Fluid thoughts at One AM

My life feels like it’s one of tragedy but not one where these things happen to me. Instead, they happen to those around me. I’m the survivor in the horror movie, watching, despite my efforts as my friends and lovers are murdered. I know that is not what actually happened. That they each died as a product of a series of choices. But knowing and feeling are different. I miss them. Want to hold them one more time, but know that I can’t.

So I come with this legacy. What is, oh so endearingly, called baggage. Which is apparently bad? People want, what, a blank slate? My past makes me mindful. It makes me aware of the fleeting nature of people in this world. If I fall in love too fast, it’s because because I know how quickly it can all come apart. If I hold you a little too close or worry a bit too much, or want to be with you more often it’s because I know that life is by its nature ephemeral. That it’s fleeting, hurtling past us. Seconds and hours spent doing things we don’t love for people we don’t respect surrounded by people we don’t know or maybe just don’t like.

We are all fighting the entropy of existence. But that’s too big, too difficult. So we hide in stories not our own. We escape from our world and into ones constructed for us. We seek out adventure. Which I hate. Adventure is what happens when plans go awry. Which is fine and be prepared for it but don’t seek it out. “I just want some adventure.” Really, you want to not know what is coming, you want stark terror and fight or flight to be a real in your face thing? No, what you want is excitement. You want to feel the new, you want to feel like everything is possible, that the night isn’t going to end. That tomorrow and work, taking out the trash, cleaning the bathroom, and all those small actions that make up life are not coming.

I understand, I do. But why not plan for tomorrow but experience today. Don’t let the seconds slip by. Don’t leave the things you want to say unsaid. If you feel like saying something say it.

As the years pass, I regret the things I didn’t do. Some large, some small. Not going with Sara. Not helping that person crying, desolate in a sea of strangers. Not telling the person who sat two rows in front of me, way at the back of Symphony hall listening to Mozart that they were the most heart stoppingly beautiful person. She had red hair and was wearing what looked like a sun dress. The actions we take are the ones that we generally remember. I remember those, but it’s the ones I don’t take, the ones whose futures are lost to me that I regret.

To feel something, anything

When you are feeling particularly shitty and you just can’t stand feeling that way anymore, it feels natural to turn to sex/pleasure or pain. For me it was depression and numbness. I got to the point where feeling something, anything, was better than the numbness I was mired in.

I sunk myself deep in the ministrations of friends of Sara’s. Pain and pleasure became the only thing I wanted. If it hadn’t been for Eric, I would never have come out. I’d still be mired there. He loved me. And while the scene was a part of our relationship, it was the other parts that woke me up. That is something I will always be grateful for.

My family asks at Thanksgiving to write
down what you are thankful for then they share it at Christmas. Well, they don’t know my life. They are SO normal. I just can’t seem to tell them the truth. I’m thankful for Eric. I’m sad that he’s now passed. I have known love, real love, twice in my life. Both times, they saved me. I hope that I did something for them. For Sara, I will always believe I failed her. For Eric, I hope that he was happy in the last years of his life. I know he found love. I hope M knows that he was loved.

I hope that anyone in my life that needs to immerse themselves in pleasure/pain will come to me. I can help. And if, ultimately, talking doesn’t work then I can provide the service Eric did for me. It’s the least I can do for his memory. It’s the least I can do for those I love.

Heart gives voice

What does it say of my life, that a slip of the tongue is the most disastrous thing to befall me. So safe have I become that the wrong words pave the way to heartache. When in my youth, ill-conceived action would have led to blood, to loss of fortune and life. And now in my safety, I look back on perilous times and see them as good.

The triumph of survival rings heavy then fades. The soft blandishments of current circumstance pale next to the risks of youth. These soft courtesies, small steps, enticements to a love longed for, all seem foolish now. In youth, I would have taken and ravished her.

Strength and fury, the hotness of passion welling up from the dark steps to fill sky with actinic display. But now, years past beyond the reckless of youth, speak words of poetry and hope she will want what I am now. Though knowing, this soft copy of who I was, this faded version of warrior poet, so pale. So wan with grief and times passage, who could want this.

I feel an old man now, though I know only middling years. I sit in my tower, surrounded by books and comfort, fortune frittered away. I write missives to you and hurt full, bursting, overflow as in youth remember. I wait, amidst silence, hoping that this time… This time you’ll find me.