Out on the town last night, I found the expected: old friends and new friends and ones inbetween. We whooped and hollered, lit a few, smoked a few, drank a few. We heard the echoes, saw the shooting stars, laughed at nothing and everything, reeled and careened between pads and pubs. When I was dropped home I saw that only six hours had passed, but four now belong to a different year. I wasn't exactly sober, yet neither was I drunk; and so I came back to you to finish what I started and start again anew.
What do I have left to show? My hopes, my dreams? My dark and sick desires? The hopes I have you already know, because I've seen them written in your own words.
These we share: love, I wish to be loved; by myself, by the One, by as many as I can fit into a lifetime. Satisfaction of a job well done; I've toiled at many yet few have allowed my seed to spread, few have given my time meaning. A purpose beyond body maintenance, sensual gratification, and leaving behind the past; oh, you haven't all said it as such, but I still hear you nonetheless.
These I submit as purely self interest: knowledge, I want to know... everything; and everything else. I want to look again into eyes that see through walls, into souls, beyond horizons (eyes that look into mine without fear or misunderstanding). I want to dip my hands again into the glacier lake under Going-to-the-Sun Mountain and scoop out paradise; if only for a day. I want to thank you and you and her and him with kisses and carefully chosen tomorrows, though you are no longer within walking distance and they are just... gone. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live!
I want to live forever.
I want to complete that which I began at Fuzzy's on a midsummer's evening with a pen, a torn band flyer, and a need larger than my own; and tonight will resume: the book. Because the hard working, hard hitting, and hard partying youth of south Fort Worth need a voice. Because I have watched them and been carried by them and know too many of their secrets. Because they speak too softly to be heard, too loudly to be understood, too proudly to be believed. Because I have the time and they don't.
The story which not so much began as awoke; whose characters aren't so much living as enduring. The novel which is not so much fiction as exposition; is not so much being written as returned. The poem, the song, the primal scream that is not so much being spoken in my voice as it is teaching me how to speak. At least that's what I hope. Because if I can finish this one then I can begin another. If I can breathe life into this make-believe group of friends then maybe I can remind the real ones around me struggling that they themselves are alive. If I can learn to use this voice to say something that is as real and compelling as the need I feel to say it then I will have found the purpose I'm looking for. At least that's what I'd like to believe. And, frankly, I think I've got what it takes.
So there you have it, folks; about as much me as I can stand to give in one week. These posts started out longer than I intended yet have grown shorter than I expected. Perhaps there isn't as much to me as I thought; but from here on out, you're just going to have to make do with ones containing the things that I usually think about and make up your own minds. Because, above all, I'm more interested in you than I am in me. I already know me.