the sudden, a small party of pigeons flies out of nowhere and swooshes right in front of our party of friends.
I freeze in my steps.
The muscles in my body clench, and my heart races, as if trying to outrun danger.
Time glitches, and for that moment, 2 seconds become 2 minutes, 2 minutes become 8,261 miles, and now, the pigeons are already long gone.
“Hey catch up, dude! We’re gonna check out this shop!”
My head snaps back to the present, and I realize that I am alone,
standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
It still feels like summer.
We are standing outside the shop, the small talk and inside jokes continue, but all I can think about are pigeons.
I thought things like this only happened in movies.
“I need to go.”
Take my mind off things.
I get to my friend’s apartment. It’s been almost a year since the last time I stayed the night here. I turn on Netflix and pick my poison – Stranger Things Season 2, which, while we’re on the topic of trauma victims, couldn’t have been more fitting.
Episode 3 or 4 finishes – I’m all Netflix-drunk now and headed for the bathroom. My friend is already asleep so I sneak out with toothbrush in hand.
I open the bathroom door, turn on the lights, and it happens again.
My momentum dies completely, like a car running through caltrops. My left hand tenses up, my heart races to outrun danger, and two seconds feels like two minutes, because the earth just stopped spinning.
It’s only two seconds,
but time is glitching and I’m sucked deep into a memory I’ve thought a lot about, but not in a long time,
when I was staring down at the same white sink bowl, but it was filled with a pool of my own blood,
draining dark red from a finger I almost cut off by accident,
draining colors from my vision and looking at my fading reflection before everything got quiet and dark,
and i wake up next to a car escorting me to the hospital.
Another second passes,
and memory becomes feelings instead of visuals,
and the feeling of the times was sickening to the point where I wanted to cut myself again and create another little “accident”,
because I was alive but life was draining and draining away from me
and everything in life had lost its colors,
except maybe dark red.
Another second passes,
and the sink is empty now. My finger is still attached.
Time resumes at its ordinary tempo,
but now I am brushing my teeth
very, very slowly.
I thought that stuff like this only happens in movies, but now I’m not so sure, so I google away and find some theories and best guesses, which is basically all what the study of psychology is anyways. I have my own suspicions, which PsychologyToday – and even Teen Vogue – more or less confirms, so I decide, “Okay, maybe this is a thing.”
It just might make sense.
It just might make sense of why earlier today, I was hanging out with friends when a flock of pigeons glitched me back in time –
and all of the sudden, I’m thinking about street vendors, and honking tuk tuks,
walking the busy streets of Bangkok, tasting familiar flavors with new friends,
the air is thick with humidity, small talk, and future inside jokes,
and a new friend grasps onto my arm when pigeons fly by because she has a paralyzing fear of birds.
Another second passed,
and the memory became emotion instead of visuals, and the feeling of the times was sickening to the point where
I wanted to throw up from street food poisoning and an abusive relationship I felt trapped in,
and my will to live was draining and draining away from me,
like dark red funneling into a whirlpool down a white sink bowl.
Another second passed,
and my friends are telling me to catch up,
but I cannot because for the rest of the day, my mind is stuck in a memory, thinking about pigeons.
It just might make some sense of why,
it’s already October but it still feels like summer.
I’m brushing my teeth slowly and thinking about how pigeons, bathroom sink bowls, and a character in Stranger Things I can very loosely relate to all acted as triggers within a span of the last 24 hours, and I think I get it now.
It’s about that time of the year.
Home sucks like a Hoover vacuum cleaner.
I can’t breathe here.
Like literally… I can’t.
I think I might have bronchitis. That might just explain a lot of things.
That might explain
not being able to sing for the past three weeks or so,
not being able to sleep on my back without choking,
not being able to talk
makes me feel far away and distant
in outer space,
with bad communication and hairline fractures
gasping for air.
I don’t know.
Just my best guess,
which is the best I ever get
Grief sometimes comes in waves,
and today was the high tide.
Day by day, I feel its ebb and flow, oscillating like the tide.
Some days, it is calm and still enough, I can see my own reflection on the surface. Other days, I wake up with the water up to my neck and the sadness gnawing at my insides.
