Article / Non-Fiction
Poem / Non-Fiction
Essay / Poetry
I was thirty – two when I got hit by lightning. I had no premonition that I would be struck by such a catastrophe. I did not even think the day would come. I had been in several other mind numbing mishaps but by far I did not know that coming to terms with ill retro fitting mishaps would take me back to my deepest fears….. I lost my younger sister when I was nine. I thought nothing of it. I kept thinking there really was nothing trivial about ephemeral catatonics that occur in life. As I dragged myself to adulthood skipping effervescent youth I never thought I would need my childhood badly, not until now. I am a bitter entity by volition. I can function under dire conditions and I cannot imagine how.. I opted to work under extreme duress both physically and mentally. I have tested my body’s limit psychologically to the point where I have increased my pain threshold. Then one day after so long a time I needed my youth my childhood. I needed to understand my sister’s death. So I stood before a vast expanse watching at the edge of a cliff, a sea of people, jostling in the demise of life. In the untimely death of life aptly called the rat race. I wondered for a time if this was what meaning looked liked. I wondered for the shortest longest span I had seen as to where my younger sister was or even fit in. She had gone just as she had come. I took no notice of it. It was at that juncture that I felt my body reject everything or as I think of it inability to function logically. It was as though I had driven it to the point of death. It was apropos for death to have spanned twenty-one years over. I had it.. The answer I was looking for all along. The point from a to b was finally found. The question was not so much as of how but of when. Then as I watched at the very fringes of life I felt I could finally stop running.. I could finally let it all go. I could stop chasing after lurid dreams of acceptance. Carnal visions of intellectual achievements, constant plotting of ideas and jostling my way through a maddening crowd became useless even if it meant loss of stature and security were my incentives. I needed my youth because it was the one thing that helped me define existence. My sister’s death loomed before me as a constant reminder of not loss or grief but simply of raging tempests. Tempests that continue to taunt me to do something simply out of comparative classifications and not essential purpose or goals and made them seem right. My sister’s demise forced me into my own virtual rat race, far demeaning and tortuous.
I was thirty-two when I finally got what I was looking for, a lightning bolt of my own capacity. A convalescent demon that I conjured over the years to protect my virtual rat race. It was wrong to keep my sister’s death as an incentive yet I am relieved by my own entrapment. Such an evil mechanism was never meant to cure me. It was designed to push me into perpetual oblivion. I was wrong. I played the hand I had been dealt “always” yet I injected my virtual rat race so that I could enjoy my own self serving bitterness. Life is strange. Just when I though recurrences were an everyday thing I am finally caught in my own rat trap. It was meant to parody the conventional version that people manufacture for other human rodents and what not alike. I am bitter because I like pain. I continued to torture myself until the day I go hit by my own lightning bolt. I still cannot fathom happiness because it does not exist. The very thought of it makes me snide. Yet I am here moving in different time frames watching myself like a worn out pornographic film. I do not believe in material comfort even if it insulates pain simply because comfort will drive you to weakness and an eventual alternative to conventional death. There simply is nothing wrong with being a hard bitter old man as there is wisdom to contend with. The question then as I repeat to myself is or have repeated constantly is when will “it” catch up with you? When will “it” have caught up with you? I am not writing this simply for amusement. I am writing this so I can finally purge myself of my inner angels and bring my convalescent demon to permanent installment.
Growing up is not a phase that anyone goes through neither is it a process that deserves norms. It simply is a put together version of existence that you have to test and be willing to take apart when needed and put back when not needed. I still am a stuck up stick for lack of a better vulgar term. In as much as I would like to think of it the idea of truth is manufactured and thus I am a stuck up stick.
It all boils down to tearing through a field of pestilential jostling and societal acceptance and finding not your “own” niche or truth but of finding a mechanism that you can take apart and put together, portable and handy. At any given point in time when you are high and dry you can still look at your own evil demise and take it apart or study it then take a step back look over your shoulder and into the far reaches of the cliffs below where everyone is lost in the melee. It is at this point that I have reached a conclusion for the lightning bolt the two year retroactive itch and my own insurmountable rat trap. And it is this.. the key to everything is letting go.. demon or not and continue on the path that terrifies you the most. There is no reward at the end no light at the end no bushels of gold. Nothing pleasurable is waiting for you at the end only that dainty mechanism that you put together waiting to be tested and taken apart with an included view of course down below where another convivial socially accepted rat race is occurring.
I purposely left out the punctuations and the correct sequencing of verbal agreement as I think it helps me to define raw text as I rummage through of what’s left of carnage. It does nothing artsy to what I have done only that it is a confession of my virtual madness cured by my own virtual evil as well. To hell and beyond and not back should be the proper heading for such an idiotic text. Yet I think I will simply remind myself of it by calling it Hades’ lightning bolt.
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