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The ROK - part 2
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The ROK - part 2 |
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desperado Member
since 1999-05-24
Posts 312FT Hood,Tx 
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*note* if you haven't already, please read part one to understand what is going on. Also, I'm going to be comming home earlier than I thought. my replacement finally came in. WOOHOO!!! so I'm leaving in about a week. I was broken. Broken by my dreams and rebuilt by my nightmares only to be erased by love. It hadn¡¯t been the first time in my life that had happened. I guess you might say though that the third time was the charm. The first time I was broken, I found solace in the pen and paper that dwelt underneath. It was an odd two years, the first two I learned to write. So much emotion yet no visions of what I wanted, like signs cut to perfect dimensions yet nothing on them. Or a world with definition, yet no color, no uniqueness, no vitality. It was an odd time. Doing things so foreign and odd that it was almost like speaking Swahili in China. To an outsider you¡¯d never know the difference until the door to all that knowledge was opened. The second time I was broken, it was more of an infection. Like a disease had gathered underneath a cut and festered in the wound until it had to be purged. Slowly eating away the host body until there was nothing left but a hollow shell. It was then that the words gained coherent thought, yet they were only filled with desperation, loss and a desire for death. I guess that¡¯s why I still smoke. Somewhere deep inside I still have that subconscious desire to end my lonely, miserable life and pass into obscurity that comes from being another statistic in a world that sees only numbers and profit margins. Some would say it isn¡¯t that way, yet it is. It¡¯s always been that way. That will remain the case as long as prostitution remains the world¡¯s oldest profession. Finally, the third time I couldn¡¯t stay together, I was empty. Infected with a disease that rotted me away from the inside and created a hollow shell of what once existed. Incapable of supporting any weight, much less my own, for any period of time, I had become dead to the world. And in this death, my life passed before my mind, life a slow moving motion picture, or a leisurely drive down a country road in May. Yet I¡¯ve managed to drift off again. So where was I, ah yeah, I remember now. There I was, drunk, tired, and completely at my wits end. And it¡¯s a strange thing about being there. All your accomplishments and dreams don¡¯t matter any more, if they ever did. But by then, I hadn¡¯t accomplished much of anything except to lose the only person I¡¯ve ever really loved, Diana, and all the dreams, save one, had been revised, compromised, and then tossed away. The only dream that came true, had a cost I¡¯m, still trying to figure out. The only dream that came true was to join the military and do something that had meaning. I wanted something that would define me in more than just words on a paper. I needed to do something that I could look someone in the eyes and be proud of. I needed a purpose to live. When I told my friends I was enlisting, some of them balked, others scratched their heads, and the rest told me to walk. Maybe it was because I hadn¡¯t been there for them, or they saw it as though I was tired of being their friend and wanted out in a way I couldn¡¯t control. It wasn¡¯t easy to walk the road I chose though. For me, the hardest part of life is moving and starting over. Making friends has always been difficult for me. Social interaction makes me nervous and frustrated unless I can hide behind a wall long enough for them to know me and accept my craziness. For some people, you are required to have the right things, the right style and say the right words to be accepted. In some ways it¡¯s harder to make friends than it is to find a job. Like it really makes a difference in the end. When you die, someone comes along and boxes your stuff to put in a garage for sell at another time. And no one really reads your words after you die, well maybe if you become a writer some one will find a few hastily scratched lines of poetry or prose fifty years from now and call it a classic piece of work. Perhaps I can package that and sell it as a book titled Classic Writing in Fifteen Seconds. You interested in a copy? I didn¡¯t think so. But any ways, I spent the next three weeks living in multiple realities. During the days, I spent my time in an exotic mix of fear and anxiety with a thick liner of hangover. At nights, it was mixed drinks and resignation tainted with a double shot of loneliness. And all the time alone brought up memories from various times and places half the world over. Partying in a cabin with some of my friends as we drank and played scrabble. Going out with my friend and my sister to get high one last time. My boy Rob and I at the Navy Club on any of a dozen Thursday nights as we tried to see if we could make our blood become alcohol. Any of a hundred nights I learned to play pool at Dos Amigos amid drunks and the thick stench of cigarette smoke. Remembering the joy and pride of completing my military training. Feeling Diana run her fingers through my hair as we watched a movie. That¡¯s the memory that hurt the most. Even now, remembering her electric touch and the sheen in her eyes takes me back there to her. But Pauline, just like Diana, can¡¯t be mine no matter how much they act and look alike. For that matter, they also have that tantalizing touch. The one that sends shivers up and down your spine and continues with goose bumps. It¡¯s like being touched by the left hand of God. Finally, after what seemed like a thousand deaths and rebirths, I went home to see my grandfather. I¡¯d like to call it a wake up call from reality. There is no harsher mistress than time. Time can bless and smite you at once and do it before breakfast. Walking in the hospital room that first day was the easy part. The hard part was walking out that night. Two years might seem like a breeze, but comparing the present with snap shots of the past turns it into an eternity. Sitting there, looking at his gaunt face, watching my grandmother hold back tears as he fiddled with the tube injecting food he so desperately needed into his stomach while trying to look positive and happy was more exhausting than thirty hours in an airplane. Perhaps the hardest part though was reconciling my illusions with reality. In my mind and heart, he was, and still is, vibrant and animated with a wealth of knowledge. To see him incoherent at times with eyes unaware of the world around himself, for him to be exhausted after a ten minute walk, was something I couldn¡¯t accept and deal with at first. Now though, I partially understand life. It doesn¡¯t matter what you do or how well you do it. The only thing that matters is that you can get up in the morning, look at yourself in the mirror and feel proud of who you are and what you are doing. Money, social status, and even to some extent friends are all extras. They are benefits that you have earned through being yourself. Keep in mind that this knowledge wasn¡¯t given to me by a wise man. It wasn¡¯t drawn from some sacred writing. I found it in the eyes of a man who has lived and loved. And it was when I was sitting there I realized that I was not being myself. Happiness was the illusion I tried to maintain because I was afraid to be myself. All the time I had been looking for Diana with another name and face instead of looking for someone who liked me. So I decided, as I flew back six days later, to change once more. I was going to metamorphosize from the illusion I was, into the person I am. TO BE CONTINUED¡¦. People demand freedom of speech to make up for the freedom of thought which they avoid. --Soren Kierkegaard |
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| © Copyright 2001 James Webster - All Rights Reserved | |||
Saxoness
since 1999-07-18
Posts 1102Texas |
Desperado, this is good. It really evokes a lot of emotion, for you, and for the reader. Truthfully, sometimes it's hard to read. Like a lump that won't quite go down when you swallow. It sticks with you all day long. But I'm involved now, so it's not like I can walk away...you know? Good job. Waiting for part three... "Glory remains unaware of my neglected dwelling where alone |
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Temptress
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-06-15
Posts 7136Mobile, AL |
An excellent 2nd part, Des. The power gets bigger in this one as you are building..and one of my favorite lines was this.. "At nights, it was mixed drinks and resignation tainted with a double shot of loneliness." still d-i-s-c-o-n-n-e-c-t-e-d |
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obscurity of cloud Member
since 2001-05-11
Posts 294....:::::******:::::.... |
This is great! It really does something with the writing because it's not so much about what but as about how. One thing, and not your fault, i'm sure, but everywhere that was supposed to have an apostophe had an underscore and an upside down exclamation point. Is this an html virus of mine, or something weird in the post? Are other people seeing it? |
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
Excellent story! (and I see the 'glitch' too).  |
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