You can stare at the fingerprints on the edge of your rocks glass until they mean something.
You can look at the patterns the light leaves inside your closed eyelids. You can sit and sulk and daydream about things being other than how they are. You can wish you’d done better. Been a better person. Tried harder, or tried something different. You can dwell on all the things that are not, while ignoring the things that are.
You certainly can. I know I have. I’ve gotten very good at it. Too good, I fear.
I know, I know… It’s been a while. A very long while since the last time I’ve written anything here. As a young man, just shy a quarter of a century, it’s hard to believe I’m able to say that I used to write a lot. I’ve written poems and songs and essays and short stories. I’ve written a whole novel, a complete first draft, that I’ve ignored for months. I used to act, too. Lots of plays, funny and sad- Improv too. Hell, I used to do stand up comedy. I opened for someone currently on Saturday Night Live, what seems like a lifetime ago.
Very few men my age get to say such things. Not that it is any sort of blessing. It may only mean that the peak was too soon. That it’s all been used up. That there is nothing left. It may mean that, but I certainly hope is does not. The younger man I used to be most definitely does not. But he might have been better than I am.
If there is one thing I was brought up to despise, it is a pity parade. And even with the sacrifices made, willing or otherwise, I am here, at this very particular moment in time. I hold my baggage, as do you, if you happen to be bored enough to read this.
Sensationalism was never my forte, and I cannot pull myself to do a “top ten things that 20 somethings feel about blah, blah blabbity blah”. You know, that shit websites love to pick up and litter across your social media addiction. I won’t be reposted by Huffpo, or Buzzfeed or anything of the sort. I won’t even be reposted by my friends, most likely. Maybe a dozen people will read this. Maybe less. Maybe no one. But I don’t write because it helps other people. I write because it helps me.
A year, and a few days. That’s the last time anything new was published to this lonely blog narrated by a boy struggling to learn how to be a man. A year ago was a different world. My hair was longer and my eyes had seen less than the ones resting in my skull now. I wasn’t obliged to do much for anyone unless I felt the inclination. Not now.
Now it’s my job. It’s my job to help people, strangers, in whatever we’re called for. That would be myself and the men I work with. We never know when the tones go off, and it doesn’t matter what we were doing. All that sound means, is that it is time to go. But that is my profession. That is how I earn my living.
Further than that, is even more profound. Further than that is the only thing that will really matter to me. You see, in a few days, everything will change. In a few days, really at any moment, I will be a father.
Pardon me, that took a moment. I needed another sip and stare at the fingerprints upon my glass. Fingerprints that leave behind DNA. The same sort of stuff that has been brewing another person. A person who is part me, though I hope she will be spared all of my poor qualities, as many as they might be. But I’m not here to talk about her. I won’t speculate about her, as she is not here yet. And I will not talk about circumstances, as they are not business of yours.
Just know that while you read this. To those who are parents, I am only on the cusp of understanding. To those who are not, know that it is not something that you cannot even pretend to understand. Just be grateful if your parents were good to you. And if they weren’t, know that it is the largest burden that our species faces and it is most certainly not for everyone.
But that is enough about that.
I don’t know exactly why this was the moment I chose to write again. It may be desperation. It may be that the time is right to reinvigorate the lost passion. I cannot say for sure. Yet, I am writing just the same.
I don’t have the answers. If you were hoping I did, I apologize. I don’t know if anyone does, but everyone has their own slice of the universe. We all have our own lives. Our own pasts and presents and futures. We mat share many of those, but no one shares them completely. Our singularity may be a curse, but it is the one thing that makes us undeniably human.
I hate to leave this so vague, but I cannot truthfully give you anything more specific. I will keep trying. I will try and keep the promise that I made to a young man who shares the skin I’ve worn down. But all I can do is try, as that is all any of us can do.
If anyone told you they have the answer they are a liar. If they told you that they didn’t know, know that they told the truth. I will try and write again. I cannot guarantee that it will be worth reading. I will guarantee that I will try and make it worth your while.
Until next time.