Friday, November 5, 2010
I'm ok, it's just a blog.
I think about death sometimes. Not in the pubescent "girl with a razor blade" sense, but in the logical sense. The academic sense. I look down the road ahead of me and read the road signs of crime, accident, decay and disease along with the signs of the times proclaiming the end of days with its tempests, earthquakes and rumors of wars.
The pendulum is poised and ready to swing, and the road ahead is long.
If all men die, and if I am sure to die then why not now? Would it really be better to take the risk of life? If my eyes do not open tomorrow I leave behind grieving parents, siblings and acquaintances. Yet, in that scene there is no weeping widow, there are no hungry children. There is no hurt that will not pass and no life that will go on hindered. No debts to be paid, no ripple in the vast sea of human existence.
There was a dream that was Rome, and I had a dream that was you. I would come home from work to find you waiting. We would fall into each others arms, cooing lullabies and drift to sleep. We would have the world at our feet and a song in our head and no one to share it with but ourselves. But you are not here waiting, you never were. You never said you would be and yet from the sands in a child's hand I built a castle with turrets, spires, and impenetrable walls.
You think I'm talking about you. I'm not. I'm talking about something more than you.
If death is a symbol then I awoke one day to realize that I was lying in my grave, waiting for the diggers to begin. I blame you, and I blame myself. In the end it was only me and yet somewhere between hello and goodbye I was deceived. You convinced me to break my rules and then left me broken. You brought down my guard, needlessly, without purpose, and now I'm here.
So I wear black; because it looks good and because it feels right. Inside and out, a cold, distant and efficient man.
But he laughs, and he cries, and he looks great in his skin. He pays his taxes and mows the lawn. Do they see what happens when the door is closed, as he lies awake counting the stars? Do they see that no one is waiting, no lullaby is sung? Then again, should there be? Because the man in black has always been alone, he prefers it that way. He sees things not in how they are seen but in a way that only he understands, and only he cares. The trees fall but no one hears a sound.
And the clock ticks. It never stops, nor should it, nor will it. He hears its tick and he watches as the distance approaches with both darkness and light. He ties his shoes and wiggles his toes and takes a sharp breath devouring the air. Walking along he asks himself "If I had stopped to listen...would I be on this road tonight?"
No matter. There's a storm ahead, and a storm behind but where he stands its only cloudy. The weather man says it'll soon be sun, but why bother, it's nice here and what the hell does a weatherman know. So he stops, in the median, and thinks about death. In the academic sense.