To my Bestie

They say that people are brought into our lives, for a reason. That they are sent to teach us a lesson, guide our hearts, and heal our souls. I have seen this in my life, and I have seen that timing is everything. As I say good-bye to my best friend, I look at it as a tragic ending. Somewhat of a series finale to a great television show. Something like Will and Grace, MASH, Friends...etc. It's epic, but not in the good way. It's sad, but exciting. It's new and different. What will I do with my Monday nights at 7 now that this show is gone?

I don't know.

Although I am sad at his decision to leave me, I am forever grateful to what I have gained from our friendship together, and I am excited to know that although I am sure I will see him again. When we do meet, we will be different people, and rather than have to pick up from where we left off, we are able to start a new chapter to build a newer, fresh, and vibrant chain in our friendship.

I am numb.

I can't help but think that maybe I didn't say exactly what I wanted to say to him, in person. Perhaps, I didn't convey just how much I do care for him. This is where good-byes get a little tricky. How do I know what is enough? 

I don't. So here it is...my goodbye.

I love you, and I always will. I hope no one confuses this love with a romantic epiphany. My love comes from a brotherhood, perhaps even a motherhood. I love you with all of me, and hope you know that I wish for you worlds of happiness that keep you working towards positive aspirations in your life, and as long as you are happy. I can do the same. You have lifted me up, when I was down. You have made me smile, when I was sad, and we have survived the turmoils of cross roads that could have persuaded us to walk different paths when it was premature, and we didn't. We lasted longer than that, and I feel, personally. There was a reason. I don't think I'll ever know exactly what it is, but I know that it has changed my life, forever.

So, this is good-bye, for now.

But when we meet again, may we sit, and talk for hours, laugh for moments that exceed our lives, and live life to the fullest of it's extent.

Adieu. 

Rapper Rhythms in my Mind

Rapper Rhythms in my Mind
By: Nathan Rust

Okay.
      Okay.
He says, it will all be, okay.

Not that I'll change
or grow
or find something
new.

Not that I'll live
and run--or
speak to you.

Anyways.

It will all be okay.

People don't change
or die
or leave.

Like you do.

Please.

Not right now,
not today,
nothing--
of this sort
will be "okay".

Save,
your positive pleas
for someone who,
locked up their emotions
in a tomb--

Today.

I will cry.
I will scream.
I will run.

Today.

I will not be okay
with being okay,
because learning to
love,
means learning to hurt
and showing that hurt
means I can love
again.

When you come back.
Then--
I'll be okay,
but for now...

I'll hate seeing you
escape
my doorway.
When I watch you walk
away.

I'll imagine who we use to be
then I'll be ok.

Just some Second-Hand thoughts on First- Class Problems.

As of late I have been exposed to others' blogs that have been written on issues to which I find myself opposing their stance. Many of these are by friends of mine. So, I've decided to take the liberty, probably improperly, to blog, on these certain topics.

First off...I will be referring to a good friend of mine: Eric Blackwood's blog on "Being Nice." It can be viewed here:

http://www.ericblackwood.blogspot.com/2012/09/wait-that-means-they-arent-necessarily.html

The main point I'm trying to make, and the biggest issue I take with this entry is that people, who are nice, are not necessarily good. I don't find that to be the point. I agree, good acts don't necessarily parlay to being good people, but who is inherently "good", and to take that further what is "good"? It is an idea that is filtered into our minds, and varies from person to person, because it is influenced by our lives, and our surroundings as children and into our adulthood. Being good is as flippant as the idea of "perfection" or "love".

To example this, I have to reference myself as a senior in high school, and reading The Lord of the Flies, it was when my English teacher, in discussion, referenced an interview William Golding who was quoted as saying something to the extent of: People are inherently bad, that is why it is so hard to be good.

At first I was taken aback by such a statement, and almost appalled at the idea that people are bad, but it occurred to be that bad-ness, much like good-ness is an effect of surrounding and upbringing.

For me, I could relate that being bad was always the easier choice, but it is when I am given the choice to be bad, that I recognize that "good" even exists.

Eric believes that people who do good things are not necessarily good people. I disagree. I believe all people want to be good, therefore they do good things, and doing good things is not a  rouse to have ourselves be seen as good people.

