The Ocean

It is with a sense of foreboding and morbid apprehension that I put my pen to paper this afternoon. I find myself staring out into a vast expanse of ocean. Sapphire blue, with not a speck of solid ground in sight.

Bobbing up and down with the tide, trying in vain not to lose my grip on what little I have left.

A piece of drift-wood. Worthless to most every man alive. Bar myself. It is all that remains. One last bastion of hope. And it is disintegrating rapidly.

I fear I will not be able to hold on for much longer. At this very moment, I find myself on the cusp of drowning in this ocean of uncertainty. I am close to losing everything I hold dear.

During every waking moment on this planet, I have had someone, something much more concrete than myself to rely on, when my own coping mechanisms fail. Now, however, the only thing left to support me is the tattered remains of my tortured soul.

All of my integrity is gone. My will has vanished. My morality, discipline and self worth have burned a way in red fire. The only remaining tenet of my soul is a primitive instinct to survive. That one thing, that small piece of my soul is the only thing stopping me from drowning. Stopping my desecrated heart, my decomposed mind and my destroyed soul from plunging into the ocean of depravity.

My companions are few. That has always been the case. Ever since the first breath I drew. But I have never felt more alone than I do now. More than physical entities, the former compatriots I miss the most are my honour, virtue and discipline.

I have very little left now. The fires, angry red fires are gone now. Burnt out. What remains are smoldering embers, slowly eating away the remains of my being. Like a ball of scrunched paper, slowly succumbing to the mounting piles of ash.

If I can rebuild myself from this point, surely it will be the greatest miracle ever told.

And if not, I will surely be missed by none.

Poison

My veins are coursing with a foreign substance. A venom. A blight. A poison. I know it all too well. It desecrates everything it touches. My heart, my mind, my soul.

This is not a conventional poison. It does not affect my body. I feel few physical effects from its presence. My body will not wither and die because of it.

But my mind will. And so will my soul.

I feel it turning me. When I close my eyes, all I see is red fire licking at my soul. Slowly corrupting it. Pushing my very existence into an inescapable pit of depravity.

The outside effects arent very noticeable. Not to a casual obsever anyway. But to someone who knows what to look for, the effects are blatantly obvious.

I don't look much different at all, but my mannerisms, and character suffer intensely. I am slowly becoming more sedentary. More reclusive.

Not only is the poison changing my personal, it is also eroding my definition of who I am. I barely feel human. My current visage is such, that I would not recognise myself if I travelled ten years back in time and saw myself as I am now back then. I don't know who I am.

This poison is a representation of everything ill that pulses through the veins in my body, and the neurones in my brain. It is an intense anger, bordering on fury.

It is a lucid hatred for life, and the act of living. It is sadness, in its most distilled and pure form. It is the inability to counteract the pain. Only to cover it up.

It is a voice, a tiny, angry, little voice. A voice that second-guesses every eaction, and every thought.

Longing...

My pen and paper are fast becoming two of my best friends, compatriots on the voyage of my existence. Truly, I would be lost without them now. The sound of a pen scratching across a leaf of paper is becoming an all too familiar sound. It is almost comforting to me now.

I take to the paper once more to express a new pain. A feeling of extreme longing, for someone whom I hold very dear. Someone whose six months of companionship feel a lot more like sixty years.

At this current point in time I am separated by a relatively small distance. At a domestic port that feels strangely foreign to me. An airport. A familiar construct. In a city I know all too well. Though this sity is in my home country, it still feels foreign.

I've been here many times before. On holidays. On business. I know the area like the back of my hand. Again, that feeling of alienation. The place I belong is back in my home town.

With the one I hold dear to me. The one I love.

Staying at the residence of my most venerable hosts, though immensely enjoyable, has taken a hidden toll on my psyche for the time being. A separation anxiety of the highest order. A feeling of longing that cannot be quantified with words alone. An expression of love and care for the one I hold dear.

Messages that could not be delivered as the contents of an entire tome, let alone a string of text messages. I only hope that this person could somehow understand how I feel.

Every activity I have undertaken here, in this strangely foreign place, has been laced with thoughts of her. Of her well being. Of an unquantifiable longing for her sweet touch. Her smooth caress.

