I've spent so much time being nothing. Feeling nothing, yet seeing all my dreams not come true. So I was ready to change that. I had reached my turning point; the realization. The great irony I silently narrated all along was now finally stated, publicly stated and if I was to be a cliché, I was going to be a good one. But I now questioned just which cliché I would be? You see I came to realize that some people are meant to puzzle, to be abstract and different and make people think; to inspire with only the sheer complexity of their beauty, or their mind or their story.  

And some people aren’t.

You see,  some people are that indie band,  that band who plays the best music you’ve ever heard, who writes all their own songs, and whose lyrics make you feel the most. That band you quote in your Facebook status, and get 10 likes and feel cool, because everyone thinks it’s original, cause they’ve never heard that song before, but you never really tell them cause it’s your little secret. And sometimes you mutter their name in a discussion about ‘real music’, but never too loudly because you don’t want them to be revealed cause they’re yours. Some people are that indie band. But some people aren’t. Some people instead, are mainstream. Some people are pop stars. Everyone knows them. Everyone seems to hate them yet we buy all their albums or at least someone, some where’s buying all their singles and we know all their songs. Everyone has an opinion, yet we can all concretely agree on who wore it better. Everyone pretends to not care. But we all do,if only peripherally. They are talentless, we say, with or without an audience, yet we sing their songs at the top of our lungs as we drive in our cars, or wash ourselves  in our showers.

Some people are pop stars but some people aren’t.

Some people are that foreign film, in that language you never heard of, but confuse it for another language until you Wikipedia it and find out you were wrong. That film where most of your effort was spent keeping up with the subtitles, yet you cry at the climax and applaud at the end, and tweet that it was the best movie you’ve ever seen. Some people are that foreign film. But some people aren’t. Some people instead are that blockbuster. That big budget picture where more effort was spent getting that six pack than rehearsing their lines, not that the dialogue said much to begin with, and if we’re honest we really don’t mind because as we watch we’re all just really waiting on that tank to explode. It won’t win any awards, except maybe for sound editing, cause making things go boom is an art in itself, but at least two thirds of your friends will know at least one fourth of the cast and five sixth of the plot without even watching one eighth of the film so there’ll be some healthy debate, at that weekly catch up you dread going to, although you always have the best time.

Some people are that blockbuster, but some people aren’t.

 You see I’ve come to realize that some people are the great American novel, timeless, classic, and provocative. Well, as provocative as you can be, being written several decades ago; our literature teacher’s kind of book. You know the standard to which we proclaim all contemporary work as inferior although you can’t really recall truly enjoying reading them. You also can’t recall the last three chapters because you didn’t finish them. You know the endings so it’s fine. Or so you would justify it. Some people I realized were the Great American novel, but I also realized some people aren’t. Some people, instead, are this week’s issue of US Weekly or People, current and swiftly becoming not even that. Dated, detached, yet we revel in every second, because despite our best efforts we all kind of want to know whether tribal prints are hot or not; because we can’t really tell for ourselves. And we get more enjoyment out of speculating that this actress’ picture is photo shopped (because we all know it is, I mean who looks like that in real life? Um No one!) than we care to admit.

I came to realize that some people are sometimes inherently’ greater’ than others,  somehow more than others, complex and fascinating, while others are less, less complex and less fascinating. Simple yet appreciated. I came to realize that life wasn’t a case of right or wrong or even of winners or losers, it was about acceptance, allowing oneself to be content in being more or less.  I came to realize that this life, our life, may be one of irony. 

The story was already written, life is simply a matter of how committed we are to telling it word for word.

By: WerepupJeremy

*Photography provided by the impeccable Melissa Cheng!

I just want to hold him. 

To feel his breath on my neck,

To have his hands in my own. 

I just want to be the pillow that he chooses to hug, 

To be the thought in which he chooses to linger,

just long enough to be that force, great enough to keep him at home, 

In my arms. Just for me.

Just for my eyes and my hands and my warmth 

and just... my time.

I just want to keep him here in my sight, 

away from the lights that sing to his soul,

 that make him wander and lure him into the night. 

Sirens’ calls that sink my heart in seas I dare not know.

Cause if he leaves he won’t return.

I just want to be the flavour,

with which he chooses to drench his lips.

Instead of the bottles that ignite his rage, 

Those full cups that blur his eyes

and make him forget. 

That I’m here and I’m whole and I’m his. 

