Information of story:
Copyright 1999 C.E.
Wordcount: 2274
Story # 6
Isn’t it strange, the things one will remember? Minute details of seeming meaninglessness, whether one realizes it or not, oft times give off the aura of intense psychological and even physiological importance. Quite considerably, the emotional conniptions associated with the ever present anomaly of “time flying” weighs heavily on a person’s soul and lures that one into the impression of “wasted time”. Even now, I find myself caught in the abhorrent process of self affiliation and the aspect of said “wasted time” which has encompassed the entirety of a human year.Do not “waste time” in the attempt to understand, just let the words and emotions flow. If it’s within a person, then the understanding of knowledge, and its base acceptance, will follow.
Do not over exert yourself, for even knowledge leads to stupidity, and sometimes stupidity is borne of the lack of understanding; an understanding I could not find nor accept initially when brought upon me beyond a year ago.
I began to understand towards the end of a month, the end of March, within a year labeled “1999". And never truer, nor ironic, was the saying of the “soothsayer” than then, “Beware the Ides of March.”
I felt alone for the time of but half a week, though the truth shone through far more exuberantly that I had been alone for far longer. I knelt before a church bearing a cross pointed heavenward on top of its steeple. It had been simple to allocate its position despite the miserable weather that night in such a small and equally miserable little town. Cold rain battered my personage, though I barely felt it. The rain had come down in such a way for several weeks preceding my humiliation. It had poured constantly and consistently in its form. Perhaps it was better that way, for it masked my tears as they fled my eyes.
Nearby, a police car sat motionless as if a sentinel in the perpetuating darkness. Indeed, it was two in the A.M. of morning. Perhaps more, perhaps less. That time was meaningless.
Thoughts mingled within thoughts and wove an intricate tapestry that was but a singular patch in my life. Yet, it was an important patch. As it was a defining patch. And I could not tear my thoughts from the traumatically engulfing events of recent time. Though, I was reminded of earlier times; other defining moments upon the tapestry. Although, I could not curve the begging desire of questioning, “Who am I?”
Skyward, my eyes went, to the cross and its allegorical and prophetic meaning, as well as its enigmatic truths. My coat draped around me as I perched on one knee and the water soaked through my pants. I didn’t care.
Mere seconds passed as a flood of memories saturated my mind. Memories of those “defining” moments that are rudimentary to the discovery of “Who I am.” Definitively, perhaps it is best I begin from the beginning. A recollection of sorts bearing the parting of stars from the ethereal dark of the wayward heavens. It’s illuminance emanated from within my being and gathered without, totally encompassing my soul. The result of which ended in the encumbrance of a dying body. Alas, a body endowed by the union of flesh upon flesh and embarked upon the reverence of the base solidity of what is the essential functionality of life; the womb.
Yes, I remember. A vague recalling of reddening light begetting the surfacing from liquid to the breeze of an oxygen rich atmosphere. Albeit, mine own mind is selective in its research. And accordingly, is only privy to tidbits of an already extensive life, one in which I am far from finished with.
Yet, this blessing of “memory” reluctantly opens the gateway to childhood, most notably my first five years. Included within this management of time, are the times I danced as a babe of less than one and played with an article of what seemed to me a large, hard paper toy; cardboard. Thusly, I had come to the understanding of “entertainment”.
However, let me not forget to foreclose the mention of the dying breathes of my grandmother, my mother’s mother, who did leave my mother at a loss and in sorrow. Now, it was then I came to understand the concepts of death and anguish.
It was not long after this passing that I beheld the figure of Christ carrying and rising to the brilliant heaven my grandmother. And this transpiring event I was given that vision whilst I stood perched upon a couch from within a room from within an olden house of my grandmother’s years before hand. And I looked on in curious wonder from under a calm, considering way. And as the proceeding years passed, the image faded. Few years passed, and I viewed a pregnant aunt who would soon from that moment give birth to one of my cousins. I knew the importance of the continuing of life and at such a young age, understood how it came to be processed. Though never had I need to be told. And certainly, I would not have bought the premise of a “stork”.
Verily, it had come to be in my less than formidable years as a teenager, that the image I had seen as a child reapplied itself to my psyche. The profound nature of the influence of the image of Christ set me upon a new and undeterred path of self discovery. As well as the consolidation of old beliefs attempted at one point to pass on to me. I was beginning to enter the realizations of the truths behind the truths. And a dangerous gambit amongst the grander scheme of the material considerations.
Father lost, the tempest of mine heart flailing Mother falling, mine sisters telling.
The fickled fires of love and commitment became my greatest proponents. There have been many, of course, pleading the cause of my many trepidations. And, invariably, the many there were confounding results leading quite frequently to the such.
My first great love was my focal point. I had known her but a short time in my eight or ninth year of life. Though, I had only known her through verbal contacts beginning and ending with “Hi”. Indeed, I was a shy boy. So shy, that in fact once I had the chance to know her more personally when one unique friend of hers was going to fetch her and bring her to me. My own fear was what caused me to run. And to this day haunts me in all I attempt. Still, I may have been young, but I was not a fool when understanding love. And since then, her emotion has never left me.
