Slippage of the Mind
The look in his eyes tells me I'm doing it again. Not forgetting... just muddling facts. Trying to convey some rare and priceless to me detail or story I've kept tucked away for years; ready to pull out, appearing from thin air, for the innocent bystander in feeble attempt to impress, or more than likely, just hoping to fit in.
But that look. That look tells me I've got it wrong. This man, who for so long has used wit as a weapon, and more recently fact as a crutch, now can't even do that. I've got the story right, but my mind, while reaching through the dark recesses of stored information can't seem to pull out the correct pieces at the correct times. Who turned out the lights?
My son used to correct me, and I would be embarrassed by this. Now, he just watches me with that compassionate look in his eyes that tells me I'm babbling again, realizing I've got the pieces wrong, yet not for the life of me being able to come out with the correct ones. It's all drawn to a strange conclusion then... him not wanting to hurt me, and me stopping in my presentation of facts, which are obviously wrong, to act satisfied. I'm not acting satisfied out of any sense of pride, but merely trying to act like "I think" I'm still the man my son used to be so proud of. I guess I'm just too scared to face the fact that I'm not that man anymore, and really don't have any idea who I've become.
Funny, though really it's not... I remember staring at my mother the way son now stares at me, and for the very same reason. I thought her mind broken then. I'm not so sure now. I don't feel broken, just as if something is hindering me – toying with me even, trying to keep me from reaching out and, in fact, preventing me from using speech with knowledge to elevate my own perception of worth to those I love. A frightening prospect for someone who's never had anything else to offer.
Fate is a cruel teacher, and Irony just one of her sharp, wicked tools. I used to joke about babbling. "Babbling and foaming" to be precise. I guess it's true we twist humor around the things we fear as we see them in others. How else can I explain laughing at such a term, never once realizing what dire trauma, whether physical or psychological, might be causing it to begin with?
I so deserve this. The price for the vanity of thinking I could, and did, know more than most people... so much more it seemed problematic to share after awhile. The "knowing" silence I wrapped around myself now the quiet calm which is killing me. What good are all those facts now, setting cross-linked in my brain? What purpose can they serve? I hear every tick of the clock and it resounds a thick, enveloping mist over a mind I falter my way through just trying to articulate one clear thought – to put words to this darkness that one, who spent so many years enamored by the dark, never could have prepared himself for.