I just want to be enough. 

The old love that outranks the young night,

A flame that glows greater than any new promise. 

There should be no fight.

I just want to hold him.

But now is not my turn.

By: WerepupJeremy

“Now out with it!” says Matt with a smile. Michael smiles back. It is more subtle than Matt’s but special, more rare.  Perhaps even more beautiful. 

“Oh shut up Matt,” replies Michael as he playfully pushes his friend. Michael is strong, and though he only gently pushes Matt, the taller boy immediately loses his balance. This makes us both smile. I can see the stronger boy staring at his friend, unflinching but secretive. Matt doesn’t see it but I do.  He then begins to tell his friend the full story.

“Okay so I know you won’t, but please don’t go around telling this to everybody.”

“I won’t bro, you know me!”

“Yeah that the problem.”

“You little bitch; you better start this story before I kick your ass”

“I’m sure,” replies Michael with a sly smile. “Anyway” he continues, “ so she came over the other day and she was clearly down to fuck, I mean as soon as she came in she was legit taking off her clothes”

“Damn, I told you she wanted some dick!”

“Like real shit, she even wore her good weave!”

At this point both boys collapse into earth shaking laughter, causing the trees to dance in empathy. This is clearly an inside joke. I feel excluded though I have no right to. I feign a smile, though no one can see. Once the laughter has subsided, Michael continues.

“So she’s basically naked and I’m just there. So she walks over and starts taking off my clothes.”

“

Whoa, you’re so lucky” replies Matt, his face alive. Michael however looks detached. He didn’t look like he felt very ‘lucky ‘to me. 

“Yeah, so lucky” Michael replies after a short pause but his voice is soft and doubtful. He doesn’t sound like he’s very lucky at all. Matt does not even notice. 

“So when does it go bad, cause so far this sounds fucking amazing” he says unable to hide his total excitement.

“Ha! We’ll get there man.”

“Well hurry up cause this shit is legit getting me hard.” As Matt says this he grabs the crotch of his tattered dark blue jeans. I see Michael slightly raise his eyebrows. He is either surprised or excited. He moves closer to his friend. His back is straight; his eyes focused on his friend’s pants. I see the tip of his tongue. He looks excited.

“So go on,” continues Matt, catching his friend off guard.

“Huh?”  says Michael surprised, his  trance broken.

“The story” Matt replies.

“Oh!” says Michael as he shakes his head to regain his focus. Once again Matt doesn’t notice but I do.

“So she moves in and takes off my shirt. She’s rubbing her hands on my chest. She says she likes my muscles. Then she starts to kiss me.  She smells really feminine, like strawberries and cake. It’s a sweet kind of smell.”  As he speaks Matt’s face is enthused but Michael’s voice is unimpressed.

“Mmm” says Matt “I love that shit!”

“It’s okay I guess. It’s too sweet. There’s no grit. No strength.”

“You’re crazy, what do you prefer, she smell like me?”

In response Michael smiles, I think he would prefer that.

“Oh shut up man!” he says with a forced laugh. He continues “so we’re making out and she feels soft, too delicate; her body is too small.” As he talks he closes his eyes and moves his hands; embracing the air in circular motions as he’s trying to make sense of his words. Trying to figure out why they all sound so wrong. Matt doesn’t notice. He thinks they’re all compliments. To him they sound perfect. Everything sounds right. But it’s not. Not to Michael. I want to offer him a hand, to pull him into my fortress where I can understand. Where I can tell him he makes perfect sense. But I can’t. Not right now. He doesn’t know that I am here.

Michael continues “she starts to take off my pants, I push her back, tell her maybe we should stop.”

“Are you crazy?!”

“I don’t know. Something just felt off, but she didn't care, she came back tugging at them, trying to feel up my junk, but,," he makes a slight pause,  "there was nothing to feel, I wasn’t, you know, she doesn’t make me....... excited. So I just pushed her off”

Matt looks incredulous, he can’t believe his ears. Michael looks ashamed, wounded, his sad silver eyes facing the ground.

“Maybe you don’t like dark skin girls?” offers Matt as an excuse, a getaway. “Maybe you want one of your own kind.” He says this humorously but it’s ill-timed. It’s not what Michael wants to hear.

“I don’t know. It just wasn’t. I don’t know. It was wrong.”

“WRONG!?” replies Matt, his big eyes popping out of his head.

