Can you hear it? The sun may not be shining but the birds, they still be singing. So if the birds seem ok with things, shouldn’t I be too? I guess I don’t have the blessed life of a songbird. I am stuck to the ground and if I just started to sing, I’m sure that someone would tell me to stop. Whether I would or wouldn’t is not something that I could decide right now.
I don’t know if now is the time for any decisions. I have not the slightest clue as to when that time would be either. I don’t really know anything and with each passing day, I feel as though I know less and less. The years a falling upon each other in messy little stacks and my darkened eyes know not what to do. I see the strain in my face, but I can’t seem to tell what for sure is making my fifth of a century feel like a whole one.
Well, maybe that’s it. I’ve been doing this whole living thing for almost twenty years now and I hadn’t really put any thought into it. I probably shouldn’t, but now that I have it will only infect my mind until it gets bored and finds something else to obsess over. Larry King was on TV for longer than I’ve been alive but still the impermanence of it all stands before me trying to block anything behind it from being seen by the little green eyes of a little blonde boy. I’m not a teenager anymore. Doesn’t that mean something? Doesn’t that mean I’m an adult? Am I? Have I grown into a man? Or am I still a boy?
I’ll always be a boy. I hope I will. I don’t want to be broken down and beaten. But I’m scared. I’m scared that life will only destroy me and make me into what I am not. I’m scared that I’ll be unfulfilled and lonely and empty. I’m scared that everything I do will never be enough. I’m scared that I’ll let people down or be a burden. I’m scared so shitless of inadequacy that it’s making me inadequate. I’m scared that once my body is gone, the very thought of me will fade soon after. I’m shallow and desirous and it’s all so terrible. I worry about a masterpiece and do nothing to make my own. I fail because my reasons are always seeming to me to be oh so wrong.
But this is just time and necessary darkness. My eyes need to adjust, that’s all. When you first step into the night, you can see nothing but the shadow that shrouds the land. But after time, you can begin to see. I’m beginning to see, but it’s only shapes. There’s no color yet. I still have to wait on day to pull above the horizon and reveal all that was dark for what it is. So I’ll be spooked and my imagination will always get the better of me and that’s fine. I care not for the moments that drag on. I’m sure someday, my whole life will be an old photograph that has faded but still radiates something beautiful because it wants to.
Or I’ll become nothing. I wonder if Beethoven would have worked at McDonald’s?