Why

I suppose I have questions.

About who I am, why I am here. It's not enough for me to just know that everyone has questions, that everybody is stumbling around in this pointless game with no clue as to the why and wherefore. I need to know. I need to pick myself back up again, after having fallen so low, having sailed so high. Bursting into flames from flying to close to the sun, I lift my charred wings and shake the ash and dust from whence I came, to what I shall return.

I feel hopeless and yet hopeful. I know that the sun shines for us all, yet the warming rays must be sought out. I need to accept the help I have been given and continue on my path upward, out of the dark and gloomy mire of depression which has been my state of being for too long. I need to find a way home, to light and happiness.

If happiness is simply a state of mind, what is it that is keeping me away? I have everything a boy could need, friends, family and extended support. And yet all I feel like doing is breaking down and crying. About all the past and what could have been, about what I have gone through and what I am going through. And I feel that no one knows what it's like to be me, even though people know me better than I know myself and I imagine they have a good idea of what I'm going through.

I just don't know what I need to be happy. I'm always afraid, always running.

I suppose I need to speak to someone about the crazy events that led me to this place, but who would believe me? What do you do with an impossible theory that you can't let go of? How do you deal with the fact that either you or the universe is twisted beyond belief, or that you may have figured either of them out?

I suppose I don't know what to do.

But I suppose the answers will come to me.

What do you do

How do you knock down the man

Who has already beaten himself to the ground

How do you kill the man

Who is nothing more than a shadow of a ghost walking

A fragment of a dream still stalking

Hating the souls he claimed to love

The pasty reflections of a once glorious image

An image stored only in the imagination

Of a devil afraid of his own demons

How do you strike the soul so stricken

With grief and greed and hope forgotten

How do you press the man who is so unimpressed

Yet so hard pressed he is but a flat man

Living in a world too round for him to die

Living in a teardrop, yet afraid to cry

What do you say to the blind to make him see

Or scream to the deaf that he can hear?

How do you terrify the man so afraid

That he invented a world of fear

What does the man alone do

When everyone he loves leaves

When he is left alone to grieve

A love that was never his

A life he never lived

What do you say to the man who is a mountain

But afraid of the mustard seed that would compel him to move

So, where am I?

I’ve announced myself the conqueror of my own torments far too many times. And too many times have these same torments caught up with me before I was completely rid of them. I won’t make that mistake again. A few weeks ago, I last declared myself finally fine. I felt brilliant. And I think I would have remained fine if I had not had an awful chat with a friend leading to a conclusion too painful for me to wrap my head around. So much so that I, ever relentlessly curious; I with a firm belief that acceptance of the truth is the only way forward, I, with the belief that I could conquer anything; had to remand my curiosity, accept a half truth and remain defeated.

I am at a vantage point. Able to look back on my pain and sigh sadly for the poor child so cruelly crushed. Yet no longer the poor child. And I hope, no longer still wallowing in my own pain, but moving forward. I’ve recently discovered myself unable to add two and two together. Unable to put together the most obvious circumstances to form the most reasonable conclusion I could hope to have.

And I’m wondering when I will stumble upon what’s been keeping me from moving forward all this time. But to be honest, with the amount of effort I have spent analyzing every possible scenario, I am sure that I have stumbled upon the answer. I don’t know what I want as far as the future goes. I want it to happen.

And I want the past to be over. Done with. That’s all I could hope for. Maybe it was my stubbornness which prevented me from trying to grieve properly. The desire to be ok ironically kept me from being ok. But I love irony, my life is full of it.

And here I am. Not brilliant. But not completely broken. I think I may be ok. Funny how that word can have so many meanings. It can be a stamp of the highest approval, or it can be a mediocre shrug of the shoulders. So yea, I’m ok. And depending on just how bad, the word will adapt its meaning to me. Sometimes certifiably awesome, sometimes only hanging there. But hopefully never back to where I was.