Four, three, two...

I don’t know exactly where it started: the fear. I believe it to have been something like that of a constant drip. It began and just didn’t cease; drip, drip, drip, fear growing as I tried to balance curiosity with learning. It was a matter of waging war between heart and brain, of that I'm certain. Brain urged reality, desire for freedom and suggested ways out that would surely leave me as emotionally-void as he. And heart – well heart may have helped the drip of fear more than it was entitled to. It too, was scared. Mentally, I can picture it as the scales of justice – or as it would be at the time; justification. Everything from the sociopathic stance was justified to me: so much so that the directive soon came to: “Write down what I say. That will enable you to go back through and remind yourself of what your problems are”.



That was nearly ten years ago. And those novels that were to serve as reminders – they’ve been burned to ashes.


The thoughts however, they stir. Like dusty, clinging webs of pragmatic demise, they hang in the far regions of my mind. “What my problems are…?” What are my problems? I can see now what they may have been then, but do they still infiltrate my actions now? I think it’s like the teachings of the power of the unconscious state: that we all bring a program of hopes and dreams, of fears and behaviors with us as we transcend into adulthood; into relationships. It’s unconscious – it’s seemingly subtle and yet, like a vapor it interrupts our adult lives with the search for unmet childhood needs, not recognizing boundaries or walls.



Drip, Drip, Drip.



The webs are relevant because now and again, I take a mental broom to them and open the windows. Their relevance serves to remind in a positive way – to remind that at that time, and maybe even now – I am too kind. I listen, (stubbornly) I engage (directionally) and I anticipate the outcome (prematurely). I expected promises to be fulfilled and carried out. I anticipated the day when all sorrows would be forgotten and when I walked to the mailbox there would be the grandest, most golden invitation to a celebration in my honor. TA-DA! An apology might soon follow for contending with all those things that hurt and traumatized, that injured and frightened me and being that I was so forgiving, I would take my golden invitation and check, check, and triple-check the date to make certain that I showed up early for the big day. That day didn’t come though…and it never will. Not in that regard. Because it’s been lived; that facet of my life – that experience and all the tools, tears, fears and happiness that it brought with it has been lived. It creates cobwebs at this point and some I keep, but most go through the open window.


I anticipated that there would be more sorrow than this. And maybe it’s because I held on for far too long – wanting for things to change and be what I saw them as in my mind’s eye. They couldn’t possibly live up to that expectation, ideal as it seemed. And now…now it’s a cartoon of sorts. The memories – the ones that must go now, they hang with four fingers clutched to the edge of a cliff. I'm above those fingers and one by one, I pluck them off. Four…three…two…*BINK*….they fall away.