Let's pretend, she said, like it never happened, like the Sun hasn't already set on this twilight fantasy. And with the gloaming comes a certain vision--darker than the norm but strangely revealing, like watching baseball by moonlight at the edge of a field of corn. But unlike the sport, this game has no rules for you--only what you want now, which is what I won't allow since you don't deserve it.

I am not a bastion of warmth where you make seek shelter at a moment's notice or a font of happiness from which you may drink without recompense. I desire a penny for thoughts and a dime for actions or at least the honesty of admitting you're bankrupt. I concede: What I wanted was out of reach, but what I required (and deserved) was within the means of even the most destitute of vagrants.


It bothers me, who you are, but what hurts me is who I thought you were who you aren't. Asking the question, "How much of it was real?" and hearing the answer, "A name and number." Was I a rushing fool or you a mirage? I care enough to know the answer, but only because I care enough to never make the mistake again.

Yet somehow, amidst your tears and that feeling of my stomach evacuating through my heels, I managed to hear something else--the faintest whisper of revolution in an atmosphere of uncertainty.  How perfect and fragile and perfectly fragile, a Faberge emotion with the possibility of hatching a future.

And, suddenly, I'm OK with pretending like it never happened--because it didn't.


He saw life in her eyes and transcendence in her lips--pleasure that belonged here: in this time, in this place, now. It was immediate and concrete--emphatically physical and unabashedly sensual. It was everything he lacked, everything he desired, everything he couldn't give himself with words.

And with action she made it real.

Her smile sent his stomach to his feet like a boy grabbing a merry-go-round mid-spin, clutching desparately-playfully to the thing that both scares him and gratifies him most. When he looked at her face there was endless sensation--billions of strings tugging his nerve endings awake from their perpetual hibernation, reminding them that this is what it means to feel, that the point-of-it-all is in this moment. At her touch it was over. Words failed. Concepts paled. There was nothing but that percept, and he needed nothing more, wanted nothing less.

Yet he struggled with the pleasure of it all and wondered if it meant betrayal of virtue. So he hesitated and lost her eyes in a fog of stoicism. What he saw then was a blackness, a confusion of what wasn't there with what he desired. He noticed that he wasn't scared--only comfortable--and that scared him. Because it shouldn't be like this with its denial and arbitrary rules, with its psuedo-asectic renunciations and cereal box chivalry. And, luckily, it's not. Because there are words that one must keep in focus, words that are vital to survival, to happiness, to the life in her eyes.

"...for living on Earth."

And as her smile teased the Richter scale and her eyes made jealous the Sun, he put those words on repeat in his subconscious playlist, listening intently while visioning intensely. He heard them again and more agains than bare repeating until he memorized their cadence. They made the soundtrack of the night as he walked her out the door and to tomorrow, toward a fast-approaching future of having none of it. His nerve endings pleaded for stimulant as eyelids sank and mind drifted listlessly toward slumber. It's where he went, too--alone: for now, for the immediate future. But for the first time in a long time, he didn't like it.


[Mostly written during my Thanksgiving vacation.]

night run

That first step toward where I've been, away from yesterday, and the burning of flesh and spirit--the renewal and reward of a self-igniting, self-actualizing phoenix--into a dimly lit future. This limitless night holds for me what it does for everyone willing to brave the darkness--the potential, the actual, the desire and drive--and with it an uncertainty that dances in the periphery, illusory yet attractive as Soma and a bed. Bundled and ear-budded, ready for the work, unprepared for the effort, I descend stairs with Brand New Eyes, ready to hear the world for what it is, desiring, on several levels, escape from moments and from impending immediacy and from whatever comes after "next." So I begin to run.

Wondering where I'm going and knowing just as quickly--but also where I would go if my legs had the strength to carry me and my lungs the capacity for forever. Texas, out of habit, comes before I complete the thought, and my entire Life streams through my consciousness--reliving my decisions, affirming my mistakes, re-coming to terms with it all. And just as fast as the lone star was born, providing guidance for a boy lost at sea--or, rather, a boy building his raft while drowning--its brightness peaks in super nova, and I round the corner east--toward Virginia, toward what is/n't.

Inhale the stale night; exhale a burden. Nothing about me goes untouched--each breath a notice from my lips to fingertips that it's worth it to live and to live as such: desiring, achieving, experiencing the end result of that gloriously finite second when the nerve endings in my face send sensations racing toward my consciousness and their reception heralded with a not-so-common-man's fanfare. Bio-chemically no different from the touch of a leaf to my shin, this sensation could not be more different--more intimate, more fulfilling, seemingly more immediate. It's the culmination of my achievements, both concrete and personal, manifest as clear and vivid a reality as Descartes could ever hope for. In the moment, I affirm what is right with me and the world and look momentarily into the indefatigable soul of Benevolence.

Sprinting. I hadn't noticed until now. Nor realized that I had long ago stopped thinking about running. One ear bud down, I ease up, away from a maybe and think of Gump's mindless journey with disdain. Then: To California. To inspiration and a font of genuine happiness. To a fellow traveler who, at times, allows me to nap through it all and, at other times, insists that I drive. To brotherhood (if it means anything). To value. And as quickly as the thought comes it merges with another, and the wind carries me toward Chicago--anything but my kind of town--toward an expatriate past and an evolutionary future--more awe-inspiring than anything I could have fictionalized. "Look what they have accomplished," I whisper in silence. "And think of everything they will conquer." It's a smile, that whisper, but it's not directed merely at them...

An owl asks and my pulse responds, "Me, me." Directed at the accomplishments of last Tuesday--or Wednesday or Friday or Sunday--and at the life-tasks I will check-as-done after tonight. At the magnitude of what has happened in my life because of my realization that it could and because I demanded of myself the strength to do it. At the validity of the process. At the seemingly impossible made inevitable. At satisfaction and contentment. At risk and reward. At the means, ends, journey, and result. At everything that's beautiful about running toward life instead of away from death.

And that's where I finish--apropos: with a sense of achievement. The final steps must have been painful, but I honestly don't remember them as such--only as worthy of having been taken. The last step toward where I might someday be, toward tomorrow, and the burning of flesh and spirit.

"We were born for this."

Yes, Hayley, we were.