Looking in the mirror and not knowing who is looking back. Wondering where the young boy full of ideals and wonder went. Who is this man I see today with the receding hairline and the creased slowly forming beside his eyes? What does this man want and where did he come from?

The journey that brought him here is not memorable, nothing to write home about for sure. But here we are, a decade removed from happenstance and delight. The days gone by feel mashed together like a series of dreams. Some things seems so real, vivid, tangible. Others seem beyond grasp, existing in the spaces between spaces.

There is no time to clear the air. There is no starting over. This path is finite, continuing into oblivion. How long things will sustain themselves is a physics equation.

Part 6

There is no legacy worth writing about, no story here to tell. I am a lonely man with big dreams, A man who dreams at night, who delights in crashing back to reality every morning. I wake up hoping for foggy skies and gloomy days. I find comfort in the autumn, a time of year where decay and cold is welcomed with open hearts.

I look back over the years and the things I have to hold onto are simple. A woman who stands by me, children who love me because I’m ‘papa,’ and a redeemer who is saving me, when I am no less worse than people who are yet to be in the saving grace.

There is not too much sun shining this way; too many burdens to bear, too many dreams to bury in the graveyard of broken hope. There is today, and today bleeds like an open wound longing for someone inject it with Novocain and seal it with needle and thread.

There is slowly nothing left to catch us off guard.

Someday there will only be left the known, and the fear of the unknown will be conquered.

On that day we will breathe no more and our eyes will shut.

The light will be gone from our being.

The end of our days is coming short and knowing we are finite is comfort.

How much of this distorted and lost and violent world can a man take?

My soul is filling up with disaster and despair. No struggle is going to make me right.

Determined not to let my destruction be the legacy I leave I flail about in the night.

My torment is only beginning because I know that in the trial I am purged clean.

I will be twisted and turned over. I will be squeezed and bashed and battered and thrown.

I will be broken. I will be broken even though I am already shattered. I will become pieced together in the end.

I will be cobbled together to form some colonial road; made perfect by all the years of being walked upon.

The language I use will be long forgotten and the words I say will never be translated.

I will vanish into the history of man and no one will ever know I was on this earth. My steps will be erased and my memory will fade.

I am no hero; there is no substance here that should become part of the annals of time.

Endings have a way of always starting again. Nothing is ever wrapped so neatly like freshly cut meat. The perfectly tied string around the brown paper; keeping in something that used to be alive. This absurdity we call life, merely an experiment.

The certainty of ending is always haunting, like a shadow in the afternoon sun. Who can find hope in this horrible violent womb? The places we call home are only breeding grounds for disaster. One misspoke word or misplaced comment, corruption in the misunderstandings. Waiting in line at the end of the earth there is no one to tell me the point of my birth. Living alone surrounded by others. Cancellations and corrections but no clear directions; how can we know the reason?

Life feels like treason against my own soul.

Part 4

Too many sick days in my current state of mind.

All my hopes and dreams are fading away; like the sun drifting into the sea.

There is so much fear and emptiness; praying doesn’t make it go away.

God is there, but maybe it’s me who has wandered into the darkness.

Maybe the light is struggling to find fuel, maybe its burning out.

This old man of me is wanting to be free, but he’s bound by his responsibility.

Driving forces inside this head, but already crashing into a wall. There is not much further until the end.

So many missed opportunities for joy, so much happiness for me and I just can’t grasp it.

Its like my hands are incapable of holding onto the things that fulfill; and my heart is shriveling in my chest.

The chaos of my intellect and the losing appetite for challenge is driving me to the brink.

In one brief moment the loss of a life that had always been there caused the change of every future moment.

I am not the same as I was and I never will be again. I don’t know who I am anymore and maybe I never will.

He died on a rainy Thursday and who I was, who I thought I was irrevocably became less.

The impact one man had on my life, a steady force that was always there, always; ruined my trajectory.

What path was I on? Where am I going?

These questions are now haunting me, becoming my oppressor. Who was I and who am I now?

I am lost and nothing I did caused a change in direction.

My grandpa finally rested and now I don’t know what I am supposed to do. I can keep my hands occupied enough to keep my mind at bay.

What was my purpose going to be? I never thought about him being so valuable to me; it just never occurred. He was always there. I never realized the presence he had in my life, because he kept silent and watched us all grow up.

And now that we are grown and he is gone the questions keep coming and the tears won’t go away and I am lost and I am sad and I don’t know what was or will be or even what is.

These words I write and think and feel are nothing compared with the sudden silence his life has now become.

I cannot escape the feeling that I am not doing what I should even though I am doing what needs done.

I am immersed in mediocrity and the job I have and the education I am getting and the family I am raising are all suddenly put into a perspective.

It is fitting that the air is cold and the leaves are changing and falling and drying and turning into their final ultimate purpose. In their death they are now able to bring life to the earth. Their decay means something else might live and thrive. So while my grandpa was here we were all in the shade of his life but now from his passing what should we do?

The tears are taunting me challenging me daring me to do something different and powerful and purposeful.

This life full of rage is merely a battle between good and evil,

Although not in the traditional sense. Good is within me. Evil dwells there also.

So this superhero war going on forevermore is nothing you can do anything about.

I’m all alone in my fight, no one can save me. I pray and I try, but the dark seems to close in tighter.

Where is my superhero? The man in the mask and tights. He doesn’t need a cape to help me escape. Just a cool rocket car or a hidden pathway beneath the city.

The feeling of fury must be my fuel. Everyday fighting to be some bodies fool.

Wanting to be different than I know I’ll ever be. Fighting a fight that will be the death of me.

Cannot hide or escape this world. My battle is within it never unfurls.

Is this a story that every man shares? Nobody fucking cares.

All alone in my fight, where is my superhero?

I pray and I try but the fight will be the death of me.

Part 2

Dramatic ironies of the life I live are often faulty.

Awaiting the end with dreaded anticipation

My tired eyes seeing too much of this old world, filled of sadness always despising the madness.

Enjoying desperation, wanting empty fulfillment; it’s like a candy bar on a hungry stomach, enough to leave me desiring more.

Shortened breaths coming slow no matter how fast my heart tries to go.

How often the wonder slips me by with dread, with an articulate excuse.

There beyond my grasp are the things that I absolutely lack, the joy children find in rolling down a grassy knoll and the requisite delight of a fathers affirmation.

How much darker will it become before the light is finally washed in the blackness?