“Yeah just wrong” replies Michael almost inaudibly. “Can we drop it please?” Michael looks like he is in pain, his stance has collapsed. He is hunched over like his body is aching. His soft voice now almost a whisper  as though it is draining him to even speak. His friend looks concerned though I feel he doesn’t fully understand. I am concerned. I want to help, to offer comfort but I can’t. 

I see Matt move closer to him, opening his arms to hug his fallen comrade. The trees no longer appear glistening in the moon light, they are hues of dark green and blues, the stones no longer moon-kissed but shunned by the shadow of the night. It is quiet. But a different kind of quiet. The kind of quiet when you’ve said too much, when you’ve shown too much soul or shared too much truth that you feel naked.  Exposed.

It is quiet, but it is right. In his friends embrace I see Michael smile. Though the bigger of the two he is folded perfectly into Matt’s long arms, comfortable in his shelter as I am in my castle of bark and vines. Matt’s warm breath, his welcoming branches.  I see Michael sigh, a good sigh, one of relief.

Matt doesn’t notice but I do.

Matt soon breaks the hug. Michael isn’t ready for it to end though he lets the other boy go his separate way. 

“She’s a bitch anyway,” says Matt, “So don’t even worry about her and she’s way too vain, so don’t worry about her telling anyone.”

“I guess” replies Michael. He seems almost unconcerned. I think he just wanted a longer hug.

“Don’t even think about that bitch anymore, Mike!” ,Michael smiles. He likes when Matt calls him Mike. I smile because I like it too. “There will be tons of other girls, especially for a little stud like you. You’ll get them next time.” Matt is beaming, his confident smile illuminating the dark road. Michael is less happy. That is not what he wanted to hear. He doesn’t want there to be other girls. He just wants Matt. But he can’t say that, not now. So he forces a weak smile, which though sad it is still perfect. At least to me.  I see him look at the ground, and shake his head as if to abolish what ever thought was in there. He just stares vacantly at the old, abandoned road and soon says, “Yeah, next time.”

The road again is now silent, neither boy is talking. I see Michael look at his silver watch. He makes a sort of surprised face. I assume it’s later than he thought. I see him lean over on Matt to show him the time. His lean is just close enough to subtly brush his shoulders. I smile. I knew he wanted a longer hug. With the realization of the time and their conversation done, they start to move again to walk back into their normal lives. As they leave I want to emerge from the bushes, to stretch out my hand and pull Michael into my fortress. Among the trees and vine I want to offer him comfort, to make him feel safe. But I don’t. I can’t. Though I have become so involved, he is not my friend. He doesn’t even know that I am here. So I have to watch him leave, unprotected. I can’t intervene. I can't rescue him from his shame. I can’t protect him from his own heartbreak.

Not right now. Maybe next time.

-WerepupJeremy

I can hear them coming as their voices swing from tree to tree, their presence vibrating through the branches of my palace walls, disturbing the crisp, clean silence of my secret hideaway.  Upon my sylvan throne, I look out into the empty road, a forgotten pathway crowned by silver rocks and moon-kissed stone, made sacred by its neglect. After three years away, not much has remained the same in my ‘little’ town. The place I had been born had grown up in my absence and all around me now stood a town ‘renewed’ by the menace of man, ‘refreshed’ by the lies of the new and mechanised.  Fields became factories as once open spaces gave birth to businesses and buzz rendering every memory of this space in a time I knew now irrelevant.  Only this abandoned road seemed unable to remove the trace of my childhood. Unable to be cleansed of a past I had known and lived, in a land forcing me to forget. Beside this road, where I now sit, stands a fortress of green and dark blues; a castle of dead trees and vines, fallen spirits and broken dreams frozen in time. A space both asleep and awake, void of the torments of industrialized hands. In the midst of this untouched jungle, this untamed bush,  I am cradled in the arms of my protectors, safe behind the barriers of the familiar ‘prick’ of rough branches, reminding me they’re always there. Here, I can be safe. I can be alone. But not tonight.

Tonight I can hear them coming as their voices swing from tree to tree, their presence vibrating through the branches of my palace walls as their unknown voices fill this space, my space, with the wretched uncertainty of the unfamiliar. As they approach the once abandoned road they cannot see me and I can barely see them, but at least I know they are here. In the darkness of the September night, mortals morph into shadows, as I can only see their opaque outline making their way down this once sacred ground. I do not recognize the voices, maybe I would have three years ago when they were boys, but now I only the see the shadows of men, only hear the deep bass of voices laced with strength and life. I try to imagine faces of people I had known, try to match these mysterious tones with the squeals of neighbourhood youths, playing football on a Sunday afternoon, running wild in their ignorance. But I am unsuccessful. Like their bodies I am unable to bring to light the names of these intruders that now dare trespass on my property, that defile my hidden treasure. 