Mornings out in the country definitely were sweet, but of course, my mind was lingering on things much sweeter. A sweet touch, and a smooth caress. Like an early morning dew, that makes the fields sparkle and glisten with the sunrise.

Daytime was pleasant as well, filled with both high and low octane activities. Motorbike riding, animal tending, basic farm work. The loud roar of an old blunt chainsaw, trying in vain to make its mark on a stiff log of pine.

And the evenings. A crackling fire. Meals fit for kings. The company of a very generous family. Good times, and some very close games of pool.

But still, endless thoughts of her. That feeling of longing. Of desperation. Woefully expressed in another long spate of seemingly meaningless text messages.

With the next sunrise I will finally be able to express my feelings. Truly, I am awaiting the moment with an even greater longing. From ten thousand feet up, screaming home in the belly of a steel behemoth. Towards familiar surroundings. My home city.

I am grateful for one objective in particular I was able to achieve while on this trip. I have undergone a rather intense test of my chivalry, fortitude and character. I have endured a week of minimal contact with her. A week in oddly unfamiliar surroundings. A week where infidelity, of all things, was not only possible; it was expected.

Truly the perfect crime. But not only was this crime not committed, it was not even contemplated until this moment. Which speaks volumes to me about my character.

The moment of finality is just over the horizon, and true to my own humanity, I am rushing headlong towards it. Waiting in joyful hope and anticipation. Waiting for the one i desire most in the whole world.

I love you.

Intermission.

So, it's done. I watched closely as those beautiful eyes disappeared into the darkness. Time slowed to a complete crawl. I stood in that spot for mere minutes, and it felt like many hours.

One day I will surely make my way back home. One day, these events will be nothing but a bitter-sweet memory. But until then, I will return to this spot in my mind on a daily basis. Watching. Waiting.

I am not one who loves easily. One of only a select few men that do not possess a daily lust for any member of the opposite sex. 'Twas not lust, but love. Love so divine and pure I had for her. I craved her soft touch. Her graceful kiss. Her wise words. I craved all these and more on a near daily basis.

If things were to not work out, I would surely be devastated. I would become reclusive for weeks. Like a tortoise or a clam, encased in its protective shell.

I would eventually see it fit to return to the fray. Flowers wouldn't smell as sweet. The sun wouldn't shine as bright. Life wouldn't be quite so easy or entertaining, but it would be possible. I would become a different man, but I would still be very much alive.

So, my love, I say farewell. Farewell for now, or forever. That decision is entirely up to you.

Ninth of July.

I'm sitting in the departures lounge of Coolangatta Airport. By all rights, I should be bored out of my brains. Though I'm not, thanks to a bit of careful planning and my two familiar companions. The ubiquitous pen and paper, of course.

I've been here since 11AM this morning. That's a good solid three and a half hours. Lucky I got here though, because I've been shifted to a much earlier flight. Which means I get to go home from here a little sooner.

The trip was a lot of fun. Full of wholesome and high-octane activity. Truly one of the better holidays I've had. The fun started the second I met my hosts at the airport, and didn't stop until I was dropped here at the airport once more, this very morning.

A great bunch of people.

I learned how to ride a motorbike, and became more proficient at gathering supplies for, and starting small domestic fires. The latter is definitely a skill I can make use of back here at home.

My smoking rate has drastically decreased, partly because these sun and surf types take offense to it, and partly because I didn't really see the need to smoke anyway.

Though I did feel homesickness in the form of a longing for someone very special to me. The piece "Longing..." was penned with the sole purpose of expressing this very feeling. It is one of my best pieces of work so far. It's published on this weblog, in fact.

Each piece of literature I write, coupled with new life experiences, gives me even more fuel for my creative fire. Fuel to create the next great work. Though they are quite small, people around me notice them, and hold them in high regard. Not bad for a mere hobby.

Not long to go now 'till I get back home.

At the Crossroads.

I touch this pen to paper once more. Once more, a heartfelt narrative. Once more, a labour of intense love. Though now, my thoughts and feelings are carrying with them a hint of desperation.

For I find myself at a crossroads. An intersection in the journey of my life.

And so does she.