Ten fleeting years later, I found myself in the arms of my second great love. This was a love that redefined my approach to the premise of love. It was through this one member of the pervasive sex that I gained my further sense of manhood and its illogical end results leading to what is well known as one’s “first love” syndrome. A syndrome in which the first love hardly ever stays fresh and intact. An undermining statement considering my first love had actually come years before. Yet, that was a different “love” from this. This was my second defining moment in matters of love in my life that spanned the time of two years in an on and off fashion. Consequently, this leaving wounds upon wounds within mine own soul.
Those were matters best left unmentioned, for they were resultant of her weaknesses of flesh and mind both in and against my person. Yet, strength did she find within the arms of another. Though, I wish them well, it had a lasting effect. For it was then I found my own strength through pain and anger. I had been building a foundation made of stone.
Upon the rigorous task of utilizing my thought processes to determine the exact nature of my being, I discover the primary root of which I am composed. At the core, it is quite determinable that I am love. It is I and I embody it.
More recently, it has been brought to my attention by nameless parties that perhaps I would be better suited as a “player”. A player of meaningless games inviting whimsical fancies and self adulating indulgence. This, however, does not strike favor at my core. Such things are childish pursuits made for selfish gains. To have one implore upon mine person even the consideration of what is most decidedly porno graphic in nature is quite an insult to me. I have no desire to be the lover of many, but the lover of one. This, of course, brings into light a great difficulty. Through painful process, I have discovered that most of mine generation and even younger of the “fairer sex” are most decidedly in favour of the frankly unfavorable.
Many cultures before and even now are quite in favor of multiple partners and also wives. It is neither my religion nor will. Mine testament relates only the taking of one as a mate. And, thusly, the practice of maintaining the intimacies true to a proper relationship. Doubtful any care. Mayhaps it is the native, or is some views “savage”, in me that wishes to attend to what it takes to show undying love for a potential mate. Of course, that is a rough deterrent in a world where sex is no longer considered a form of commitment, but rather “leisure time”. Most assuredly, mine own “wife” would agree with the latter. Of whom I now speak, it is difficult to appropriate the proper grasp. In and of itself, it is an confounding issue. One that, nonetheless, has occurred. Soon enough, I will find myself navigating a course I had never desired to embark upon; divorce. A travesty, I assure you.
Gently, the flowing wind within the battering cold rain nudged my thoughts deeper into contemplation. Youth still clinging to me like the electrical discharge of static, mine age and still is apparent. In that, I fall just barely short of a quarter century. Too young for the impractical sufferings of late. Only the name stood out in my mind as the ultimate executioner of mine light. A dark person who’s title deserves no recognizing.
It was this time one year ago, that she left me. She whom is the most blatant and foolhardy lie within my years alive.
The twenty ninth . . . Six fifteen in the P.M. . . .
An hour’s difference marking the pivotal moment in the worst of mine misbegotten loves. Thusly, she is the last “misbegotten” error I will make in matters of love. For it was she I had taken as my wife six months before hand. Foolish hope and meticulous pride made me want her and verily take her. She who is akin to what is most notoriously “evil”. She who bore my son and birthed him a mere five months later. He was premature. I know why.
The creature whom bore mine son, gave him the name. Not of mine, but of hers. And therefore, after “his”. “His” is a name I wilt not forget. Though I might attempt vainly. It was before me. It was after me. It was with me. His name was her heart. My suffering . . . was her triumph. Regardless, she wilt not evade me much longer. For it was within her I learned the ultimate goal; humility. And that humility begets truth. And is well known, “The truth shall set you free.”
Indeed, this is supposed to answer who I am. Patience. It is there. I, through the lessons, have learned that answer. Why else would part of me now say, “I am patience?” For I am. The intuitive nature takes command as I found myself rising to my feet from the frigid water surrounding mine knees.
I stood before the Baptist church and viewed its design. Rain that around me fell, fell steady still. Turning to leave, I faced my destiny straight ahead. Slightly I withdrew, but continued, I pressed on. And in that statement, there is the greatest truth that speaks volumes. Though English majors would scoff. It is what it is. Just like I am what I am.
On that path, I was again led unto a second church. Smaller in shape, large still in presence. Just the same, on this path, that police car as a sentinel had come and driven beside. And to its inhabitant, as alone as I, I did relate my coming. And he wished unto me “luck”. I thanked he and was on my way. Alas, “luck” is not what will save me. For saving I needed not. Direction . . . that is what was lost. And as truly as ever, lost was found. And I returned from that found lost to find the empty. And I returned from whence I came. For, in doing so, I have become prepared, despite shortcomings.
Now, the significance of the simplicity of who I am comes into play and stands out. I am love. I am patience. I am understanding. I am not a leader of men, but I do not prefer to follow. Sometimes I am contradiction. Other times, I am complete. I have faced conflict, and stood my ground. I have faced turmoil, and overcome its insanities. I have been considered “weak”, when truly I am strong.
I am the Seminole wind.
I am the power within!
I am the force without!!
I care not what thou think of me, accuse of me, or speak of me . . .
For verily . . .
I AM I!!!