I reposition myself, ascending slightly, quietly off my throne of bark and branches; my siege, enthroned by dried leaves and vines with which I find comfort, to be closer to my uninvited guests.  As I lean forward, the shadows become more defined. Now just slightly before me I can see that the first stranger is tall and slender, his steps gallant and long while the other is shorter and wider, his steps mimicking his frame.  As they walk their backs are turned to me, I am unable to see their faces. I want to ignore these unknown men, to wait silently for their noise to pass but now they are no longer moving. They have stopped. I begin to wonder why they have chosen to stop here. Why in a town now designed to satisfy the needs of modern man, they have decided to escape to a place so undisturbed by the sins of their fathers? I am curious, so I listen.

“Will you just fucking tell me what happened last night man,” I hear the taller intruder say, his voice alive with excitement. He wants to know. I now want to know as well.

“Will you just drop it,” replies the second stranger his tone more reserved, diffident.

“Will you just cut the shit. You’re going to tell me anyway, so stop being such a pussy,” I hear the first stranger respond; his voice is assertive and strong. His companion doesn’t answer; the words sting. Without seeing his face I know his pride has been wounded.  I, though I have no right to, also feel shaken. There is now a silence, the eerie kind of silence like at an extravagant dinner party when someone has decided to say something taboo and all those in attendance can only carry on with their meals as though they hadn’t heard, leaving only their silver knives to quietly bang against glass plates.  It is this kind of silence. Suddenly their voices no longer tremble through my kingdom, leaving only the gentle wind to quietly rustle the leaves of listening trees made silver in the moonlight.

In the silence of his errors he notices his wrongs, I see him move closer to his supposed friend, placing his arm around his companion either to patronize or pacify, I don’t know which. “I’m just kidding bro, you know I can be an ass. Just tell me… please?” I hear the tall stranger say to his other half, his tone sincere and sweet.  His ‘please’ springing from his lips like a stream of milk and honey. Even I would tell him now.

The second intruder agrees, he seems revived, I cannot see his face but I can feel his smile. “Fine,” he says, pretending to be annoyed. I can tell he now wants to share. “So” he continues, making a slight pause to look around for unwanted ears but he does not see me, “she just came over last night and hung out man.”

“Like I told you she would!”

“

Yes Matt, like you told me she would, “ replies the second boy dismissively. Matt (as I now know he’s called) however seems undisturbed. He is excited, his darkened frame jumping up and down.

‘So she came over and we were on my bed, and we just talked and stuff, so it’s like no big deal man, so can we drop this now?’ says the unnamed boy. He speaks quickly and softly. His words seem shallow and empty.  But it is clear something happened, at least to me, though he wishes not to say anymore.

At this point I become too invested. I am too involved; I begin to paint their faces in my mind with the tone of their voices. I imagine Matt’s strong jaw and big, bright brown eyes. I can see his pink, full lips and his perfect, white teeth. But most importantly I can see his smile, his wide beautiful smile, so unconcerned with insecurity and doubt. The unnamed boy however is harder to picture, in my mind I see a slur of petite features, small unremarkable eyes, and thin, dead lips. He is neither handsome nor exciting, not like Matt, but he fascinates me more. I want to know what happened.

My attention is turned back to my guests. I can see that Matt wants to know more too. I see him inch closer to his unnamed friend. I can imagine his large brown eyes in a glare, his strong brow furrowed, as if he is looking into his friend’s soul.

“You and your constant bull shit bout ’talk’ I know something happened so just tell me!”  Matt has a forceful way of speaking. Without raising his voice his words are firm and authoritative, his presence is commanding. I don’t see how his unnamed friend can resist.

He can’t. 

