You know here in the worst I will become the best of them all 8 comments

Posted by grampa in the real shit (Tuesday November 13, 2007 at 1:55 pm)

I’ve been gone a long time, I know this.  To borrow the words from the last poem that my father ever wrote, there was a time that I thought “the muse was dead and the mermaids had stopped their singing.” 

I was wrong.  I’ve been writing a lot, lately, just not here.  I’ve had to work through some very painful personal issues and I just wasn’t ready to share them.  It’s been a long time since I sat down with a note pad and wrote the ink out of a new pen, but I’ve done that several times in the past few weeks.

Perhaps it is because my hard-drive crashed a couple of months back and I lost everything that I had written in the last 3.5 years, save for a few scraps that I had the foresight to print.  Perhaps when dealing with personal things, I need the feel of the paper, the drag of the pen, to truly allow my thoughts to come forth.  I think, though, that it is because when I have this handwritten thing in front of me, the hundreds of pages crammed with my words, I can feel the tangibility of my life, my past, and know that it was all worth something, if only to me.

There was a time that I felt nothing.  There was a time when the only feelings that I had came from something I crammed into my veins.  I have the ability to turn it all off and become cold and empty, almost at will.  But I cannot allow myself to do that today.   Today I have to feel my feelings, whether I like them or not.  The way I see it, if I shut off my feelings and shut out the world, I might as well be using again.  And if I’m using again, I might as well be dead.

I’m coming out of a great darkness, the kind of darkness that follows staring at a brilliant light.  A sorrow that only has meaning when contemplated next to the immeasurable joy that preceded it.  Perhaps I did fly too close to the sun and I should have known better.  The fall from the heights nearly broke me.  But I’m not sorry.  I emerge from this a better man and, though it took me a few moments to regain my wings, I’ll be soaring back towards the sun in no time.

Thank you for your kind words, father.  Our conversation helped me more than you’ll ever know.  While for you the Muse is dead, know that she lives on within your son.  She is out there on the horizon, beckoning me onward.  I know not where she’ll lead, but I once again have the will to carry on.

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