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    You keep telling me what I deserve but I can’t believe you.

maybe thats the stubborn part of me,

the part that won’t compromise what I want,

the part that doesn’t give into the pressure.

I deserve whatever my heart desires.

And If that is you well…….. come on then.

You came like a dream, from the most sincere part of my imagination.

But a bubble you are not.

You are as real as I am, and just as determined.

Yet your aim is unclear,

I pray that you hit my marks.

Fate brought about such intervention,

may it allow for all that I deserve.

    Their lies in each and every one of us an authenticity. A pure version of us. This is the shade of our soul that can’t be taught, but can only be remembered. As we grow older our ability to peer inside ourselves and remember who this person is becomes more difficult. The scars of past encounters stagger the path that brings us back to this authenticity. Visions of blunders we made and burdens from our travels make this remembrance that much more difficult.

We are one with all that surrounds us when we discover this authentic version. There is a harmonic understanding with the rest of the universe and we know see clearly. The desire to push the ones who wish us prosperity away vanishes and our thirst for truth is quenched.

It is terrible what they have done to you. A wretched burden  has been put upon your shoulders and the scars left from the impossible weight are visible for all to gaze upon. You are not ashamed, just cautious. And no blame can be put upon you for being so. But lay down your walls. If this is real and you are the spark I saw glimmering in the night, then I be not afraid.

It is not easy to remember that time that most of us will never recall. But like most things in life that bring our soul tremendous pleasure it is not easy. Be quiet now and close your eyes to the myopia. When you awake you will be real again. A transcendence to the authenticity long forgotten.

    To kill something off, first you must give it life. You say otherwise, but your are killing this off before it even has a chance. Love is acceptance and love is a choice. I have said before that faith is knowing that given a choice to make, you know that every time you will make the same decision over and over again even when the outcome is known. My heart has made its choice and I have put all of my faith into this.

Have I no say in which path I choose to take. Will you strike me down with little or no regard to what I want. You have given me life. You have given breath into this shell of a man. Yet as I open my eyes with excitement and wonder and gaze upon all that lies before us, you lay me to bed. Please don’t utter those sentiments and think that the book is closed. Many more chapters are to be written. Just pick up the pen, put it to paper, and let this tale continue.

Very little in this world can be a forgone conclusion. Our uncertainty is what makes this life of ours so exciting. So close your eyes and let the feeling rush over you. Put to bed your fears and your worries, for they are to be done and dusted by the time we embrace.

I implore you to bestow unto me your faith. I know all the facts and I have considered the outcome and yet I still forge forward will an open heart and an open mind as to what we may be. Let this new found love be the strength and resolve you need to wade your way through this dark cold time. And find solace in the warmth that is our love.

At the end of the day I wonder if a butterfly still think of itself as a caterpillar. Despite all of the changes a butterfly goes through in its core its still a caterpillar, right? A kid from the hood that goes on to be a professional athlete is still at his essence a kid from the hood, and even with all of the money he is still likely to get into the same type of trouble he went through in the hood. A head chef despite all of his knowledge and training and experience is still likely to sit down at a McDonalds and have a Big Mac, because before that chef ever dreamt of being a chef he surely was raised eating burgers and fries.

I am often left wondering that at the end of this journey will I still remain a caterpillar at heart. Will all the things I have learned and experienced along the way allow me to become the man that I dream I will become. Or will my core still remain that of a boy who longs for the love of a mother he never knew. Will I be steadfast in my ways and strong in my ethos. Or will I remain scared, tentative, and withdrawn.

I want to hold true the hope that I will become all the things I have dreamed. I want to know that a soul can be made clean and pure again. I want this feeling of desperation and sadness to exit me and make no return. I want my insecurities and my distrust to be a not a fleeting memory but nonexistent. Is it possible. I don’t know. I most likely wont know until the end of this long dust road has come to its end. But here’s to hope.

–Adios cocoon

Maybe someone out there can help me with this. What do you do when all that you know is alien to you? When the only life you have ever known is so foreign that it scares you to wake up to every morning. This is how I have been feeling as of late and I guess I am just wondering if this feeling that I have is common amongst other adoptees.