He references that man or woman who helps as an act charity (whatever act, is for you to choose) and then that person, that same man or woman is living their life as an adulterer. Infidelity is a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. These people are not bad people. If we are to pin the idea that infidelity is an act which makes someone a "bad" person, we'll have to include the act of murder, binge drinkers, porn watchers, etc. etc. Then who's left?

No one.

Are these acts immoral? Yes. Are some of them addictions? Yes. But the people who commit them have chosen to be bad. Why? Because it is inherent within them to choose what was bad for them, for whatever reason, and who are you and who am I to judge them for that?

Again, they are not bad people. They are people who have chosen bad things. It does not  mean that because they went to church on Sunday to help with a food drive, or took time to help someone jump their battery that their bad choices are disregarded.

As a society we are so quick to judge a person by their acts--and I can agree with Eric on that--when we should be judging them by their character. Someone can have a good heart and make bad choices. Someone can have a bad heart and make good choices. These are not what we should be looking for, but rather, the character and qualities of one's heart, soul, and mind. How do you see that?

You begin by understanding someone's story, their background, who they are and where they come from, and why they believe what they believe. From there you will see someone's true character. People just want to be heard. They don't want your charity, your money, your possessions, your hand-me-downs.  People just want other people to give them the time of day.

They don't want to be good or do good things. Although those things ease the pain of one's past and possible future, and perhaps even aids in salvaging whatever sort peace we still have in the world. Being good is minuscule to what truly matters and that is being kind.

This is just my two-cents about the world, and a different point of view on an issue someone else has written about. Take this as you will. Comment. Cry. Shout. Yell. Scream. Stomp. Like. Don't like. Whatever it may be I'd be very interested in what you have to say. Just don't come banging on my door at 2 in the morning. That would be inconvenient and rude.

Much Love...

Thank you (and some other comments too)

I was a Freshman in College (yikes! It's been a long three years), I was taking my Writing 2010, and we all had to choose a subject to write our five page paper on and present it to the class. Naturally, I chose gay bullying.

It was among my research that I found that many of the teenagers and young adults who had committed suicide due to bullying that year, they all became just a number, a statistical portion of evidence for people like me: a college student. To prove why bullying is so wrong. I didn't want them to be numbers. I wanted those kids, those who weren't able to live their lives, at least truly, to an extent that they loved themselves fully, I wanted them to have names and stories, and vicariously, I found mine.

There were so many emotions brought on by my paper. I was angry. I was sad. I was overwhelmed. Confused. Misunderstood. More than anything, I was a fraud, and I had been for nineteen years of my life. I was living two lives under one skin and I hated it. I hated the lying. I hated the scheming, and I hated the idea that I would never be able to have a husband, a family, one dog, one cat, twins, and a cow named Betsy (okay maybe the latter four I embellished on).

I had been posting status updates on Facebook (as much as I do now, yes), and the more I posted, the more obvious it became that I was a little...different. My updates caught the eye of my aunt, who then called my grandmother, who then called my mother. I came home from school one day, and sat at the counter with my mother as she made me something to eat. It was our ritual.

I didn't decide that day would be the day, but because of my paper it was just always on my mind, and that day it weighed heavily on my conscious, and my mother could see that. Our conversation went something like this:

Mama: Are you okay? She sits on the stool next to me at the counter
Me: I'm okay.
Mama: You know Grandma called me and said Stacy saw some things on your Facebook.
Me: Yeah.
Mama: Weird things. You should stop posting things on there.
Me: Okay.
Mama: Do you want to tell me something? You can tell me anything.
Me: I looked into my mother's eyes I don't want to tell you.
Mama: Why?
Me: I think you already know.
Mama: I need you to say it.
Me: I can't.
Mama: If I ask, will you tell me?
Me: I nodded "yes".
Mama: Do you like boys?
Me: Yes.
Mama: Did you think I would hate you because you like boys?
Me: Yes.

At this point my mother raised herself from her stool. Walked around the counter. Looked at me with tears forming in her eyes and said:

Mama: Did you think I would hate you because you are gay?
Me: Yes. I did.
Mama: I will never hate you. You are my son. I will always love you.

