Dear You,

My oh my, look at how far we’ve come. Remember the days where we used to be in college, no going to class and finding any reason to lay up in bed, lay up with each other? Occasional trips to the dining hall to grab nourishment and make use of those meal plans, only to wind up back in bed, back with each other. My, how those days seemed to go on and on and on, a big blur until it all stopped.

When I met you, I realized love was real. That love was not just some abstract, intangible thing that I’ve read so many books and poems about. You were love to me, that abstract suddenly embodied in a physical specimen that I could only recall as perfect. Perfect and mine. Yea, love was real man. You made me see that.

And just as you opened my eyes, I realized that they were too open. Love made me vulnerable and you took advantage and where was I to go and who was I to find comfort in when the person I loved, who loved me, would hurt me? When you lied, when you cheated, when you forsake every promise that you had made to be you. You became someone else. You were not you. And it was too late for to me see, that I was no longer me. Love had done me wrong. You had done me wrong.

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The City of…

I moved to Los Angeles for school.

Who could resist going to school in the City of Angels; the city of perpetual sunshine; the city of perpetual droughts; the city of traffic that’s seen as normal and just something you have to accept if you’re going to live in Los Angeles; the city of godly Mexican food; the city that used to be Mexico; the city of beaches; the city of no rain; the city of no weather; the city of blistering summers; the city of fitness; the city of fake fitness if you have a good plastic surgeon; the city of two universities; the city where UCLA is better if you’re smart but USC is where you go if you’re rich; the city of film & television; the city where you might see a celebrity and realize that wow, they don’t look as great as they do on screen; the city of museums; the city of hipsters; the city of skid row; the city of the homeless…

I love this city. Or really, maybe it’s the city where you tell yourself you love it because to say otherwise would be blasphemous.

We Built This City

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Throughout the many different types of love that exist, the single commonality that all types of love share is death. I believe that if you love someone, or something, or some place, then ultimately, you are afraid of losing it — of its death. The fear of no longer being able to love this person, this thing, this place is the dark underbelly of love. There cannot be love without the possibility of loss. Otherwise, how would we know that we ever loved in the first place?
I Want to Know What Love Is

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I wke up tday and thught it was Wednesday.

I lked up at the ceiling and said, “Is it Wednesday?” I thught certainly it was.

I gt ut f bed and walked t my dr, sure f this idea that tday was Wednesday. My hand turned the drknb and then I realized that it was Tuesday. I felt sad. I was unsure why.

I had n plans fr Wednesday. Nthing exciting was t happen. I suppse I just wanted it t be Wednesday. ne day clser t Friday.

Wh came up with the wrk-week? Decided that Wednesday wuld be Hump Day. Why 40 hurs each week? 40 hurs devted, n, wasted at a place that I did nt like. 40 hurs. Think f hw much I culd d with thse 40 hurs that I pretended t wrk at my wrkplace. I culd paint, I culd write mre, I culd d mre f what I wanted, f what made me happy. 40 hurs f happiness.

40 hurs.

I was still standing there, caught between my bedrm and my bathrm, my thughts and the awful reality that tday was nly Tuesday.

I wish it was Wednesday.

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Playa del Rey

My locs are filled with sea water and memories of today. A day spent in the sand, building upon what is slowly becoming ‘us.’ Swept under each wave – overwhelmed by emotion – and wondering what the future may hold, but willing to accept the present as it is.

The beach is my favorite place.

It’s a place that molds to your desires, adapts to your thoughts, shifts to bring you closer to what you truly need right here and right now. I can choose to start afresh, choose to continue on from yesterday, or choose to ignore time altogether; to find solace in the repetitive waves, creating the one true sound of nature.

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Top Five

A writer once said, “You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.” If this is true, which five people would you like to spend your time with?

  1. Barack Obama. First African-American President of the United States of America. Actually, he’s a bunch of “firsts.” Easily the first person who popped into my mind with this question.
  2. My mother. Self-explanatory. The reason why I want to cook everyday for my family & support them in every endeavor. The ultimate success story in my eyes.
  3. Kobe Bryant. The embodiment of determination.
  4. Rosario Dawson. She’s beautiful, she’s smart, and she is full of culture.
  5. Solange Knowles. If I could give one less fuck than I already do by being in her presence, whew, I’d be blessed.

Circle of Five

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All Mine

With a plot of land — not too small, not too large, but just the right size — I plan to leave a legacy. A modest home will be built upon this land, designed with love and modesty, built with sturdy wood and good intentions.

Every year, the family will take their annual photo on the front porch. It will start with just a man and a woman, entirely in love and proud of what they’ve accomplished. They are homeowners, the African-American dream. Each year, their faces grow a bit older and then age dramatically. That year, they are joined by a small bundle of joy, nestled in the arms of the woman transformed into the mother.

A few years later, another bundle arrives, replacing the previous one who can now stand on his own two feet. The home changes to accommodate these additions to the family. A study becomes another bedroom. The once pristine living room is covered in colorful hand prints and an assortment of crayon drawings.

Many firsts occur in this home, on this plot of land. Each photo documents a new year of the family, another mark of age for the land.
A Plot of Earth

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