Reason #3 for Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail

I’ve done
a ton
of sitting
in my lifetime –
more than I’d like to admit –
and nobody said a word.

The minute
I speak
about walking
nearly 200 days –
admittedly I tend to live in extremes –
everyone has an opinion.

After
hearing enough
I let them
take their shots –
most of them actually do care –
then lace my boots.

We
all
have our reasons
to stay or to go –
for fear, faith, or love
and my reason to stay is going.

The words I’d say to an unborn son.

If you’re not ready to let go,

then don’t.

Hold on as long as you need,

and then some.

These are words I’d say,

to an unborn son.

If it seems repetitive,

that’s good.

If it hurts in a hundred different ways,

it’s supposed to.

If you don’t want to smile,

let them see you frown.

These are the words,

I’d say.

Does it get easier,

at times.

Should you forget,

never.

Is it your fault,

no.

The words I’d say are these.

Life will kick your ass.

Love will break your heart.

Death will drug your senses.

With the strength of a mother’s love,

I would say.

You are your father’s child,

but make no mistake,

you are not your father.

Those who speak of love.

Beware

of those

who, so often

speak

of love,

remember

not to

get too involved

with

their plight,

chances are

there is someone

responsible

and you

just might be

picking up the pieces,

because Love

too often

is mistaken for

infatuation,

but they

won’t see that,

they can not

see so well through the fire

the mystery

of the heart,

the failure

of the brain,

at face value, yes

they may seem true

but beware

the unhinged

romantic,

they know

what they’re selling

but not so much

what to do after they’ve made the sale,

yak-yakkity yakking

their pattern back

to heartache.

 

 

 

Staring at the Blank White Ceiling.

In a perfume spoiled bedroom.
On a rain soaked summer’s Sunday.
Under a bleach white canopy.
Lay a girl ensconced.

Holding close, her Care Bear, she pondered.
When would be the right time to tell the truth?
Or.
Was the truth even worth telling?

Staring at the blank white ceiling.
It had felt right at the time.
Almost natural.
As a result of her seeming neglect.

Though now looking back – his eyes,
his lips, salty from pork-chops –
the way he abruptly reached for her crotch,
now all seemed wrong.

How could he (i.e. not the crotch grabber) do this to her?
Her mind shifting gears now.
Forgetting the one night loss of self,
and remembering why she’d felt so alone.

It wasn’t her fault.
She wasn’t the one who left.
She was the one making the real sacrifice.
Yet why it all felt so wrong she couldn’t quite pin point.

Her makeup had always been done.
His needs, to her knowledge, were always met.
And she always made sure to tell him, she loved him, didn’t she?
Yet now lying in bed, she couldn’t fight back the tears.

Damn him and his selfishness.
How could she be so stupid to believe his lies.
She kept telling herself that they were lies, lies, lies.
But knew deep down they weren’t, they couldn’t have been.

After confessing the truth, over the white cordless telephone, her chest felt lighter.
A warm wave of relief quickly rushed through her veins.
A relief that she knew would not last.
How could anything last in a world so concerned with change?

It was nearly 10 o’clock, which meant reruns of her favorite television sitcom would be on soon.
Wiping her face with a rice pad, and brushing her teeth, she knew she did the right thing.
Telling the truth gave her validation, a confidence that could not be smeared.
She was tired of being the so called doormat.

She lay, transfixed, to the images and sounds emitting from the pleasure box on her nightstand.
It was the one where Eric and Donna share their first kiss.
It reminded her of many kisses that had been kissed.
And left her befuddled all the same.

Not liking this feeling she turned off the television.
Awake in the dark she could feel her heartbeat, beat-beat, beat-beat.
This was and was not her fault – she’d never eat a pork-chop again.
What really hurt, though, was that things would never be the same.

Yet in the back of her mind.
Tucked away in the dream she had that night.
There was this feeling.
A truth, that she was alright with that.

 

A Life Altering Depression that led to a Conscious Awareness of Choice.

If you lay in bed long enough,
eventually,
you understand that there’s no reason to leave.

When you don’t have the answers,
for the way you’re feeling,
you understand that it’s better to give them what they want to hear.

After you’ve made a decision,
hastily,
that feels like anything but,
all that’s left is to wait for the consequence.

If you hide yourself away long enough,
eventually,
you understand that the calls will stop coming.

And even if you had the answers,
for the way you’re feeling,
you understand they wouldn’t even make a difference to the big picture.

After you’ve checked the mail,
twice a day,
for what feels like months,
all that’s left is to accept the denial letter, denying you back, from where you fled.

They don’t want you anymore.
They won’t trust you anymore.

Do they love you?
Or.
Are they just putting up with more of your bullshit?

They want you to succeed.
Remember when they said, “remember us when you’re famous!”

Did they ever realize the pressure?
Or.
Weren’t they just trying to inspire you to believe your own self-worth?

If you lay in bed long enough,
eventually,
you understand that it’s difficult to be anywhere but.

When you still don’t have the answers,
for giving up on the plan,
you understand that maybe it’s better to give them truth instead of lies.

After your insecurity turns to shame,
and fear is watered down,
a fire begins to burn,
and all that’s left to do is coax it.

If you hide yourself away long enough,
eventually,
you understand that it’s your turn to make the calls.

And while contemplating the answers,
for the way that you’re feeling,
you understand that the big picture doesn’t give a damn either way.

After your shame turns to curiosity,
and fear fizzles out,
a flame can turn to wildfire,
and all that’s left to do is decide.

Will you get out of bed?
Or will you fake this grave till you make it?

Nobody cares, really.
Nobody, except the one’s you love.

Despair comes for us all,
but,
it doesn’t have to – always – be the present constant,
in fact,
no matter how hard you try to make it seem…

This is life.

There is choice.

This is not a heads or tails game.

A working hypothesis.

Burning my hand while removing our bagels from the broiler, I hear a voice.

“BECAUSE THERE’S NO GOD DAMN ROOM!”

And I recognize that voice.

That voice is not my own.

It’s deep and fearful.

Hoarse and irrational.

It is the voice of an angry man.

It is the voice of my father.

Then there is silence.

A long insecure silence.

A fearful silence.

And I recognize that silence.

I have been on the receiving end, and that is a terrible place to be.

Catching myself in the act I quickly apologize.

“I’m sorry.”

Only now it is my voice.

It is mild and tame.

Concerned and rational.

It is the voice of a scared child.

It is the voice of a worried man.

And in my mind I’m thinking, please believe me.

Please for the love of all that is holy.

Believe me.  Believe me.  Believe me.

Because what I meant to say – while burning my hand and channeling the blame to whomever(the loved) was in firing range – was, “because I’m the idiot who didn’t think twice before touching a hot pan.”

It’s my fault.

Not yours.

And now I’ve got the scar to prove it.

Through outwardly and publicly expressing concern and or contempt for one’s actions, said party, will reject the path of his predecessor in order to lead a gentle existence.

It’s a working hypothesis.