Tuesday, March 26, 2013


I was reading your life from now into the past.  About halfway through, shit got serious.  I was getting the story in reverse but I wanted to get it as it happened.  Probably so I could have a full understanding of the slice you decided to share; the evolution of emotion as it happened to you.  I already move with your ups and downs carved from serifs on topics of lighter note; I know this ride will be worth it.

So I began reading from the beginning.

It is a stark contrast to your present voice.  Tones.  Pretensions and references.  Structure and syntax.  You sound much younger, more naive in your earlier meanderings.  As it should be.

You make me feel like The Doctor.  I know the coming hurt is a fixed point in your time stream.  I know there is a tremendous pain that waits for you.  It's as if I am friends with now-you and past-you simultaneously and because of the laws of time, I can't warn past-you.  I can only wince as I watch and grieve with past-you in the echoes of your long ago narratives.

You say you want to be a hero.  There is an awful lot of hot air in the world today.  Hard to know who to trust.

A hero has integrity.  He can always be counted on.  He is her last best chance before she hurtles into the earth at 9.8m/s^2.  He hears her when she calls.  He takes time out when others don't.  He is a paragon, an example, a role model.  He makes the impossible possible.  He will not waver in his lawful good and he bravely vanquishes her enemies, caring not that he is beset by evil on all sides.  He emerges victorious in her eyes and she owes him her life this afternoon.

But he sacrifices the best parts of himself (time, energy, love) for others who don't know the cost of this gift so freely given.  He stretches thin and tired and pushes on anyway.  He stays up too late, doesn't care for his body temple with self-love, and doesn't value himself as he values others.  He is lonely at the top....and none of his fellow citizens know just how lonely.

We all walk our paths alone.  There are dark groves in my heart which have only known my tread, my tears.  I can't articulate my experience so you can feel it too.  You will never know the sorrow I've seen.  Or have you already known it?

You can't tell me how thick the evergreens are where you once walked.  How they muffled all the sounds like snow.  Except here and there between the branches, a murmur of...a friend? A doctor? The Reaper?  Who knows.  You can't describe to me how the weeds pull at your boots forcing you to exert more energy just to do the same things everyone else does with ease.  You can't make me understand what it feels like to scream at a suffocating starless sky until your throat bleeds.  You can't describe your gray.

But I know it anyway because I know my gray.  I found a way to stay out of it.  Maybe even forever.

I'm willing to share if the trust is there.

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