Of savage findings

Often did I sometimes perch myself on one of those pyramidical cylinders at the park and wondered if all I could see was all I needed to know of this life. I lost count what I did back then but I did remember that I was a foolish little boy who once played the truant to escape the humdrum school days. Or the bullies.

I was young. Impressionable. In my pride and foolhardiness I tempted my luck too many times over and have walked away from a past while not filled with regrets, was something I would be hard-pressed to admit I was proud of.

Overly melodramatic, perhaps. Frankly honest, yes.

When I looked back on things now with eyes more seasoned towards thirty cycles of the sun, I feel like laughing at myself. Was I that absorbed in my own self-importance? Lackaday. If I'd met that boy now I would've been spitting on him. And with great relish. In retrospect, it is good to realize that we were once fools. Just that some of us would prefer not to relish the process!

It was a painful realization that I realized that whatever small capacity I had for feeling--save anger and rage--died with someone dear to me. No, I will not name names, for they're unneeded--nor pertinent--at this point. It was even more painful that whatever glimmer of light I chanced upon should tantalize me with a whispered spark ... but I am swimming aloone in these cold depths. Like the Eskimos, I have my Sedna chasing me from beyond the murky deeps.

I would like to style myself as Robinson Crusoe inside my head, that I'll find that lost savage within me and cleave him to the light.

Only when darkness meets the light will I be balanced.

"Drowning for Mako"

It was a dark cold emptiness
that I had to brave for you
Frayed knots I need to undo

My limbs grow cold and unfeeling
and I start to slip under
Don't let me go, never
let me go without an inkling

Will this be a short journey?
Or am I doomed to failure
floating, floating forever

My bones grow brittle and
I start to break apart
Oh my fragile heart!
Fractured from end to end

The water fills me, it fills me
It consumes, takes me over
And slowly, I'm pulled under

My shell expands like gossamer
And my limbs now move
Like birds in sky above
A most graceful swimmer

Ah bliss! My journey is unending
yet no longer am I lonely
My totem, you're with me

Of losing stupidity

You remember the poem about Solomon Grundy? Born on Monday ... dead on Sunday?

I forgot how it all went. Handily enough, I have a new take on a certain Solomon Grundy of mine: Born on Tuesday, doped to the gills all the way, OD'd on Sunday, died on--surprise, surprise--Tuesday.

Please, judge me not too harshly for being unsympathetic. It boggles my marbles when an intelligent young man decides to throw all he had going for him for the sake of a few extra milligramme of liquid high. I hoped it was worth it. I hoped his life--what it might have been, what he could have achieved if he wasn't so out of it--flashes before his eyes. I doubt if he was lucid enough but I hope to all that is holy he suffered. Like how his family and friends suffered.

Like those people who picked up the slack--keeping mum about his whereabaouts, helping him through his withdrawal. People who helped him to the toilet when he could barely make it past his filthy, stinking bed.

Is this what it's like in the middle of a hurricane? Standing in the middle of a deceptive calm while everything spins out of control.

Who was it that was spiralling out of the centre? Was it him, or was it us all along?

Did we try too hard to tether a fey spirit, did we smother it with our concern?

It was a life marked by sadness. Not his, for he was laughing and cackling away when we tried to slap him to his senses. No ... he was having too much fun to stop.

Well ... it finally stopped for him. And we're left to pick up the pieces.

Again.