It is truly a beautiful thing to look back at the memories and mementos of days gone by and reminisce fondly with a smile and a whimsical feeling of elation or joy. Sadly, such a pleasure and indulgence is beyond me at the moment. I’ve reached my fill and resolved that the final act must be played out, unfinished as it might be. I think a large part of me opted to continue the delusion and the charade for lack of a better option and the fear of having to accept that I was alone. Philosophically one is never alone, but in a more empirical sense there is only so much that hope can do for keeping you warm at night.
My exploits reach far and wide, I have done the impossible and as Malcolm Reynolds would say, “That makes [me] mighty”. But in the end, regardless of the stakes faced, the cards played, and the risks taken, if you cease to believe that victory is possible…well you lose your will to keep fighting. Only when you actually believe that you can win, that whatever your fighting for is truly within reach, can you muster the courage and the strength to spend each day giving everything you’ve got on the battlefield. I’ve recently taken stock, evaluated everything, surveyed the missed opportunities and the ravages of the slain “bodies” left strewn on the battlefield of this war I’ve been fighting, and I have to be honest my friends, my losses are too great.
It pains and saddens me beyond words to have to admit that perhaps this was a futile endeavor, the chips were against me from the start, the victor was decided before the armies reached the battlefield, or perhaps it’s just simply that I wanted more than the universe was willing to give me. Pick your cliché, I’m sure there’s more than a few I didn’t nail there. But the bottom line to this whole thing…well I just don’t have enough belief, enough hope, or conviction left to hit the battlefield again. I’m a veteran of a war I was too foolish to realize I could never win and quite honestly, at some point it did become a point of pride for me that I would do the impossible. I resolved that I would commit, that I would win at any cost and against all odds.
As we get older, most of us grow and take with us the lessons of our years so that we can apply them later. For most another thing happens with the passing of each calendar, the loss of innocence. For a vast majority of us we reach a point where we are no longer predisposed to the willful acceptance of the incredible and instead regard almost every extraordinary experience with an air of cynical incredulity and jaded disbelief. It perhaps for this reason, when we reach the apex of our disillusionment with the wonder of the world in which we live, that we are compelled to procreate, in order that we might witness ourselves born anew and live once more vicariously through the next generation. It would fit to reason as most parents invest so much into providing a better life for their children than they had growing up.
I somehow, despite the traumas, trials, tribulations, and catastrophes that have befallen me in life, managed to enter my adult years with a wild and untamed inner fire. I turned twenty-one and was possessed of a passionate flame that was as contagious as it was powerful. But as has been said for countless years, “The flame that burns twice as bright, burns half as long”. My friends, I have extinguished my air supply.
I have, in all seriousness, begun to reevaluate my pursuits, goals, choices, desires, and convictions and I have found that the things I wanted when this conflict began, are no longer the things I crave. I am older, of that there is no question. Wiser is a subjective claim, and I am nothing if not humble about my intelligence. I am, however, undeniably, more jaded, more cynical, and from where I sit I’ve become the personification of what it is to be ignoble. I once held a resolve and a conviction that was unmatched by anyone. I was once the envy of other men for my unwavering commitment to a single woman despite the circumstances that my love for her resided in. Now I look myself in the eye and see only the hollow, empty, husk of the man I used to be. My features are more pallid, more pained. Beyond the wrinkles and skin blemishes, there lies a broken spirit, devoid of passion, lacking in conviction, and absent of all resolve to accomplish even the most base of difficult goals. So curtailed, neutered, and impotent has my mind become…well imagine trying to cut through frozen butter with a cold light bulb and have the slice come out exactly at the right measurement. It’s an impossible task given the bluntness of the tool.
I once possessed a mind that could analyze and process most anything to a conclusion that despite the absurdity of it would more often than not turn out to have at least a majority of accuracy. Now it seems that I can’t even muster the energy to analyze the information laid before me, let alone draw a conclusion.
