In this carnival of broken souls, I have worn many masks. Friend. Lover. Scoundrel. Writer. Soldier. Artist. Failure.
And I’m still not certain which one fits the best.
I just know that I’m running out of time to choose a final variation.
Through it all… through every breaking of the heart… every scarring caress… every mournful upheaval…I followed what I felt was right. Fought for the ideas in which I genuinely believed. Screamed out pages of raging tantrums in neatly typed lines.
But somehow, I got it all wrong.
Kissed all the wrong faces. Coloured outside the wrong lines. Pulled the wrong fucking triggers. In the wrong fucking battles.
And that made things messy.
Not an unexpected outcome when a well-intentioned accidental scavenger crashes the party of domestication. Impregnating the story with another round of pour me. Attaching to causes lost long before they even knew my name.
But I fought like hell for them anyway.
Because that is just how I am wired; it’s what I was born to accomplish. And only a fool argues against the clout of their destiny.
So I had to fight; and too often I fell.
I lamented hard; I laughed easy. Then lingered large on the small stage of the blank page. Ultimately losing myself rough inside the softness of her footlights.
I was left stricken, condemned to forever chase falling stars. Only to recoil at the harshness of their captivity once they were caught.
I lived my lifetime stuck in those conversations; I became lost somehow in the art. Choreographed lessons brushed gentle against pointed words. Fashioned boundaries crossed strange frontiers. Leaving me to duck out of a coward’s death by standing tall. And absorbing the hits.
Because nature favors the bold.
And I always lived wrote fearlessly.
Soon will come a day with no more chasing; soon there will be no more stars. No more fun. Just the stark brutality of a crushing silence.
And the barren stage of a blank page upon which I used to rage unapologetically.
It’s just how I’m masked wired.