Then she embraced me, and we cried. After the waterworks settled, and the breathing came back to a momentum of speaking proportions. We talked for hours about how I felt, about how she felt, and about everything in between.

It was almost two weeks after that. I felt I had to come out again, because my mother who refused to acknowledge that I like men, pushed me back into the closet. Unconsciously  I'm sure of it. It was new and frightening for her, as it was for me as well. We were all in a space of awkward and shock.

It's been two and a half years, and my family (my brother and sister included) have become the loves of my life, and the support system that have trudged over borders I would have never thought possible. They are my rock.

With this all said, and today being National Coming Out Day, I must say, coming out was not an easy feat. It was something that took me a very long time to do, and it was something that I did when I was ready. The path after coming out, was probably harder than before or even during the coming out process, because after finally saying it, I had to redirect, or re-create rather, a life that was new and exciting, and more over: Mine.

With this said, I must end this note (novel) with this:

Thank you to my parents, who may agree or disagree or not even care about my life, but who have shown me time and time again, that they love and support me, and it is I who do not feel worthy to be in their life due to their kindness and undying devotion to me. I love you mom and dad.

To my sister, who has made all the difference, thank you for loving me, and letting me love you. Thank you for your acceptance. You are truly a woman of character and class.

To my baby bro, you are my child, and I adore you. Your innocence is recognized in my eyes as something that is fading, but you'll always be little Jerry.

To my friends, my extended family, my co-workers, my lovers, (those don't really exist), my strangers and unborn children: Thank you for letting me be me. Your support, and your ignorance (for those selected few) have given me strength and courage to go on.

I love you all, and hope that I allow you the same freedom as you have allowed me to not be just a number.

A letter-poem I wrote (first draft)

To the man who says I don't understand:

I do not claim to be entitled, and I certainly do not disregard your heartache.

You have been broken.
I am not here to put you back together.

Rather, I am here...
to throw away the broken pieces
and create new ones.

I have been bitter. Rude. Naive.
Insensitive and unkind.

I am sorry.

I was also broken.
You put me back together.
I don't remember when
I gave you that permission?

Sir, you are amazing
and I have been blind.
To what I truly feel.

I love you.

Whatever love means,
I feel that for you.
I must, because no matter how
hard I try
to bury it back deep in my soul
or dispose of it into the world
it returns,
to my heart.

Stronger.
Every time.

Don't let me frighten you,
especially if you don't understand,
because I'm just as perplexed
confused
and frightened as you.

In your eyes, I see your past,
as it navigates your future.
I don't ask for rings.
I don't ask for flowers.

What I simply want for us.
No.
For you, is to be happy
and the truth will be in
your eyes, sir.

I know more than you think.
But less than you know.
It is not my life to steer.
It is not my path to sow.

Do not love me in return
and my silence shall be shown.
To all I've said and done
I bring in peace.

Forget me my love.
For I fear, I have come
too late.

Sincerely,
Confusion

It's my Birthday

...and I'll cry if I want to. Isn't that how the song goes? I think I remember hearing that song for the first time as part of the Casper soundtrack. Oh, good times...

It's true, tomorrow is my birthday and I'm turning the big 21. I've found that turning 21 receives various sorts of responses, and they vary exponentially, and vary drastically from reactions in past years. Two of the most popular responses are: 1.) Are you going to drink your brains out? You're going to have so much fun. 2.) Yikes! 21? Next thing you know, you'll be 25 and then it just goes down hill. 

I'm paraphrasing both of those, but you get the idea. Either way I'm not sure how I feel about becoming the big 21. I guess I have no real expectations for it. To be honest, I just want to be able to get into pubs to finally see those secret concerts bands put on throughout the year. 

I guess 21 also feels somewhat like a mid-adult life crisis, because I feel as if I have accomplished so much, but yet I've accomplished so little. I feel like such a success, but such a failure. Moreover I feel like I know a lot, but yet I have much more to learn.

For my age, that might be true, perhaps I know more than any sort of young adult should know, for whatever reason, but I recognize I know nothing at all compared to those who have lived life for 30 or 40 years, plus. I know my parents know more than I do, and my grandparents know more than that. 

I guess my point is that being 21 makes me feel like I'm stuck at a crossroads, which is really no different than I've felt for the past two birthdays, but this time something has changed. Something is just a little bit different. 