I have come to the conclusion that it must be normal, but what do I do with it, how do I find some peace. The only family that I have is one that I no longer feel comfortable with. I feel totally disoriented from my surroundings, I feel lost. This life that was thrust upon me is no longer good enough to satisfy my needs. I want to leave (and hopefully will be leaving soon) but to where and to go to what? What kind of life will serve me well. Is it in Korea? I really don’t know. I feel like I have been longing for something that I don’t know. A mothers love, a fathers acceptance, a feeling that I blong somewhere and to someone.I know that my adoptive parents love me and I know that they care for me more than anyone else in my life. But this seems no longer good enough. In my heart it’s its not what I need. My adoptive parents will always be my true parents, and their love will always be special to me. But I need something else. What is it? What will satisfy this churning hunger inside me. Someone tell me. I just feel so lost. I wonder if my parents thought about what it would be like to take a child and place him into a life that will in my opinion always be unnatural to him.

We talked about some things the other night over dinner and I’m glad the restaurant was loud because my father and I are loud people and we both became quite animated over what we were discussing. He spoke of my mother and his desire to share their love for another child and I have always known this and always understood their love. But does that justify their purchase. They had a need and they filled it. I mean hey more power to them. There is in place a system that allows such needs to be met and they took advantage of it. But the ramifications that came along with their decision have had such an immense impact on not only myself but on the people that I share relationships with.(be they intimate or casual)I have seen in a lot of other blogs this idea or thought that adoptees often times find themselves torn between loyalties. Having to choose between feelings for the people who have provided in many ways for the child or for the parents the child has never known, yet feels so connected to. I feel so myopic when I think about this. I do feel part of me is betraying my adoptive parents when I shun their love and affection. I feel terrible that I long incessantly for a life that is the complete opposite of what the people who claim to love me most I turn my back on. But at the same time what do I owe them. I mean at this point in my life I am adult living the life I want to lead(or at least trying to) and up until this point I have given them exactly what they paid for. I provided them a person that they could love and be proud of(most of the time) and I will surely continue to do so. But again I feel as if I owe them nothing. They had a need in their life and they went out and filled it. I now as a big ol’ gown up have needs of my own and it is my right to go out and try and fill those needs.

But it hurts like hell. My head and my heart feel like they are going to burst with all of these intense emotions and thoughts. It is a bad day to say the least.But lets have a bit of a straightener about all of this. I love my adoptive parents to death and I am very grateful for the opportunities they have presented me. But am I grateful for being adopted, fuck no. However I suppose theres no sense gong on about something that can’t be changed. But I am sick and tired of feeing this way. I hated going out to dinner with them and being the only non-white person there. I hate them qualifying my introduction with “our adopted son”. I hate the stares we receive when we are out together in public. But most of all I hate feeling alone. I want them to understand why I feel the way I do. I want them to know why I would be satisfied leaving my life here behind and starting a new.

What I guess I really want is to not to have to hear them explain ever again why they adopted me and how much they love me. I don’t want an explanation. I don’t need one. I don’t think they know how much it hurts to have to hear them say the words, to tell the story. I don’t ever recall a time when my sister or my brother have received an explanation of where they came from or how they were conceived out of love. I guess its just one more thing that sets me apart from the rest of the family. And it hurts. I really can’t say how much it stings to hear them say “we just wanted to love and care for another child, so we adopted you”. FUCK.

Well thats enough for today. I feel like I’ve been rambling on for quite sometime, and I’m not quite sure if this is even coherent. Well heres to hoping UW accepts me. The sooner the better. A move can’t come soon enough.

–Cheers to an explanation

Click, click, squeak, click, scrape, click, scrape, click, drag

We write many things, stand back and gaze at our work,

erase some and start over,

correct our mistakes.

Click, click, squeak, click, scrape, click, scrape, click, drag

Dust from a written past collects in the tray below,

we wipe away thoughts and equations that just don’t work,

smear the inscription and transcribe over it,

our hands covered white,

We brush our pants and leave on them the remnants of that which was wrong.

Click, click, squeak, click, scrape, click, scrape, click, drag

Go over the whole board with an eraser and start over,

traces of the old still visible,

we start over but the dust is still there.

