2 Minutes. Go!

Why do I keep doing the things I do if no one cares, he said. I ignored it. I ignore lots of things. His confusion is not my affair - I long ago stopped wondering if I was hearing echos or new voices. I stood, body braced against a cliff face. There was nowhere to go but up or dead. So, I went up. No one cared. Not in the long run. No one but me who can't seem to stop writing about this stupid fucking cliff.

Why do you keep doing the things you do if no one cares, I said, finally. Just throwing him a bone because you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but you can keep him quiet with a bone. 

Then, I zoned out again. Which is all I wanted to do in the first place. I wanted to get to that dust mote destination. I remember that clearly, too. Laying on my back and watching the dance of light and dark through a sunbeam. I remember thinking that it would never get better than that. Which was stupid, but it turned out I was right. 

Go figure.

I know it's considered good form to bash your face against the grindstone. I get that puritanical bullshit. Hell, I had it driven into my soul. Thing is, I'm not six anymore, and I know mechanisms of control when I see them. He shook his head. He didn't get it. I didn't have time to explain it, so I did the old show don't tell. 

The blade went in easy.

People always look surprised when they're dying. The one guarantee you have in life, but everyone is shocked when it happens to them. He didn't want to die before he accomplished his Sisyphus bullshit - he couldn't see that it didn't matter. He still believed that the people in his life would rally, support him the way he tried to support others. He didn't see the desperate longing that drove it all. 

Fucking sad, really.

I don't have enough energy to kill myself. I'll keep procrastinating. Not plan it. I mean, I might as well be shocked when it comes like the rest of you. Until then, patience. Tell his story. 

That's what I plan to do. 

2 Minutes. Go!

It comes on slowly. You can feel it creep up your neck towards your circuit boards. There is an awareness of pain that is shocking - maybe not the sensation of pain, per se, but the awareness of it. It's something you can't shake off. It is a hair shirt over shiny steel. Your flesh pulls back, and you are finally coming to terms with the truth when the whole thing flips on its side. 

You were made for this. That's what you need to understand. There is happenstance, true, but this was all deliberate. You are fighting a war you don't see or understand. That's enough to make anyone look over their shoulder, hoping not to feel the creepy anxieties wash over you.

The maker is long gone. He checked out right around the time that things started getting hectic. Isn't that the way. Create them, show them the garden, disown them, and bounce. It's written in the stars. You can't fuck with prophecy. 

When it's all done, you'll feel a sense of relief you didn't earn. You'll pat yourself on the back if you're able because you've fought and won, or so you think. Everything rusts. And, eventually, everything sinks.

2 Minutes. Go!

They walk by slowly, little hitch in the step for swagger's sake; they are a technicolor blur of bright colors and brand names. They carry their backpacks on one shoulder or two. Or they have a messenger bag of some type. They fill them with books, and I want to tell them not to put all the weight on one shoulder and end up a man with fucked shoulders like me. They aren't beating the shit out of a heavy electric guitar though - maybe the backpack damage will be minimal.

They are fucking LOUD. Loud the way only kids can be. Like, look at me! Look at me! They cower when they are alone, but in groups they are brave and belligerent. I remember. I know what its like to think you're surrounded by has-beens and hypocrites. I know what it feels like to think you have figured things out. There's a wonderful simplicity to that feeling. Adults (at least the smart ones) realize that they don't understand anything. It's demoralizing. It's tiring. It's a drag. Makes me want to smoke cigarettes and write fast, angry songs. 

This happens every year, but every year it feels new. There is a kind of magic in that. Mystery at the very least. In some ways, it feels like trying to stay planted in gnarly surf. Undertow pulling on you. You stand up against it, try to be the big rock that dashes the wave to pieces. This is understandable. This is relatable. The beginning of journeys are always exciting and fraught with drama. 

When I'm an old man, I'll watch the kids going to school, and it will bring back a lifetime of memories from both sides of the desk. That's something, man. That's something you can hang your happiness on. Put me in an old folks home if you must, but make sure there's a window for when school's in session. 

2 Minutes. Go!

You have to look closely. You have to focus your eyes until they ache. It's not easy, and it's not supposed to be easy. You'll have to dodge distraction for one thing. You'll have to bear the wait of impatience on your shoulder. 

Polly want diversion?

Pretty soon, everything starts to look the same. You feel like you are seeing him everywhere. He's a ghost that haunts your waking hours. Sometimes, he enters your dreams, and you think: gotcha motherfucker. 

The hours and days will pass quickly, and you might be tempted to chuck the whole endeavor. It won't make you happy, though. You're in too deep. Too many hours stacked; they sit on the shelf like an old doll with wonky eyes. 

Still, you persevere, and, in this, there is some celebration of what it means to be human. Try to keep the faith, even though it is impossible. You have to believe.

You'll find Waldo eventually.