This will be the year when everything becomes clear.

This will be the year when everything becomes clear. Where have I heard that before? This will be the year when accelerated changes take place, when work transitions into a passion, a calling, a vocation. Where have I heard that before?

This will be the year that I finally wake up and become a real man, not a half-awake boyish, shadow man grasping at straws and shadows of other men’s dreams. I’ve heard this one, too.

I am not thinking about who I am, but who I will be for you when you finally come to read me. I will be no different than the other men and women pressed between the pages of books and left behind in lost and forgotten photographs. I will not be me, but I might be more than me, or perhaps less, if I am not careful.

For anyone who has lived on thie earth with some degree of privilege and luck, or the promise of such, there lies the perfect, warm and wet spring day that arrives with a friend who will touch and you and never let go.

For everyone else, there is the hope of a heaven that is kinder than the men who rule this planet.

I can’t help but imagine a fortuitous spring that never came for me. I was one who held the promise of the spring in his hands, but never quite grasped it. My fortune, it was clear, lay in my autumn and winter, though I never really knew myself to be an autumn child.

The familiar tropes were destroyed by the monster who ate itself. The will to be a child with an epic story faded as the story was retold many times over. Soon, it was clear that the land was not as fertile as we once thought it could be.

The grandchildren lived off of the royalties of their grandparents’ novelties. The novelties of the day were nothing more than recycled visions of the same eroding future. It was encumbent upon us to do something rather than think something, write something, playact something.

But, we playacted anyway. It was the easier choice, and the materials from our grandparents’ closet were soft enough to seduce us into a warm embrace that might have worked if we’d just kept our heads buried a little longer until the bomb came and went.

After the bomb, nothing was soft. Everything was harsh and sharp.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s