The cold,cold crispy air fills my lungs, and I find myself standing on the edge of Lake Ontario. The little bits of driftwood and rock poke the bottoms of my shoes, and I see in the distance the solitary silhouette of a goose floating on the surface of the water.
Aren't you supposed to be gone now, guy?
As I lean over to pick up a stone, a good stone, one that you can skip about a mile, my dreamcatcher necklace falls out from my shirt and hangs between my breasts. I finger it and examine it and begin to think about the shyte in my life, and how I let it get there.
I hunker down to where the water kisses the land, and I ponder this at length. I truly fear that if I I have lost my way in this dim, dark place, that I may never be able to find my way out again. The oneness of my true nature seems magnified by the silence that surrounds me, and a painful sense of alone settles in my stomache like a lead weight. I'd cry, but why bother.
I am not a social creature...I never was.
I am sad. I am always sad.
I am alone. I am always alone.
I am singular.
I try to find exceptions to these rules, but am at a loss to find them. I can be with the group, but not in it. I wasn't built that way. I can sit in a crowded room, and be the only one there, if you catch my drift. Sometimes I like it better that way. Sometimes not, but mostly I do.
I raise my head and see the blue of the sky, the grey clouds skudding across it, and the shadow of the moon getting ready to make her entrance. She's dressed and waiting at the door.
Nighttime will come soon. It's inevitable, doncha know. The sun will rise in the East and set in the West. The seasons will pass with barely a labour pain, and we will grow old and die. We hold these truth to be self-evident, don't we? That's what we teach our children.
And so mote it be, and so mote it be, and so mote it be.
What happens when there is a wrinkle? A skip? A glitch in the matrix, if you will? What do we do then?
Sometimes little boys get sent to fight. Sometimes good people lose their way. Sometimes bad people get their way.
Sometimes good girls die.
This is life, and we live it and love it and hate it and want it.
It is what we make it. Nothing more
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