Because I’m here… and you’re there.

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I admire many people.  I look up to them.  I look up to some very wonderful people, some that fit into today’s standards of “normal” some who dwell outside of it.  I admire these people for the effect they’ve had on my life and for a connection we made either repeatedly or years and years ago.  I admire these people because they exist, because I can relate, they can relate or because they are there.  I look up to people I haven’t seen since a cold night a decade ago, or the other night sharing a thought just because.  I admire people for what they are, what they’re living through, and what they can share, and what I can share.  I admire and look up to you.

Maybe I admire you because of a song.  Listening to an old song, in a cold garage together taught me that I can get through it.  It taught me about shared pain derived from very different circumstances that weren’t very different after all.  It taught me that I can fight through anything, that a song can save me.  You taught me that I am alive, and that I have to fight to stay that way, and sometimes it’s a simple as a song.  I learned that music can save my life, even if I can’t save yours.  I look up to you even now, because I understand what happened, and you understood me.  Things that we didn’t share personally, things that were not the same, often could be linked between us with music.  It’s a simple connection that can save a life, and as you learned, could destroy it.  I admire you despite the noose in the garage, and I admire you because of what you taught me.

Maybe I admire you, maybe I look up to you, because you fight.  Because you defy what your own body has limited you to.  I admire you for doing what you want to do, what you set out to do, purely because life has told you “no”.  You do it anyways, I can understand that limitation, I know what life has limited me to, or rather tried to limit me to.  I admire you because you fight it anyway, and even though the world says “it’s impossible”, you refuse to embrace it, and do what you want anyway.  I look up to that, because the fact that you fight your own body every day means that I can too.  It means that I don’t have to give in, and stop trying.  That I can accomplish things despite it.  That I can go ahead and move on, even if I’m scared to.

Could it be that I look up to you because I know the very feeling that I can see in your eyes?  Could it be that remember that feeling, that dive straight to the bottom, and I remember the fight to STAY at the bottom because self destruction is ever so fun.  I remember that fight.  I look up to you because you thrive, even though you shouldn’t.  I look up to you because I’m different, and you’re different, and yet we’re still here.  I look up to you because I remember, and I have my own pain.  That feeling I can see, that emotion, that haunts your eyes, I’ve had it too.  I’ll have it again. The reason may be different, or maybe in reality it’s the same.  I can relate.  Maybe I can relate to the ENTIRE THING, or maybe it’s a small thread of what had been, would could’ve been, what will happen.  I look up to you because you exist, and you’re still here.

I admire you because of a flower.  A simple wildflower.  I admire you because you taught me that something simple can change a life, can move you forward even as your clinging to your past.  I admire you because that simple goddamned flower made me realize that life is still there, even as I was fighting against it.  That stupid flower died, and I kept living, long past the smile it brought me.  I admire you because you live for the simple moments, the smiles, the simple connection that everyone else deems insignificant.

I admire you because you can express yourself in ways I cannot.  You have paint and canvas, you have pencils and napkins, you have screams and songs.  You have things I do not.  I am limited to words, and sometimes the words refuse to come even thought my fingers ache to create them.  I can look at the mess you’ve made with paint, glue, and graphite.  I can look at things, I can hear things I relate to even when I can’t create myself.  Everyone gets blocked, but I look up to you because you create differently than I do.  Perhaps it’s envy, but maybe it’s also needing to know that other people are still creating.  I look up to you because I can write, but you can create in color and depth.  I can create words that stir my soul (maybe others?) but my words are limited to what I want to share.  You share them with the world, while I hide mine.  I admire you because you’re not me, and I can still find myself in something you’ve created.

Maybe I admire you because you have the balls to leave it all behind and start fresh.  I could do that once, and I did, but now I have roots and cannot.  Maybe it’s because I don’t want to, but I do enjoy watching others restart what they’ve made.  Maybe it’s because you’re not afraid of change, because I’m not either, because we embrace it.  Maybe I look to you because I no longer desire immediate change, but can appreciate the need for it.  Living vicariously?  Not quite.  More like remembering the feeling.  Remembering the past, and watching it replay through someone else.

I admire you because of our past.  Because of your past.  Because of my future.  I admire many of you for reasons you’ll never understand, and while you may not want someone looking up to you, you don’t have the choice.  It’s my choice to make, and even though it may rock you to your core, you don’t have to let it.  Or maybe you should.  You should let that realization that the choices you make, the way you think, or maybe what you did a decade ago has indeed impacted someone else.  Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s someone you’d never suspect.  But regardless, I admire you.  For reasons I understand, and reasons I do not.  For reasons that maybe I’ll never know.

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