Driving home tonight, I watched the silhouette of a naked oak play movie-screen driveby through my windshield. It was the first moment in weeks where my pseudo-writer side screamed out amongst the every-day living dialogue that now goes on in my head.
Somewhere along the line, I forgot how to engage myself into my life. Somewhere down the road, I took a turn that lead me off the path of self-indulgent monologue. Somewhere, I lost myself.
In moments of bourgeois clarity, it’s a recurring theme that perhaps a life not examined is not a life at all, and when the opportunity arises to treat myself to such extravagance, I wonder if I’m not over thinking to make up for my lack of attention for so long. If perhaps a second of piercing through the busy clamor of a full life isn’t just some kind of compensating for a lack of attention, if that makes any sense. I’m a man with a small penis and big hands – so much to gesture with to make it seem more worthy and so much less to show for what I have.
Not to say that I’m unhappy right now, because I’m happier than I’ve been … perhaps ever? But at a time like this, after a couple of beers at the bar, half engaged (or half interested) in the conversation with the over-achieving woman with the fake blonde hair and the Broker of the Month award stumble over the word “confidence,” I have to wonder where it is that I’ve chosen to go.
Mostly, and haphazardly, I don’t care.
The only thing I see at this point is that life has given me reason to put up barriers. In every conversation, in every relationship, in every dealing-with, I am no longer present completely. I’d like to think I’m as poetic and steadfast as the naked oak against the ghostly midwestern sky, but I’m nothing approaching that. If I’m lucky, I’m the leaf that still clings tenaciously to the branch before finally giving up at third frost.
I’m afraid now that life has taught me to die.
How’s that for an update after fifty-three days?