Disappearance

Disappearance

Some days I feel as if I am gonna disappear. There will be nothing left behind but the debris of my dreams and fears. My collections sold off or given away to heathens that don’t appreciate them or the stories behind them. My journals and art all sorted into a bonfire, unusable by the next owner, the flashes of images and the desire to create all gone. I don’t have any children, and my hedonistic desires are left unfulfilled with my former spouse and my lack of a connection to date.

So what am I doing about it? I am looking for a job, something that will keep me afloat until one of those dreams comes true. I don’t want to be Frank McCourt, author of “Angela’s Ashes”. I don’t want the celebrity and fame and joy of writing just for me (and money) to come late into my 60’s. I want to afford a family, a comfortable life that my children can enjoy, that my wife can have because she deserves it and should have it for having my children.

I’m 43, scared and living in squalor.

I’m scared some days, because the best of all I could have hoped for passed right by me, and I wasn’t courageous enough to reach out and take it.

Just like my dreams.

I creep into bed, touching myself, dreaming of something … someone I loved, someone who’d make me smile. Hoping one day I’ll find that one that wants me as much as I’d want them.

Someone who’d want notes in their e-mail, or their lunch, or to kiss just for the sake of a PDA, or someone who’d be just glad to see me.

There are no dreams nearby. There’s little to keep me here in Texas, and I do need a new perspective, a new outlook. Maybe some time on the East Coast would help. Maybe of the “ol’ ultra violence”, as the Droogs would say in “A ClockWork Orange”. Something to help me grow as a human being, something to keep my dreams afloat. Something to keep my heart from breaking every day I live my miserable existence here among the cacti and wild beast.

It’s late.

There’s a rumor of rain, and I still need to chop weeds from my yard and make a clean slate before the water arises and makes the dirt in my yard mud. After all, what’s a little glass mixed with your pets’ leavings.

I want a popular blog.

Of course, I’d love also to BE a popular writer: charming, charismatic, enthralling, witty and pleasant. In all honesty, that’s my ideal, not my current state.

I’m not the guy chosen first, but settled for, and I hate being that guy. I want the ones I want to choose, and there are few and they’re far between.

Right now I think I’m babbling, and just frustrated here and need to focus.

One story at a time, one chapter, one word, one thought, one motion of keystrokes closer to my dreams coming to fruition.

Some people tell me it’s too late to be involved in an orgy, to take recreational drugs, or have a string of lovers and moments of sheer delight and personal fulfillment. Some people tell me I should just settle and let things be as they are, and not worry about the life I wanted versus the life I could have now.

But that’s an easy out … a quitters anthem, and I can’t sing that song.

Maybe I need to change my voice, or actually release it, and allow my heart to be broken again. If I stay too sheltered, I’ll never really dream.

It’s late.

Time for bed.


Good night.