easin' on down the road

We all come to a moment when, in LIFE, we feel a need to spread our wings and fly. For some, it comes when we take that leap going away to University or maybe even military service or some other endeavor which leads us AWAY. For others, it can be the simple action of moving out; no matter the circumstances which precipitate it. Sometimes, it's the thing that might save your life.

We all have a story that is aching inside to be told. It is there in silence, just behind the breath, and feels like the weight of all that exists is somehow on your chest and can't be pushed off. It is there like a shadow in the corner of the room where there was once something familiar and comforting, but now is shrouded in darkness. Sometimes, maybe even often, it grows angry and tries to force itself into being and strains against the chains it is a captive to. These are the worst moments. The tongue is bitten almost bloody and the heat rises behind the neck in a flood; fights happen here.

We all have a need to scream loudly and unburden ourselves when life seems to be filling us with rage and despair. I often feel this way.

I often want to scream. I often want to release the angst back into the world rather than nest it in my gut like some slowly digesting poison or some cursed child of nefarious origins.

But I don't. I don't because that misery is sometimes the only thing that makes me feel human. I enjoy feeling human. Most of my life has been barely on the edge of such, so these moments of ire keep me grounded. It is weight. It is my weight. It is my anchor. It keeps me from floating off into space, even if that is just a place I am often stolen away to inside my head.

But the story behind all of this deserves to be told.

It is just the story of a life. It isn't fancy or big or too much of anything. It is an odd collection of close calls and hindsight realizations of the beauty, horror, frailty, joy, despair, giddiness, and anxiety of a life. It is a tale of awkward moments, universal experiences in feeling, and many, many sad goodbyes.

But it is just a life. It is a life that feels more than half over, which is what chides me to share. It is a story of secrets I'd forgotten until I remembered. It reads like poetry in someone else's voice because the sound of my own is like torture to my own ears. Yet, even so, it sings.

And it is not always beautiful, but it is always worthwhile...

in the beginning

i'll call it the beginning. it's the start of so many things. so much time that i look back on. i'm not as old as i could be, but so much older than the numbers on my driver's license would lead you to believe. and these old eyes have been watching since as far back as the beginning and remembering since that first day. remembering is a game to me. telling the stories is the other game. i make no apologies nor do i hold any hedging against what may come out or may be told or may be admitted to. it's all got to go somewhere, right? all of my worthwhile journals are full and i suppose there is infinite space here. space is meant to be filled. it's a show of respect.