He is hesitant but he can’t. I feel the space go quiet but this silence is different. It is more like the calm before the storm.  I see the unnamed stranger lift his head as if he is about to speak, but I don’t hear any words.  I see him walk slowly away from his friend, close to my hiding spot. I am hidden but concerned. What if he sees me? Holding my breath I now watch more cautiously in case I need to make my get away.  With just a few steps the muscular boy is now directly in front of me.  From his new angle I can see the natural blond streaks in his thick black hair reflecting the silver rays of the crescent moon.  I can hear his deep breaths, uneven but rhythmic. I can feel his unspoken shame, his soul searching for a voice to tell his friend, to tell himself, to unknowingly tell me but his body demurs.  His strong shoulders shrug, his head gently bobs from side to side as he runs his large hands through his multi-toned hair. He makes a sort of secret exclamation which though he is so close to me I am unable to hear.  With this he begins to walk back to his friend, his steps short and wide; his light brown boat shoes ever so slightly kicking up the silver dirt of my sacred road. But I do not mind. I want to help him. I want to make him feel safe. I want to grab his hand and pull him into my fortress. But I can’t.  Not right now. He doesn’t even know that I am here.

He walks over to Matt, his frame bent, defeated. He quietly mutters “shit.”  Matt doesn’t hear but I do.

“It isn’t really a fun story man,” he finally says, his head facing the ground.

“Come on Michael, I’m not here to judge you bro,” says Matt, his voice warm and comforting. 

Now that I know Michael’s name I feel like I can truly greet my guests.  I have become too invested. I am too involved.

“So just tell me bitch,” Matt finishes. His tone is light. Michael chuckles. It is sad but hopeful. I see Matt playfully punch his friend. It makes me happy though I don’t know why. If I were Michael I would tell him now....

-WerepupJeremy

One day. One random day in some random bar, or maybe in some random club on some random street you just may discover that you hate yourself. You just may discover that you hate more than just your job you don’t want or your clothes that don’t fit. More than just the courses you took in college or the people you dated; those faceless shadows who wasted your time one after the other because somehow they were just never ‘enough’. You may discover that in essence you hate who you are; the decisions you made in the spur of the moment that hurt the only person to ever truly love you, or the lies you told for no reason that left you stranded on some corner because you shunned the ones who cared.

You may find you hate your friends you can’t trust or that guy you just met. That random guy in that random club, who you just gave your number to, knowing that he’ll only call on some other random night at 3am just for that one thing. And you’ll invite him over and give it to him in an effort to not feel alone. But you’ll hate him when he’s done. You’ll even hate him during. You’ll hate him because his touch made you feel like trash. You’ll hate how the memory of his scent sets your skin on fire. You’ll hate his empty words (if he even bothers to say words at all) and you’ll hate his booze plagued breath. You’ll hate his stupid flannel shirt and his too tight navy pants.  

You’ll find you hate your exposed body and your filth-stained soul. You’ll hate that you never asked him to leave. You’ll hate that he did anyway. He left, and you were alone again. You’ll hate that for a second you’ll think you miss him. You’ll hate that even though you don’t, you still sent that text telling him it was ‘fun’ and to come again ‘anytime.’ It wasn’t fun. Forfeiting your pride and abusing your body is never fun; you never want to see him again. You’ll hate that he won’t respond, that He doesn’t want to see you again either. You’ll hate him and the scars he left. The scars you allowed his claws to make, as you guided his hand across the outline you drew yourself. From now on you’ll always hate stupid flannel shirts. And you’ll scoff at all too tight navy pants…. You’ll hate all navy pants so very much.

You’ll discover you hate your ‘shambly’ apartment because it is the metaphor for your life; dirty, defeated, but still holding on if only until it can’t. You’ll discover you hate the cars you don’t have, or that family you’re not a part of. Oh!  You’ll also discover you hate your own family as well, because they must have done something wrong, or not done enough or not done something at all to make you feel like this, to end up like this, living as if you’re half a person living half a life.

You just may discover you hate this sad half-life; you’ll hate its memories that make you cry and its promises that won’t come true. You’ll hate its sunsets and its goodbyes. Especially its goodbyes.  You’ll hate them because you weren’t ready, you weren’t ready at all to say goodbye.  You’ll hate your midnights and your Monday mornings.  You’ll hate them because they feel the same. You’ll hate them  because they never end.  Because they never get brighter, or at least they never feel brighter. Because they can’t.  You’ll hate that you cannot change; that you can’t change the hour, or your words or his mind; especially your words because they were the only thing that were ‘yours’ to begin with.

One day.  One random day in some random bar, or maybe in some random club on some random street you just may discover you hate yourself. And if that day comes I hope you’re not too numb to care.

By: WerepupJeremy