the wild west.

where i was born. and raised. and live.

i was born in venice beach, california. a place where waves roam wild and people pick up their feet without being afraid to slam them back in to the ground. a place where there is such an eclectic group of people it’s hard to define. it’s hard to define. it’s hard to define the memories, the faces. i try and and i try. i try to remember it all, but the more i try the more it crumbles apart, like a cookie. every time i try to pick it up it crumbles apart and slowly, one by one, it hits the floor. but not silently, a loud crash. it echos around me. it’s deafening. another memory lost. but i pick up the pieces still. try to shove them into my pocket. the memories of when i was little. little, yet still tall. little enough for my feet to dangle above the bridge. i look behind me, my father holding me steady and my mom right behind him, holding him steady. i look back down, the dormant water under me. my light up skechers. i close my eyes. i remember the watermelon cut up into squares. the loud crunch and spill of the juice. i’m at the playground now. you can see the ocean roaring and yelling out “come here.” i grab her hand. we walk towards the waves and i can smell the salt in my nose more than ever. i grow older. my memories filled with friends, grades, and trips to grocery stores. summer. where time flies faster than a clock in math. the memories of staying up late with my best friend. throwing popcorn at her strawberry blonde hair. laughing until i pulled a muscle. walking on streets, with the lights guiding us. streets filled with stores, cars, graffiti, and school. school. i, surprisingly, love that place. it’s because of the memories. the field trips to the beach, the consistent laughing and chatter, the education. the education that the wild west is fortunate enough to have. the wild west filled with oceans, mountains. mountains.

i move. i leave the waves and the cookie cutter memories behind. i walk into a new world of mountains. no waves. no strawberry blondes that i can throw popcorn at. i walk around these mountains with new eyes. i feel like i’m in a new grocery store. where everything familiar is stripped away, yet if you look harder, it’s the same. same food. same products. everything is the same, just rearranged. that’s exactly how it feels. i am thrown into a new grocery store. but i make friends along the way. like the blonde, we make s’mores cups together every saturday. i walk down the hallways of my school, my mountains. i can call them mine now. i make new memories. but they’re new. fresh cookies straight out of the oven. i haven’t dropped them. yet. i look outside and there’s snow. another memory. i put on my brand new skis. they’re the color of limes. the telephone pole chair lift takes me up and away. i can almost touch the clouds now. there are diamonds on the tree tops. i am on cloud 9. i return to reality, jump off of the seat and into a magical playground. i approach a different diamond. this one is black and ominous. i want to run away; run back to the waves. but i’m pulled forward. i twist and i turn. the snow flies left and right. i conquered my own diamond. i’m kinda liking these mountains. but there are so many more memories to make in this wild west. this wild west is much bigger than the waves. it has mountains too. and plains, rocks, valleys, all of which i have yet to discover.

there are so many more memories to make. so many more cookies to eat. and so much time to do it all.