From the start, the very beginning, a mist surrounded the truth of who I was, of what I was. Hidden in the folds of shadows, I traveled down a road searching, thinking, and yes, perhaps fooling myself into believing happiness, my happiness, truth, my truth was only a bend in the road ahead. The clarity of my vision nothing but a lie, me, nothing but a fool. A conclusion, a realization that has taken me a lifetime in admitting is painful, I bleed, the blood I shed are the tears of clouded eyes. I have lived a lifetime surrounded by the fog, surrounded by the gray and I fear it will never lift . . . I fear too much water has flowed under the bridge . . . I fear I have waited too long . . . I fear I will never see the colors of my life as it should have been.
In the beginning, they said it would take time, things would get better, would get easier, life must go on, they said. Don't cry they would say, you're a man, a man must be strong, be tough, suck it up, they said. God knows, I tried, but this was a battle I knew I was not going to win. No matter how hard I tried, I could not prevent the water inside from welling up. Higher and higher it rose, the dams of my eyelids were not strong enough, not high enough to contain it within. My cheeks felt the wetness of my tears, as they flowed. I cried. I stood in a room full of people and it didn't matter. I cried and damn it, I was a man.
That was how I felt when a very good friend died, a few years back. After the tears dried up, the well, that was my soul was empty. For weeks, for months, a zombie without feeling, without emotion, I went about the daily grind of what was expected, what was needed, running on auto-pilot.
And now, for days, that feeling of overwhelming emptiness has haunted my ever waking moment and I don't know why. Don't cry, you're a man, a man must be tough, be strong, suck it up, I say. God knows, I am trying but it is a battle I'm afraid I have lost again. Angrily I wipe the wetness from my cheek, but this time I don't know why . . .
Being home alone, nothing to do, bored out of my mind, I clicked into a chat room, a few days ago. What, hard to believe? Well, Annelle, I admit it, yes I do pray . . . I mean go to chat rooms. After weeding through, slipping and dodging those only interested in wanting to know, location, age, and always my favorite, how BIG is it, I met a guy that had been to the Land of Oz and gotten a brain. This guy impressed me, he turned out to be quite a conversationalist, well maybe typist, but none the less and more importantly he had a brain. Apparently, like me, he just wanted to talk. OK . . . OK, the whole conversation didn't consist only about global warming, we did talk about other things, as well. One of the more interesting topics that might make you raise an eyebrow was about pre-cum. Yes, you read it right, pre-cum. If you're a man, I sure you know about it. Steven, yes we had the same name, only spelled differently, apparently leaked like a faucet and at times had gotten himself into some embarrassing situations. I guess, if you think about it, hiding a hard-on is, well hard enough, but trying to conceal a wet spot could be a problem. How do you do it? I mean not do it, do it! But how do you hide your wet spot when it happens, he asked? Well, I don't, I replied. It is something that isn't a problem. Some of us do (leak), some of us don't, and I happen to be one of the ones that don't. Perhaps mine is broken, I typed. He knew some men didn't produce what some call the Nectar of the Gods, but had never met or talked with a guy that didn't have pre-cum. Gee thanks, I said, I don't know whether to feel honored or inadequate? He laughed and the conversation continued . . . of course, back to global warning!
It has come to my attention, actually it is something that I have known for quite some time. I live a boring life. For weeks, I worked almost none stop, then I forced myself to take a few days vacation to only come back exhausted and ever since I've been back, nothing but work, work, and more work. I need some excitement, I need to escape, I need to find my paradise . . .
The sun rose in the eastern sky like it had done the day before and the day before that one, having completed its job for this morning, this day. As rays of light flickered on the walls like winged fairies dancing in the morning light, the night gave way. Having failed at another attempt, Death along with the darkness and all its shadows disappeared, slowly fading away as my eyes opened.
If this had been any other, both feet would have hit the floor before the sleep had cleared the eye, but not today. Alive, awake, but motionless as a corpse, I laid there. I had no appointments, no commitments, I had no reason to spring forth from the warmth of the bed that cradled my body. I was on vacation.
Outside, the mountain laurels rustled in the blowing breeze, the morning air still crisp, still clean. The mountain stream, its waters as cold as the ice cubes in a tall glass of sweet southern tea, flowed downstream. Over boulders, over branches of fallen trees the waters rushed, its power pounding the rocks smooth in its haste, its hurry to reach a destination not yet seen. As the Sirens of old beckoned Odysseus, the beauty outside calls to me, with all its charm, its allure, it tries to draw me away.
But it will fail. I'm already in paradise.
Why do we call it a vacation, when we get back home often times more give out, more tired, more exhausted than we were before we left. I need a vacation from the vacation.
