I’m tired of aging. Is that possible? I hate that I’m no longer interested in things that I used to love. There was a point where my Nintendo 3DS was my trusty sidekick and now I would rather look at pins on Pinterest than embarking on another Pokemon quest. I think that I still have hope. I played Super Mario World the other day and was filled with age-less joy so what the hell? Why do I keep finding more streaks of white hair and drinking more red wine? I know that with age, I’m becoming wise, intellectual and eloquent but some part of me wants to remain dumb and naive, knowing that the world will forgive me when I am ignorant. I’m not scared of getting older because I am not afraid of death. Death is not black. It is not breathless. It is not still. It is not cold nor senseless. Death is a period of transition, from one life form to another. We age and decay because it is the nature of our bodies, but I’d like think that our intangible conscious, passing through and though, is always growing and evolving. Like suns, our chemistry is brimming with energy until there is no fuel left. Our bodies will give into gravity and again, like the sun, the molecules and gas that form our collage, spread into the universe. It’s nice to know that no matter how selfish our personality may seem, deep down in our pits, the core will always be giving.
I miss writing about being passionate. I miss writing about my goals and future plans. I miss writing about the new paths I’ve taken and the ones I returned too. I’ve been in a weird kind of funk lately. I feel as if I’m waiting to have an epiphany again; some sort of realization as to why my existence is important but why do I constantly have to validate myself; my entire existence? What’s wrong with just existing? Because at the end of the day, I want to do more than just breathe. In this city of cells, I want to be the one mutation that changes everything.
My interests are constantly evolving and transitioning from one thing to the other. Karate, writing, art, hurricanes, astronomy and baking are on the top of my interests. Creativity (writing, art and baking), nature (hurricanes and astronomy) and discipline (karate) are all assembled into my genetic code. I’ve realized that any topic, idea and/or theme among these fields are going to pull me like gravity. When I’m upset, angry, sad or in a clusterfuck of the three, I find myself walking to the Hudson, Central Park or anything close to scenic. The weird thing is that sometimes it doesn’t make me feel better, but I feel compelled to be there, like something mechanical is driving me there. I fucking think A LOT. What about? Everything, like… Is Osama really dead? What changes the wind direction every 2-7 years in the Pacific? Why are all my cousins taking booty selfies on a daily basis? When will weed become legal? Where are the minorities going to go when gentrification starts to spread in other communities? Will there ever be a de-gentrification? Am I going miss my period when I finally hit menopause? IT. NEVER. STOPS. If this makes any sense, sitting in silence by the water or tall green grass makes me feel like I’m “airing out” my head.
I’m not sure if I’m the only one who does this but sometimes I find myself wishing it was a specific year again. Not because anything significant happened, but because I crave the ambiance. Sometimes I wish it was 2004 again. I can’t tell you anything special about 2004, besides the fact that it was an election year and Bush won again but in some weird way, I remember feeling ‘safe’ in all aspects of the word; not able or likely to be hurt or harmed in any way. I remember my head feeling light on the pillow and before and after I closed my eyes, it was just black and nothing else.