Santa Monica

with his rustic jacket of patches the old man boasted of his journeys

he played chess and guitar at the park

a younger man would ask of his wisdom

he never ceased in giving

the books smelled like home to him

the fruit trees smelled like grandma's

the bakery smelled like mom's

the rain felt like first love

the wind in his hair cuffed his memory

he came here when he was young

he missed his mountains

but his seashells and journals kept him company

he longed to play on a nice piano

the sunshine loved him back most days

he still wrote to her

but the letters never made it home 

to his sweet sweet wife

lying beneath dirt.

future missionary.

It started the day we were born. The ongoing fight that all men lose. 

The girls, they know, but they don't understand. 

Somebody told me

"you're a human if you look once, but you're not a missionary if you look again"

See, the girls know, but they don't understand. 

"keep your eyes up"

Let me start by telling a story about a kid named "every dude ever". Your walking in the hallway, your on twitter, your at the store, your anywhere, and there it is. We see it, we look again, and again, again, and again, because 9 out of 10 guys are in the same boat that I'm in, and the ship is sinking. 

Anybody that graduated high school/college before the internet has no clue what they're talking about.

Try growing up in a world where everybody including yourself destroys your mind every day, all day for living with the strongest instinct you were born with.

The weekly reminders that you aren't good enough takes a toll on you.

I've tied enough "slip knots" to know where the toll takes you.

I don't know why i'm writing this. 

Maybe i'm mad?

Mission. Mission. Mission. Mission. Mission.

"so when are you putting in your papers?"

I don't know.

One day she asked me "am I a temptation?". 

Sometimes I feel like you don't fully understand that word. 

Sometimes I feel like I wouldn't last as a missionary, between the sleepless nights, the psychotic episodes, wandering eyes, untreated depression, and struggling belief.

Is god out there?

I feel something.

I don't know.

I've never tried harder at anything before. Bishop says im fine, the voices in my head say otherwise, all the while he's telling me to end it.

I don't know.

All I can think about is you.

So until I meet you I'll keep my eyes up and my future missionary tag on.

Be this sunset soon forgotten

Ignorance is bliss.
So im just gonna ignore myself writing this.

I care way too much about my life.

I care way to little about my life.

I love you so much that I've never met you and I still love you.
That is literally all I have here.
P.S.
I'm still waiting.

Im always either 99% introvert and 1% extrovert  or the opposite.
 #stolen

I'll always want to make my mark.
I'll always have more ideas.
I'll always drop my paintbrush before it hits the canvas.

I'll always get knocked down.
(you can see the stars better on your back)

The music is always exceptional.
The food is better unspoiled and home-cooked.
Your smile looks brighter in the forest.

The sermon is always calling to me.
The sunset soon forgotten is always the greatest.

I'll always think of where you are when I lay to rest.
and I'll always crush juniper berries in my hand for the scent.

Sincerely,
Joshua Weston Hill

Gold is for fools

The wisest man was chess man.
Drunk as all.
Waiting outside the cafe for another game.
His ragged clothes topped with an expensive sunhat.
He challenged us kids to a game.

"Where are you from chess man?"

"Father was a rolling stone wherever he laid his pack was home."

His crooked board and un-kept beard.
All covered in booze.

Chess man was a master.
He wouldn't answer hypotheticals, only situational questions.
He never played for money.
He never needed approval.

"How old are you chess man?"

"Old enough to know better."

I think his name was destiny but when we asked him he told us his name wasn't relevant.
I feel like my name isn't relavent thats why I want to be fool's gold forever.

~

The happiest man was music man.
Taji was his name.
He played under the Newport clouds by the pier.
Seafood and butterflies in our stomachs while he played to us.

His strings kept breaking, his passion always broke them.

His guitar case gathered his living, but his guitar gathered his life.
His living kept his life safe and sound.
Just enough to keep strumming.
He used to dream about music at his part time job.
He said his part time job was his ball and chain, and he was holding the key the whole time.

The genuine tunes only came because his life depended on them.
Dollar by dollar was earned, but it was never about the money.

"Happiness never came from another dollar in the case. It came from another song in the air"

His name he boasted.
His name was important to him and to others.
His name was destiny as well.
His name was relevant.
His name meant something to him.

I feel like chess man too often.
Does my real name even matter?
You already know the real me.
The real me is Fool's Gold.
Why should I give you my "real name" I hide behind at school?

I should have known better.

I've never before been honest about myself to anybody but my notebooks and blogposts.

Nobody knows who I am.
Not even me.

If words could choke on the keys Im typing on, they would be doing it now.
  
Im choking on the air I breathe too.