Tribes

I turned away from all the tribes.

The ones with their shiny, plastic smiles, the denim-clad pastors, counting sins as if they were coins.

The goth kids with cigarettes and old records, curated wounds and pierced tongues.

The new wave kids, all so unique in their irony, but dressed so much alike.

Even the theater kids, playing roles to escape the dullness of suburbia.

They all wanted me to fit in. But I wanted none of it.

On the edges, never at the heart, I floated among groups, finding comfort where I could, in music, in politics, in ideas.

Tradition always felt like a costume, stitched together from someone else’s fears.

I ripped it apart at the seams, longing for something genuine and raw.

For years, I spoke only to the wind, slept beside doubt like an old flame, drank clarity from forgotten wells, wrote my truths in ashes, waiting for inspiration to come.

I worshipped nothing only the questions themselves.

No labels would define me. Not even God, who I asked to start over.

Yet thoughts form their own tribe, wild and restless, hungry for stories, for connection and warmth.

And me.

I became like Moses, carrying rules chiseled from my solitude, leading my ghosts through the deserts I chose, not those handed down to me.

I returned, not to blend in, but to share what I discovered, that every tribe is imperfect, but some allow you to kneel without feeling chained.

Tradition isn’t a cage when you’ve got your own keys.

Now I stand, part rebel, part priest, hoping to teach my son to wander without fear, to listen deeply to the intentions behind every word spoken. And the meaning behind every human ritual.