A most inauspicious day - another revolution around that great celestial body only 8 seconds away (if you travel light).
That ball of nuclear fusion, often worshiped, perpetually misunderstood, stood still in the center of everything - as everything disintegrated and dissipated. 236,688 hours ago a completely uneventful day passed away, with many events - life-changing for some, forgetful for most - transpiring. One of these? I was born unto this world.
Born to a mother who, in her infinite folly, believed she birthed an idyllic son, and a father who couldn't be bothered, I was sent screaming and covered in bodily fluid into this world.
Arriving in a land I do not remember, my first touch being that of the cold surgical precision of a military doctor, I was set upon a course long ago written in the stars. Or, perhaps, I was given free-will, but who is to truly say? I had arrived that day, the only somewhat-certainty I can be sure of. To a point.
Wind the clock forward, throw away many expertly painted calendars, and here we stand - or, more to the point, here I sit. 27.
Expectations have sloughed off, like so much afterbirth. Hopes have degenerated into fears, love into longing, and faith into cynicism. Self-aggrandized and self-destructive, I yam what I yam, so to speak.
Artist.Lover.Optimist.Pessimist.Loner.FilmGeek.Geek.Romantic. I've worn many labels - all of which fit and misfit. We are all one, and one is all, after all.
27 years ago today I was born unto this world, which I have grown to love and despise. There have been beautiful days - beyond the beauty of the most transcendent poetry, and there have been the darker days, fewer in number but greater in meaning, at least in retrospect.
One son un-fathered. But this isn't Paris, and there was no happy end. Many "true" loves, loved passionately, and then forgotten in time. A few end-dates, expired, without the expected soliloquy. Self-centered, as all humans are at their core, I decided this woe-begotten day deserved a self-aggrandized look back.
A few published stories and poems later, my mark on the world could easily wash away with the next rain. My friends, few as they are, have loved me, and I them. But they went to the water, never making it down to the tavern.
My works go unadorned, shredded and torn, decomposing in a locker.
My loves have gone, dancing for the sun, and so I still run.
My family anchors me, a shifting weight at the bottom of the sea.
27 years is a long time to leave no true mark, other than the scars birth gives the world.
27 years, and I'm still not sure what they were for - or if they were deserved. A child born still - what if he were me? What greatness could he have brought to the world, what happiness, if the roles were reversed?
I am here, and he is not - and that is all there is. Perhaps there is no rhyme or reason - just one foot in front of the other, marching toward the dawn.