I know I’ve waffled between painting her as a sinner and a saint. On the whole the relationship has been one of dependency. My fear of being left to the screaming silent echoes of my own mental solitude, gives way to a need for companionship. However my proclivity against being able to trust or let down my guard has strained my ability to connect with others. I have expressed and touted the value of connection, of true emotional vulnerability to someone that can help you be a better person. But until I met her, I was incapable of fathoming such a suggestion. To be truthful, when I met her my faith in mankind has been all but completely extinguished. I was so close to the precipice of shutting down the emotional nerve centers. The absolute closest I think I have ever been to true sociopathic tendencies. The once often heard “Systematic detachment from emotional reaction” was more than just a jarring quote to be examined by those that heard it, it was a life philosophy. It served a guiding beacon of change and freedom. I had gotten it into my head that if I could just detach, just turn off and no longer be connected, my life would improve. Things would get simple. Then she saved me from myself, from shutting down, from letting go and disappearing beyond the heavy curtain into the endless black void.
Somewhere along the way I let the intensity and the power of those stifled and stymied emotions, the ones that had been choked back and held under pressure for fear that any expression or acknowledgment would undercut the endeavor, burst through the dam. An overwhelming deluge of visceral emotional sentiment that was tinged with the stink of love cascaded over the psyche and permeated the conscious, causing the first bitter taste of obsession. It was, however, obsession that was quite cleverly disguised. A façade of love and devotion provided a sheep’s clothing for that wolf to slip in unnoticed and before long it proved to more of an elephant in the room. The unacknowledged object that sat silent and looming in the corner, casting a shadow and pallor over everything it touched. Eventually maturity won out and called the eyesore for what it was. Obsession so defined was sent from the dynamic and love was brought in to fill the empty seat at the party. Sadly, love requires a bit more care, a bit more attention and appreciation than obsession. No longer self sufficient, or able to remain ignored and forgotten for extended periods of time, love is a bit needy. Requiring constant reminders, diligence, and commitment, it became a bigger burden to bear than the rest of the room was willing to tolerate. First patience left, finding little to remain idly standing by for. Next went tolerance, as the glossy veneer to which it had become accustomed no longer glinted in the dim light of the room with obsession gone and unable to reflect and radiate the dim illumination. Understanding tried to hang out as long as it could but eventually it took its leave with empathy and compassion. All three headed for the door at the same time. Passion did his best to remain, but in the end, too much stress had strained his heart and he finally collapsed, a soft and quiet death that barely made the remaining inhabitants lift their heads and take notice. Love continued whining and requiring care, but there existed only pride and conviction to tend to its needs. Pride was insolent from the outset and regarded the entire affair as an exercise to be experienced and later examined, having spent the majority of its time conversing with Intellect and Reason. Pride opted to depart while it still had something left to leave with, and Conviction remained alone with Love. Conviction endured and staunchly weathered the storm that ravaged the house. Happiness and Slavery, the odd couple that should never have met, tore the quiet silence in the eye of the storm to pieces and ripped away what little strength Conviction has left. And now there is only Love. Conviction breathed his last collapsed alongside Passion, spent and quietly broken beyond repair. Love was left on its own, to breathe, to live, to survive and function. John Lennon once said that Love is all you need. My god how I wish that were true. Love is indeed powerful, but it’s nothing without the others to rally behind it.
The die has been cast once more, and this time, I’m wholly indifferent to the outcome. My bag of tricks is empty and moth eaten, my emotional self is more shell shocked that a captured Jewish POW at Auschwitz during WWII. And my rational mind has plumbed the well dry for defenses of why the relationship can or should work. In the end, Pride, my sin of choice, is the only impetus left to see this cavalcade of futility and foolishness toward the slightest glimmer of hope within the clouds. But Love is blind, and far too forgiving, and to that end it endures. Weak as an infant, ignorant as could be, possessed of a will and a whim to disregard vitriol and discontent, the last bastion stand blindly in the face of the coming second half of the storm, clutching fervently and unyieldingly to the tatters of Hope. Make no mistake, my resolve and my conviction have left me, I’m set adrift in the storm and have come to the eye. But despite the fragile nature of Love, there is power in him yet, and if his brothers can be rallied, if his cry can be heard as a call to arms, then “hope springs eternal”.
So it is to you, my readers, my audience, my friends, my confidants, my trusted and valued equals, that I pose perhaps the most difficult and taxing question I ever have. Give me reason, give me justification, convince me that love is a beautiful and valuable thing, plead your case, make your argument, stand your ground and draw a clear and bold line in the sand. Argue as though the fate of your life, or the life of the one you love above all others, the one you hold in the highest regard, is on the line and the final impassioned plea of your heart will sway the reapers scythe toward another. Show me that love still exists in some form and is worth fighting for, that she is worth fighting for. Please.