Man was never meant to swim the ocean. Man was never meant to say goodbye.
Yet we swim,
our hearts at the mercy of the seas.
I first felt it come when I was walking down College on my morning meanderings after breakfast. It came up on me by surprise and one of the first thoughts I had – as if bred from instinct – was,
“What did I do wrong?”
As if I made a mistake by being sad.
As if I was responsible for the waves.
Remember it is the ocean you are swimming in,
Remember your helplessness in the seas,
and remember, you have a rescuer.
Some days, the high tide will come and you will have to swim for your life.
And when it does, always remember –
“It is not your fault.”
that one time i was almost cool
I am coming back to this coffeeshop.
I just spent an afternoon working on a track for a beat tape that I’m putting out in November. It’s called Innamission, and it’s kind of a big deal.
Not that it’s super good or anything, but I’ve never done anything like this before. Half the time, I don’t know what I’m doing, which is kind of a fantastic and terrifying feeling.
The barista mixes my drink,
I mix my drum samples,
– two artists, busy refining their respective crafts.
Half an hour passes, and he walks over to me.
“Hey man, I got a question for you.”
I pull out my earphones.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Do you make music?”
“Yes.. *ahem*, yes I do!”
I quickly fix my hair. And my posture.
“Nice, what type of music do you make?”
“So I’m really into hip hop and R&B – I’m making a beat tape right now.”
Whoa. I get to say that.
“Oh nice, man. That’s sick. Can I hear some of it?”
“Err yeah uhm sure! I’m not really done with this track yet so I’m not sure if it sounds good yet… Wanna listen?”
I hand him the headphones quickly, attempting to hide my palms sweaty. Haven’t been this nervous since I don’t know.
I can’t hear what he’s hearing, but enough hours of staring at the same MIDI drum patterns, I know when the beat drops, just by looking at the tiny grids and colored blocks.
And when it does, I catch him nodding silently, at 86 BPM, in the corner of my peripherals.
“This is dope. I can totally hear this on SoundCloud.”
HELL YEAH IT IS, I scream out loud, my voice echoing off the cement walls of the coffeeshop.
“Thanks, man”, I respond timidly, way too quiet for him to hear through the earphones.
We small talk for a few minutes. The whole time, alls I’m thinking is,
plug the beat tape. Just plug it, dude.
But in walks a young and hip-looking, gorgeous white couple and I lose my chance.
“Gimme a minute, gotta take care of these guys.”
That’s okay. He’ll come back, and when he does, I’ll plug my beat tape. Maybe I’ll even plug my SoundCloud, I think to myself, ignoring the fact that there are only two songs on there, neither of which are very impressive.
Only he doesn’t come back. But more customers do come in. More gorgeous, hip, white couples.
His shift ends 20 minutes later, and so does my short-lived moment of almost-coolness.
“Nice talking with you, man. Hope to see you back here some time.”
I pound his fist.
Oh you will, barista friend. You will.
a journal excerpt
You know what I’m feeling right now?
I feel like there were a lot of things that didn’t have to happen this summer.
Things that caused unnecessary emotional stress and needless pain,
Things awfully timed,
Things unfolding in the worst way possible,
Things beyond my control that I could not prevent,
Things that no matter how much I prayed against,
None of this had to be this way.
But they are now. And I got hurt.
You know what I’m feeling right now?
I feel like all those things that happened, You could have stopped,
but You chose not to.
That perhaps, the demons are out to get me
and You’re letting them.
Because maybe, they have this idea that if You let them torment me, I will fall out of love with You. So they go after what I treasure the most.
My dreams. The magic. The wonder.
Disenchant the Kid.
You have this idea
that they are wrong.
“Will we ever see him again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is he?”
“He is lost. Lost himself, lost in himself. Lost in some hidden pocket of space-time. In the awkward airspace of in-betweens. That limbo in between past and present, in between dreaming and waking up… He is somewhere in there.”
“How do we bring him back?”
“We must keep his memories alive – to light his path, so to speak. But apart from that, I’m afraid he must find his way back on his own.”
“But you don’t have to leave, do you? Come, stay with us and we can go back to how things used to be… remember?
Come back home. Please.
“Home? I don’t know what that means anymore.”