They say people who commit suicide go to hell. They didn't know which way to go. They took the cowardly option. Squeezed their own inner flame of life. Squeezed. Strugled. Until the flame was snuffed out.

I am not a coward. Never would I allow myself to entertain such a notion. For I am already in hell. I understand now, exactly what it feels like to be stuck at at crossroads.

Like a thick fog covering the roads ahead, my desire makes the decision difficult. I don't know which way to go. Freezing winds cut through my body, sending a chill down my spine. A chill which touches my very soul.

My conscience, like a blazing fog lamp, would normally point my in the right direction. Cut through the obscurity like a hot knife through butter. But alas, I cannot rely on an old friend. For the globe inside is busted. It simply ceases to function. I am on my own.

Suicide victims go to hell, they say. They are even buried at a crossroads, to symbolise their lost struggle. Their lost struggle against the encroaching fog. Blinding fog. They too have with them but one companion.

A fog lamp. With a busted globe.

I stand at this mythical crossroads. Though I am very much alive. My heart is beating. My lungs draw breath. I can feel my body, shivering in the cold.

I am alive. Yet I am in hell. Torn between two paths. Carrying on my person but one companion.

A fog lamp. With a busted globe.

I can only imagine what it must feel like for her.

One path must surely lead precisely where I am standing. The other, to parts unknown to me. I can see, faintly in the distance, a pair of eyes. Looking out from a face I have become all too well accustomed to.

It appears as though I'm not the only one who is to make a life-altering decision this evening.

Certainly, she can see me too. Steely gray eyes, peering out from an all too familiar face. A bright red scarf, flapping in the wind. In the distance, a faint glow, trying in vain to cut through the near opaque fog. A place of learning, maybe? Or perhaps, another familiar construct? A steel hulk, guided by metal bars on the ground, and a pair of cables above?

But what of the other path? I care not to mention it. For if I do, my clothing, my character, my integrity, would be stripped bare. Surely my soul would perish in the cold.

She has a companion as well. A very familiar companion.

A fog lamp. With a busted globe.

Every inch of my body quietly implores her to make a decision. Take one of the paths in front of her. Hold the pain at bay for a little while.

I too long to be decisive. But I feel as though I am rooted to this very spot. Stuck here. Like a small animal caught in a roll of razor wire, bleeding slowly in the cold.

So here I stand, at the crossroads. Here I wait. Looking out into the cold, foggy night. Carrying nothing.

Aside from a fog lamp. With a busted globe.

I will wait, until I can no longer see your eyes. Or until I can see their colour once more. Then, I will know you have made a decision.

I love you.

What is Love?

This is one man's feeble explanation of an infinitely advanced term. A simple word which has the power to make or break men. A simple word which is mightier than the pen AND the sword. It would appear as though the word is mightier than the entire language in which it is contained.

This is a word which can stir a million emotions at its mere utterance. It matters not how the word is delivered. It can be screamed in glee from the top of a mountain, rolling through the hills and valleys abroad, or it can be whispered by a lover during a passionate kiss. There are a multitude of ways the word can be delivered. All of them provoke very strong, and varied emotion.

I wield this humble pen now, because I find myself feeling these emotions. For someone quite special. Someone who means the world to me.

I find myself restless in the evening. I smell her hair on my pillow as I lay. A truly intoxicating aroma. I see her face when I close my eyes. My last thought in the evening is not of what events are to occur in the coming days, weeks or months. They are not of what might have transpired in the past.

Instead, they are of her. A most intriguing, invigorating and insurmountably attractive being. My thoughts are of her eyes. Her hair. Her lips. Her face. A face which I will surely not forget, for as long as my body draws breath.

Being with her is a surreal experience. It's like something out of a fantastic story. Something too good to be true. Truly, this is the stuff dreams are made of.

I am normally not one to feel such feelings, or scrawl such words on paper, but when you feel a deep longing, from the farthest reaches of your mind, and the very bottom of your heart, you can't help but become compelled to write such things.

I love you.

Second of July. And so, it begins.

I started this weblog as a diary of sorts, beginning with a trip to Queensland. I do a lot of writing, so some of that would obviously end up here too. I might even explore my past if I feel the need. So I'm essentially flaying it out and quartering it for all to see.

Enjoy the ride. I know I will.