Wake and fail.

In a flurry of unconscious meandering,

Drifting through the known and unknown,

No light to speak of,

No sound to strain to hear,

No awareness of anything,

but the the blank…which is something,

Confused…I swallow,

Hard on pride,

I choke…too loud…

I wake…still here…

I cry,

Only a bit,

As the light peaks through the curtains,

I am awake?

I blink,

Pinch the skin of my arm,

It’s supposed to hurt right?

Too much volume out of sleep,

I miss the blank,

Hit the button on the strange box and drift,

I will try again,

When it isn’t too bright,

and much too loud.

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Middle Aged Meandering. :)

You are me, not literally, but I think you share some traits. We are all individuals with dreams and hopes. We live for a short time on this little ball and then we move on. I have reached that middle ground, where what I was in youth has become an older man.

I have regrets. I think most of us do. We look back at what we thought our life would be and see very little in what life has become. I look at my parents and see the same thing written on their faces, see the same smiles at accepting the inevitability of living. Life gets in the way of dreams.

I have impacted very little in my life. I have dreamed more than most. I have walked down a path and imagined more than just an asphalt trail. I dreamed of writing a novel, dreamed of  saving a life, dreamed of miracles and seen none of them arrive. I get up, I waste time, I work and then start again. There are laughs and some smiles, but always a what if…

This is what makes us who we are. The what ifs and the what could have beens. It’s a reflection of a universe that never came into being, not for me. I have so many failures and few celebrations, yet I continue with being human.

I suppose I am in a new phase, one that takes hold of us all at some age. I have three beautiful children, gifts that make up for so many failures. I have someone who cares for me, loves me and that brings me a smile. To look back is to try to put together the puzzle of ones own life. I have never been very good with puzzles, I lose pieces.

So I will say to you who read these few lines. Life is what it is…it gets in the way, but also lets us dream. In dreams we escape the doldrums and for a few the dreams do become reality. I hope, that as I travel the back-end of this journey I see some dreams come true.

and then light…

When you live as I have lived, you become a bit disillusioned with the world around you. You watch the news, listen to the radio, surf the Net for whatever is trending at that moment. What I saw was pain, hurt and anguish all around me. From the gossip, to the wars that plagued humankind.

I have lived a life. Sometimes good, mostly bad. Experience teaches that the darkness is caused by the clouds overhead, thick and grey. Looking up you would never think that there was a sun or even light. It was a cloud made by indifference and acceptance of what is.

I once stood apart from that, but slowly drowned. I have loved and lost, fought and been beaten down. I have climbed the mountain only to find it barren. I seemed to die a little inside, slowly, by endless misfortune.

And then…

There was a break in the clouds. A ray of light shining down to this cold form. I felt the heat, squinted at the light, felt the breath of change on my heavy shoulder. She was woman, hope and love. She was a smile that had no cost. She was eyes that saw me and ears that heard me. She was logic and laughter. She made my clouds part and the sky was so blue. I lost my breath, in awe of the wonder I had missed for years. The wonder of someone…who cared.

This is happy.

 

Screaming

She screamed so loud, but no head turned, no eyes looked concerned. She screamed again, wanting a kind word, a worried look. Yet again, nothing. She felt her heavy breath , her quickening heart in her chest. She listened to her own unfiltered noise, that’s when she laughed, and heads turned and eyes reached her…funny no one heard her scream, guess no one was a mind reader after all.

The Lost Boy.

I remember when I was a child more vividly than most. Perhaps it is because I never really left that boy. I never turned from him, but in many ways I remained lost. I am perhaps the only true “lost boy,” trapped in a neverland of my own creation.

I am a lost soul, in a world that moved on. I sit in a corner, my arms wrapped around my legs. It is dark where the boy lives and the voices are always there. Some days there are hands clawing at his knees, some days there are only voices whispering bad things in his small ears…he is always frightened. Even now in the guise of an old man, he is scared.

What frightens him is how he makes himself breathe. How every day he forces air in his lungs and begins the day. How his life has always been that first breath and each breath after was for those in his life, never for himself. Imagine it…

To wake.

To breathe.

To keep breathing so as to not let them down. To live, so no one has to hurt at the loss of him. In essence living not for himself, but for everyone else. Given the choice, the boy would stop forcing the breath and let the wind flow from his lungs and sleep without worry. An impossible dream for the boy who became a man and still lives for those who need him…never for the one that needs him most.

The lost boy.

Held, pressed, and strained.

There was something that held his heart,

not always gently, often too tight.

He felt the strain and the pressure

that some days seemed to envelope his entire chest.

It was uncomfortable at times,

yet he couldn’t imagine it gone.

There was a comfort in the pain,

even when he was on his knees.

Perhaps the pain meant he was still alive.

Perhaps it was better than feeling nothing

…some days he wondered

…some days it left.

Those were the hardest days.

When there was nothing

to make him know he could feel

…sadly alive.

 

Cry Wolf.

It is always the same. A bit of banter, a few giggles and promises made in the name of friendship or the dreaded L-word. The definitive, “you’ll see” and the waiting for something that would be nothing. It was a pattern, like some child calling wolf, over and over again. I always waited, always thought that this time would be the time she would come through. I never won, never read those words of need or want. Once again the story reset and instead of moving ahead in the narrative, it stagnated and repeated.

I can only blame coincidence, because there was always a reason why it could not be shared. Whether illness or time, the reasons themselves became repetitive. I was blunt with my own need to know, but in the end it was always taken for granted. I am weak you see and I reach out and be the person I always am. She never sees that inside I am broken. she never sees that she could fix that part left in tatters.

“Wolf!”

And I just smile and let it go. Does she get that my smile has become my own wolf. If she could see that behind it lay a truth that she will never understand. Or worse, she does, but can not move to change. This is what she does, this is why she always makes me less. Just once I want a wolf at my door, and finally a promise fulfilled.

But there are no wolves in this story, only imagined and forgotten.