This time, I'm not scared. I feel empowered by my uncertainty of what the future holds. I feel excited by the spontaneity that life may bring me. I no longer feel defeated. I feel...remarkable, in the most tragic sense of the word. 

I know, one day, far away from now or maybe not so far away from now. I'll look back at this post and think I was completely awkward and utterly pathetic, but I think that's the point. That tomorrow my life doesn't change completely, but that it begins an incredible journey towards something better. A more mature, honest, compelling, hard-working, self-respecting: Nathan. More than that, I hope I dedicate myself to remaining happy, and doing whatever it takes to do so. 

It makes me Smile

As I reminisce and revel in my "past"--I put it in quotations, because it's quite ridiculous to even mention my past as my past, because it's connotation insinuates that I have a "past" worth mentioning when in reality, I don't, really. That's besides the point. I can't help but smile at a story I remember from when I was "younger"--the aforementioned blurb applies here as well.

I was working at our local amusement park with my best friends, who still live up to that title today: Gabrielle and Natasha are their names, and we were so excited to be working, not only would we have our own personal "grown-up" income, but we were working together.We were super excited!  We were ticket takers, so all we had to do was stand at the entrance of a ride, and make sure everyone had a stamp on their hands. Why we were called Ticket Takers never dawned on me...till now? Weird. 

It was a scorching summer in the dry-dead-heat of 110 in the shade of Utah. Although when I was 15 it didn't seem so hot, but now, thinking back...it was really hot. On a random day of the week I was scheduled to work one of the roller coasters. At this specific attraction you had the pleasure of standing in a box, literally a box. You'd think that because you were covered by some sort of apparatus it would be less hot. Think again. Not only was it hotter than an oven heated to 450 degrees, the heat also perpetuated the smell of cigarette butts, and the smell of pee from who knows where.

I stood at my post in the box and watched as person after person shoved the outside of their hand in my face as I gave them not so attractive looks. Until one day, a group of men. I repeat men. Not boys. Not guys. Men. Approach the glorious box with smirks, each one a different adorable smirk which is credited to their personality I would assume. There was three of them. They went on, through the turnstile. Staring. 

As I continued gasping for my breath in the heat of the dry air, and wiped the beads of sweat from my brow. The sun was beating on my back as it began to set, and as I stood facing forward, diligently keeping to my duties. I hear some rustling behind me, but pay no attention to it. 

It was at a moment when there were no patrons in my line. 

I looked...

on the ground sat a single rose. I grabbed on to it, and smelt it. It was refreshing and romantic. I couldn't help but smile, and I smiled the rest of the night.

Long story-short: eventually the men came back around and explained that they had left the rose, and got my number. It led to nothing, (there are details I'm not at liberty to share online) but I share this story, because it is so vivid in my mind, and it led to me think, why?

It's nothing really substantial or life changing. It wasn't something that forever changed my ideas or beliefs of anything. It was just a rose, some random man left at my feet. A man, I never saw again.

I guess for a 15 year old it was some sort of fantasy that had come true, and I kept that rose until it died. Smelling it, and holding it, and reminding my self of the fairy tale I was now living, and it lasted for at least a week. The bliss of...a land far, far away. Perhaps that is why I remember it. Not because I was in love, or because some man noticed me. Perhaps I remember it because like many fairy tales: it just makes me smile.

Now, at the age of 20 I find myself in a grown up world, where every adult tells me to never believe in those fairy tales. That Sleeping Beauty, Belle, Ariel, Cinderella, and Snow White were all stupid little girls who were created out of the mind of some shut in writer, who wanted to make things up. They are lies, people tell me, but I refuse to agree with them.

I don't believe that fairy tales come true. I am not that naive, but I do believe that I can create my own fairy tale, everyone can. We all can have our moments where every step is enchanting and every moment unreal, but it is in our imperfect lives that we must find those moments of happiness and adolescent storybook endings. I hope one day I find someone who will sweep me off my feet (and I will do the same in return) and we'll live in an uncharted kingdom. With acres and acres of land, and we'll have spontaneous performances of song and dance. We'll give each other roses, and true loves kiss, and essentially, someday:

We'll live Happily Ever After.



"Smile" :)