The evidence that we have a past,

that as much as we rewrite the lines,

traces still remain.

Summer will come and we will graduate from this place.

The Janitors will wipe down the boards with soap and water,

they will remove the dust from the trays,

we will wash our clothes clean of the powder.

I wish I still had summer vacations,

I wish a janitor would make clean my slate.

-adios dusty hands

No one gets it, and again I find myself in that familiar lonely place. This feeling of isolation has been creeping in on me for sometime now. As much as things seem to be changing, there are some constants that remain. Feelings of abandonment, betrayal, loneliness, loss, and attachment(or lack there of). The past few weeks there have been minor events that have allowed these feelings to peek out from the shadows.As I sat there opposite my aesthetic twin I realized how how different we really are. I guess I had always known the truth about her, but I always hoped she would prove me wrong. All those years of people telling us how similar we were, how we could be brother and sister, people asking if we were twins separated at birth,(I particularly hated that one) all of this helped me believe in something that just isn’t there. Is it because to them we all look alike? or is it because we both put on the same mask that to them seems all to familiar? I don’t really know. One person said it was because we are both outgoing, friendly, bubbly, and warm. What she meant to say is you both have straight black hair, slanty eyes, your short, and have yellow skin. Fuck I’m feeling so petulant right now.I know the mask I put on for them and I know what lies beneath. I know the mask she wears and thought I knew what was lurking inside but that night confirmed it. In fact she said in plain English that she is just not the same as me; never has been and never will be. Maybe I am just a bit more demented than she, but I had hoped that I was not alone in the sentiments I held regarding adoption.I find this mask stifling and obtrusive. It withholds my true emotions and stunts my vision. And for the longest time I have worn it, afraid to unsheathe the person that resides inside. But I have learned to parallel the two, the person I am and the one they want me to be; although the angle is becoming more and more acute in regards to the later. Ahhh fresh air is a good thing and breathing is natural. It feels liberating to finally take it off. She on the other hand wears her mask in excess, I think she is afraid. She has been conditioned from the start that a good adoptee does as she is told, and that thinking out of color is highly frowned upon. Especially since her parents paid good money to keep up with the rest of the Jones’ in the neighborhood.She told me flat out. “Tim it’s weird listening to you. I have never felt those feeling of loss, anger, sadness, that you have felt. I have never given too much thought about it. I guess there is something wrong with me.” I felt bad. I have known her since I was eight or so years old. We are so very much a like. But when it comes to our views on being adopted and what it means to us; it is like we are night and day. Maybe she just banishes her thoughts and feelings away to some remote corner of her heart, or maybe shes like the little elephant in the circus that is conditioned enough to know she cant break free of her chains. I think it’s probably a bit of both. Either way I can see the light has gone out of her. She seems condemned to drift endlessly throughout life not being able to commit, not feeling connected to anything or anyone. Sometimes I envy her. I have opened the adoption box and it will forever have an effect on my life. Sometimes maybe not having to think about all of this would be nice. But this is the path I trod and I embrace it.But to know that there is one more KAD I have to cross of my list leaves me feeling that much more alone.–Adios Roc City

Faith is not something thrust upon us, it is a choice. Faith is knowing that given the choice we will make the same decision over and over. That knowing the outcome good or bad we will keep the faith and remain steadfast in our choice.

Love is ultimately a choice and true love takes faith. Some may think that love is not a choice, that we are powerless to it’s call. But is love not the choice that our heart makes. With the all of the complications that accompany life we sometimes forget that our heart has made a choice and hence we dismiss life as a random act of chance. As human beings we loose the ability to discern between what it is that our heart wants and what we think we need in order to survive. But in my experience there is no greater feeling than knowing that given a million chances I would choose that which my heart has set aim.

There have come a great number of times that hardship has befallen me. And in these times of strife and angst I like most people cover my ears and extinguish the cries coming from my heart. Because as we grow older we come to the conclusion that the message that our heart has for us will only lead to more struggle and pain. But this is not true.

