Scars

Born into an abundance of melancholy, I somehow survived with a stubborn gratitude for the unpredictability of biology.   I was born a broken child in a broken world; mine was a throwaway first breath.  I grew, terrified.  And then I was loved.  Which confused me.  And taught me to never trust.

 

I was the wrong kind of sick to sustain empathy.  So I became a destroyer of fragile connection.  An unrepentant killer of ego.  My words the brutally efficient weapon of choice.  Strike first; hit hard.  Be clever; be unclean.  Be willing to cross boundaries designating safe zones to leave no potential left standing.  Just blowing it all the fuck up– before it could ever let me down.

 

Because the catastrophic hurt of abandonment is coming.  It constantly hunts and stalks from the periphery as I while away the empty hours sharpening words into another point.  It is always watching.  Always looking for unguarded opportunity.  Always fed information by a cunning network of spies camouflaged in cloaks of gentle femininity.  Constantly fueled on by busty agents forever weaving lies and manipulations into a canvas meant to captivate and distract.

 

It was a familiar pattern growing stale in its repetition.  It left only the eventual acceptance of an existence forever bound to the cries of children left unborn.  And the lamentations of the ones who were.  A life lived ordinary may be a wasted life– but is still better than no life at all.  And I could never tolerate the ordinary.  

 

So I knew I had to change.

 

It hasn’t objectively been much of a life– my accomplishments pale when compared to others at my station.  But, I have lived it noisily.  And, unapologetically.  When exploited by gentler flesh, and the stubborn walls of my emotional bunkers have crumbled, I loved hard.  Loved out loud and boisterously while the rest of the world could only whisper. 

 

Rather than surrender to the echoing nothingness of a significant eternity, I chose instead to forever embrace the absurdity.  To laugh in the face of unexpected tragedy.  Find sparking delight in random breaths of tranquility, no matter how objectively insignificant.  To finally accept the juxtaposition of the temporary nature of existence and the lasting profoundness of considerable ridiculousness.

 

I spend the majority of my days living as the main character of my own poorly structured novel.  That’s why I drink what I drink.  And smoke what I smoke; fuck what I fuck.  Life is too short not to experience every morsel tantalizing a tongue starving for new sensation. 

 

Despite the better intentions of my more caustic nature, I know it will end disastrously.  I accept that damage.  And inherit that risk.   In my estimations, it is the better end of the deal.  Because on the other side lies only regret.  And regret is what too often kills. 

 

I have neither advice nor caution to offer.  The best I have on hand are shaky commiserations that I share freely and indiscriminately.  Because we all are suffering.  And making do as best we can.  We all carry the burden of weighted memory.  We all display lingering scars of consequence.  

 

But those marks and imperfections are profoundly beautiful in their uniqueness.  They tell a remarkable story that is significant. 

 

A story very much worth writing to the last fucking page.

About Grey Fox

...author, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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