My gift to you

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It is a gift that I give you my friend, a gift from the heavens above
A gift that weathers any storm, a force stronger than love
Its the beauty of a friendship, a bond that ask no questions
A trust that lives inside of us of certainty and no suggestions
It is a treasure to be cherished, like a helping hand
Through the darkest of your hour, here it stands, my gift to you my friend
It is an unbreakable bond, that believes in all the best
That battles every doubt and fear, withstanding any test
So take it now and hold it tight, my never doubting, ever trusting,
Unconditional love

Unconditional love

Its often funny to think about what love means to each and everyone of us.  Whether the love for a puppy, sibling, lover, or friend – is all love created equal?  What is the one love that holds no judgment, no fear, no insecurity?  The type of love that is given freely instead of being earned?

Websters describes this love as “unconditional love.”  It states – “Unconditional love is a term that means to love someone regardless of his actions or beliefs..”  But can you really truly love someone regardless of their actions? When someone has done you wrong or misguided your trust, can you trully love them?  What is love anyways and who’s job is it to identify these rules as to what unconditional love is?

I past relationships I have seen couples stay together because of this “unconditional love.”  Their response to the question “why not just leave them?”  – “Its not so much THEM per say, its their actions.  My love for them is unconditional.” right.

I ask my self – how long can someone play the unconditional card?  Is true love really unconditional?  or is that we mistake “real” love and pretend that it is unconditional?

My brother has always had my unconditional love and while we may not see eye-to-eye on a lot of subjects, we have always respected each other. Sometimes his actions can seem radical, crazy, uncontrolled but somehow , some way, my father bails him out. When I ask my father why he does what he does KNOWING that my brother will just go back to doing the same, he replies – “he is my son and I love him unconditionally” When it come to family – do they naturally obtain your unconditional love?  Is the love of family unconditional?  And how many times must one person fuck up for that love to be taken away?  Will it ever be taken away?

As it was said by a great witter –

“…I’ll probably never understand ya way,
With everyday I swear I hear ya,
Trying to change your way – unconditional love” – Tupac Shakur

The journey home…

calle8As I stepped out of the airport I could feel the humidity hit me straight in the face.  It was like slamming into a wall of hot, humid, sweaty air.  My hoodie and boots made me look foreign next to all the others.  I had arrived in Miami.

For the past 4 months I have thought of nothing but my “birthday – thanksgiving” vacation.  Every year around my birthday I think of nothing but going away on vacation. My birthday give to myself.  This year I was to go to Santo Domingo, Boca Chica, and then Miami to visit my family for Thanksgiving. This vacation is meant to relax me from all the problems encountered throughout the working year.  A ventilation from it all.  To my surprise, as i arrived home, all I could think about was how “chimi” was doing back in the Bronx.  I had spoken to my family earlier and told them of my arrival but to my surprise there was no one at the airport to pick me up.  Something felt strange.

I took a cab home and on the way called my mother.  She informed me that she was working and so was my brother.  In the past my mother would be the first one there.  She would show up with my brother, uncle, grandmother, dog, dog’s girlfriend, and any other family member they could possibly dig up to come see me at the airport.  She would be holding some kind of sign and yelling from across the airport – “hijo!!!!”.  In my trips returning home from school upstate I would dread moments like these.  Today, however…I missed them.

Home seemed like a far away place.  Sundays at my house were spent playing domino, talking loudly to each other, drinking Coronas while Willy Chirino played in the background.  I could still hear my mother yell out into the back yard – “oye vengan a comer lechon, que se esta poniendo frio”  My brother and I would shrug and laugh with each other.  This time however, those moments were not more.

As I sat at the dinner table this Thanksgiving, I realized that my family was beginning to move on.  From the moments where everything seemed okay.  From the moments where everybodys bullshit was not brought home to the dinner table.  From the moments that brought us closer.  They had all gone about their lives:  My brother would soon find a girl, marry her, and make her pregnant.  My mother had gone back to school to become a US citizen.  My father had opened another business and would now work another 100 hours a week on top of the 300 hours he already works.   My uncle had grown his business and now we saw less and lesss of him.  Any my grandmother, how I love her, had been captured by the hand of time.  I yern now to go back to those moments where home was home.  Where at any given moment I could say that returning back was what I wanted to do.  That I would still have my old room.  My old friends.  My old family.

I return back now to New York with only a distant memory of those moments and the hopes that I will find the home I yearn for here in new york city.

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sorry2
Thank you for your words that you did not say
But I ask you kindly  – “please don’t go away”
I am scared of the last line of your verse
Am sure this can be resolved if we just sit and converse
..of the things which I did and the things that were said
It is not my intention to fuck with your head
I never asked you to monitor you actions
I am surprise at your words and reaction
I said lets play it by ear…yes I mean it, did you hear?
Put down your wall, there is not time for your fear
No I cant am sorry, I choose not to accept
The “work” that you do and the undies you kept
I do see the change and I guess I need to be patient
Time will pass by and so will my patience
So I ll leave you the time in taking your brake
But ask yourself – what is really at stake?

uncertainty

head1

I am uncertain of what is to happen tomorrow
Of my will being strong and me feeling no sorrow
My mind tends to wonder as the days go by
And my anger keeps amassing
My spirit shatters and multiplies

I am uncertain of the wrinkles in my face
The years in my hands and history without trace
I keep tracking my adventures
My log pages are beginning to fill
With the nonsense that requires correction

I am uncertain that I will not leave something behind
Something small yet peculiar to remind,
You of ME – who is reading my log
And for me to take when I am gone
I ll write it in paper, wall, script, or stone

I am uncertain of whom I ll become
I have three forms that I am transforming
Sitting here displeased
So displeased that I am yearning to stop being discerning

I am uncertain of what I am writing
Only certainty comes at time of clarity and that thereof
I am certain of death – yes death
That is all that is left to be assured of

I am uncertain of what is left to be certain for

waiting on the next chapter

I stopped and thought today – what am i really doing here?  As many years have passed since I left my home in Cuba and I now I am in the path of becoming man that I was meant to be, I can help but think of my past and the experiences that have gotten me here today.  I guess sometimes I cant seem to shake the things of the past nor can I avoid the inevitable hand of fate.  Does fate really exist?  Is there some higher power out there that has written our lives out for us and we are just mere characters in its book of eternity?  Or, do we as individuals have the right to shape our unique path?

As I walked home yesterday from work I looked around me and for a moment stopped and thought – “do i really live here?”  Ask me 10 years ago and I would have never told you that I would be living here in this city that I now call home.  Sometimes i think i am actually dreaming; that the boy who grew up in the campos of Cuba live in the center of the world, NYC.

I friend of mine will soon be leaving me to return home and so I cant help but wonder when will my time come.  When will fate draws its hand out to me and move me to the next chapter in my life.  Will I live in this city forever? Or is my time here temporary just like all the others who have come before me?

Only Fate may have the answers to my questions