Love is the greatest feeling man has ever known. I have had it in the palm of my hand and I have had it taken away. I have cast it aside only to feel regret and sorrow. It can lift us up, and it can destroy us. And in that lies the beauty of love. That is faith. Knowing the consequences of our choice to embrace love and to take a chance on that which is alien to us we make the choice every time. When we listen to our heart and ignore the scars that have been left to us we open ourselves up to a love that will not break us down but will lift us up to new heights.

I know the difficulties that are inherently ahead of me. I know that that the choice I have made will not be easy. Yet I go forth with faith, knowing that given the choice to do it all over again I would make the same decision that I have made now.

It’s about time that I return all the things given to me over the years that I have no use for. Like the sweater your grandmother gave you for Christmas. You know the one I’m talking about, thick, wool, v-neck. Some sort of animal printed or woven on it like a deer or ducks or something. The kind of sweater they always have in stock over at J.C. Penny.

Like the gifts we open on holidays, our overeagerness to expose what is beneath the wrapping is sometimes dispelled by the reality of whats inside the box. According to the suburban time line I should be to the point of establishment. Where I come from kids my age are all well and done with their university education and on to good positions at great companies. They leave their tidy apartments and get into their new cars and head to work, but not before stopping to get their Venti Caramel Macchiatos. (the preferred drink of young professionals who know nothing about proper espresso) They put in 40 to 50 hours and come Friday at 5p.m. they are off to they hot new restaurants and sleek new clubs. Adorned in their best designer jeans, Aldo shoes, clunky watch, and aviators they will continue this ritual through Saturday, until Sunday when its time for football and sweatpants. And Monday its back to work.

Now where I come from this is known as a quantifiable results. A term that I am all to sick of. The mentality of the communities around me is to wager these results against those of your neighbors in an utterly shambolic attempt to meet some standard. A standard that I know all to well, one that I have grown quite sick of. the idea of a quantifiable results is rather dehumanizing when I stop to think about it. As a society we lend more importance to status, money, image, and material. When the landmarks that are important like kindness, well being, and quality of life all go by the way side. We pass up such things and discard them as immaterial and non-quantifiable. Kindness is weakness, compassion a sign of frailty, and quality of life can only be measured by the name tag sewn into your suit.

I have grown quite tired of these apparitions surrounding me, floating about, whispering in my ear. Their evidence is everywhere The clothes that I wear, the places I eat, the way in which I treat people. I hate it. And I try so hard to not allow them into my soul. But even the farthest rock from the shore gets wet once in a while. I fear that if I don’t get off this island soon my soul will wither from the exposure and if a rescuer were to arrive there would be little more left to me than rags and bones.

But why wait for salvation. My own endeavor might solve this yet. The one thing about Grandma was that she always taped the receipt to the inside of the box. She knew I was my own man. Its the thought that counts really. Those who give always do it with the best intentions, but Grandma was wise enough to understand that what we want to share with others does not always work. And so I am glad she always saved the receipt and let me decide.

—Adios Quantifiable results

    I have quit a great deal of things in my life. Each time I open the door and tuck the remains away in the closet. The funny thing about keeping skeletons around is that sometimes they make the habit of leaving the confines of the closet. You are a particularly sneaky one aren’t you. I try and convey to you that it is not very pragmatic for you to keep coming out and showing your face. As I have said many times your place is there, amongst all of the other things I have left behind. Maybe one day I can bring you out, dust you off and let you go on your way. But for now I need you to stay put.

You call, you cry, you scream. I know how you feel, but I don’t think you know how I feel. How many times will I have to repeat myself. The same sentiments over and over, and for now nothing has changed. Tricky you are though. You know just what to say and when and how to say it. But don’t underestimate me. I am a bit more cunning than you might expect and I see the traps you have set out. I give you credit though. You really are having a go at it aren’t you?

For once you are trying. For once you know what you want. But unfortunately the lights have gone out for you. For I am so exhausted by this familiar dance, you didn’t seem to notice when I ducked out and left you swaying with the memory. Even then you gave little signs of enterprise; least not compared to what your exerting now.

Now I am off to the Emerald City.  Tag along if you must but stay quiet. I’ll take you out as I see fit.

–Adios Park St.