28

 For my 28th Birthday... 

I received a litany of things. Whether we could call these things "gifts" is subjective. I do not know whether to think them as such, or whether they are unwelcomed cracks in the wall I've tried oh so hard to buttress. 

I received doubt; doubt from those once thought to be friends and allies. Those who once welcomed me with open arms into this, a new stage of my life. Those who relished in my good graces and humbleness, and thought it a welcome change from murkier grounds and stranger tides. Those who I saw as confidants, associated, and those I could talk and turn to. This doubt was the gift that kept giving, for it shone a light upon that cracked wall to bestow upon me revelations. 

A revelation is scarcely good, right? We live our lives, chaining revelation after revelation, but we often separate these into neat bins. On the good end, we have discovery. These are revelations that benefit us; things that we can learn from and use to better our lives. In the other bin, collecting dust and harboring mold, are the true revelations; the "so-and-so said she saw your girlfriend cheating on you" revelations, the "we heard the boss talking about layoffs" revelations, the "Nobody other than me and your mother have faith in you anymore" revelations. Right, a revelation is scarcely good. 

I received diminishing returns. We're told in this life that effort and concentration are the oft-reliable tool in the box to get us out of a bind. Maybe if, we just try, that we can become like the happy people; the happy people that don't deal with the immigration, the snakes in the grass, the bee that flies into your eyes and causes you to fall off of an e-step and break your hand. 

Where were the solutions we were promised? I come from America, and I am not blind to the fact that the American dream died a long time ago. But elsewhere? The vainglory, I've found, is nothing more than bravado. Hardship does not have borders, and struggles speak the same language. Like a ghost from my headphones utters in his raspy, rhythmic voice: 

Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That's how it goes, 
Everybody knows

I received shaken faith. Not in religion, no; in myself and the goodness of others. I was always told that humility and humbleness was the sign of success. Socrates said the only thing he knew was that he knew nothing. Similarly, I say that I know nothing, therefore I might one day know something. This claim is not entirely false. I know now that humility is not the superpower that people claim it is; it is simply a weakness that others exploit, and use to further bolster their arsenal of doubt. Self-awareness may be what sets humans apart from, say, goldfish, but I'll tell you this: there is nothing more dangerous than being self-critical to the point of destruction. 

What I've been told is meaningless. The path they'd led me on is crumbling away. And as I walk, that forester, now so far from the trees that he struggles to breathe, has fallen on one knee. And the world fades to black, his year ending not unlike the end of some dark comedy that's failed to earn a laugh. 

But this is not the end. 

On my left, I see it, wrapped in a plastic sleeve. A wild man, one with struggles of his own, stands frozen in eternity, screaming into a microphone. He's on LSD, permanently bobbing in front of the Hollywood Bowl as his girlfriend rests comfortable on Mick Jagger's lap. He doesn't care; he heckles the crowd; he falls to the ground, microphone in hand. He lets it loose, a scream so eternal that it transcends our idea of chaos. 

I see the gift my wife bought me, Live at the Bowl '68. I see Jim Morrison-- Mr. Mojo Risin' himself-- on the cover. 

He was a troubled soul who, too, at age 27 sat in Europe with the love of his life. The burdens of his days in the United States mixed with his own self-destructive tendencies drove him to heroin and alcoholism. Through this, it's suspected, he lost his life in Paris on July 3, 1971. 

I do not see myself in Jim Morrison, but I see something familiar, like a funhouse mirror. I see, through that morphed reflection, someone who simply wanted to exist in a world that no longer embraced him. He had his supporters until the end, but, for many reasons, the same people that once embraced him were quick and all too eager to turn him away. As Vonnegut would say, So it goes. The crowd is fickle. 

Jim, much like his colleagues Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, didn't make it to their 28th birthday. I will. Not as an international superstar, a voice that reaches the soul of millions, or a guitarist that inspires generations. I'll make it as a man who, despite the world crumbling around him, still has the will to keep going. 

More than this, I received reminders. Reminders of who true friends are. Reminders that some people do relate to my plight. Reminders that reconciliation is possible, and true friendship does not die, while fake friendship and "love" falters and wilts like a flower hastily and so frugally bought from the city market. 

But most of all, I received a newfound sense of energy. Energy to prove the doubters wrong. Energy to, beyond all expectations, grab the presence with both hands and pull myself upwards into the future. 

The lower-class dream was never real. The American dream was always fake. There will probably never be a gilded avenue to success. That's why you have to wake up first.

And as he woke, the forester scanned the terrain. Yet another alien scene stood before him. The concrete jungle, soulless as ever, was dotted with the static glow of streetlights. A rush of familiarity struck him, as the lights were not all that different from the solar lights lining the walkway of his forest abode long abandoned. 

Maybe, he reasoned, it wasn't so different after all. Maybe there was a home to be found here, in a world that had yet to embrace him.