Okay, I'm in a writey mood tonight. Wonders never cease, huh?
Problem is, I'm also a little bit drunk tonight. A couple glasses of Fat Tire (2246) and a bottle of The Reverend (782) will do that to a person, especially if that person is me.
Sometimes I really hate being such a lightweight.
Looking for inspiration, I did a search of my old blog entries. Bonus points will ensue for anyone who can deduce the two-word phrase for which I searched. Not that it matters. It's all the same. It's always been the same, for six and a half years. And, I fear, it will continue to be the same, for as long as it takes. Either long enough for me to stop breathing, or long enough for me to stop waiting.
Here's one from July 2009. I could have written it yesterday, and it would have fit perfectly:
It's not stupidity that keeps me here. Nope, it's knowing the truth, even when everyone else fails to see it. It's speaking the truth, and living the truth, and waiting for beautiful eyes to open so that I'm not alone any more.A couple of months later, I wrote the following. Again, this post is timeless. I wish that it wasn't, but it is:
It's not cowardice that keeps me from turning away and facing the unknown. It's that the unknown holds no appeal for me. And why should it? The appeal of the unknown lies in its potential, and I've already found all of the potential I could ever want.
It's not weakness. I'm not here because I'm weak, but because I'm strong. I have persevered when others would have given up. I have pushed forward when others would have faltered. Time after time I have exposed my heart to the daggers of reality and, though I've been stabbed, I've never given up and I've never cowered and I've never ran away. I've been right here all this time.
And it's not insanity. Step inside me and look through my eyes. See what I see. Feel with my heart the things that I feel. Use my lips to speak, and use my ears to listen to the words fighting to be heard. Reach out with my hand and touch what I touch, and feel the tingling of a million touches yet to come. This is all very real.
It's not stupidity, or cowardice, or weakness, or insanity. It's something else.
I know what it is. So far, I'm the only one who really knows what it is. What it's like. What it means. What it portends.
So far, I'm the only one who really gets it.
But eventually, there'll be another.
Beautiful eyes will open, and they will see me, right where I've been all along.
I can forgive a lot of things. I have forgiven a lot of things. More than anyone else would have forgiven.I'm 45 years old now. As much as that sucks, it's the truth. So now, by any and every reasonable expectation, I'm halfway through my life, maybe a tad more.
How the fuck am I supposed to forgive this and still manage to maintain some semblance of dignity?
I am not a doormat, though I've played one in the past, when it seemed that a doormat was needed.
I did what was necessary, or at least what seemed necessary at the time, not because of what those things were, but because of who needed them.
Because of who needed me.
And I liked it. Loved it, even. I lived for those opportunities.
Of whatever the fuck you want to call it. Friendship? Something more? Something less? Something else?
I don't care what you call it. Just pick something. And don't say nothing. Don't you fucking dare say nothing.
We may no longer exist, but I still do exist. Barely.
And what's left of me deserves more than this. Even the worst person on Earth would deserve more than this.
More than nothing.
What's the point of another 45 years?
This question is both serious and rhetorical.
I don't know the answer. I used to know it, but I was wrong.
I was so fucking wrong. I bet my life, and I lost the bet. I risked it all, and I lost it all.
So what's the point of another 45 years? What's the point, dare I ask, of another 45 seconds?