Fruition.

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Just a man with his thoughts. Should I drink? No. Should I smoke? No. But at the end of the day it’s who I am. It’s as short walk, one I have made more times than I can count, but in my mind the steps seem infinite. Where did I go wrong? So much potential they said. So much promise they said; and honestly it’s so much easier to sit on the other side of the table and judge than to experience the true gravity of it all. To sling unjust judgment towards this life, a future that is currently being written and all the while already wrote. I see those flashing lights, I see them night in and night out guiding me home with no true direction. I know where the perceived home is, I know where my lover sleeps, but it is not home. Home only exists in an idea, a place where I once was but will never find again. I stop by the local pub and shoot the same arduous shit I always do. Sports. Politics. Economy. Pseudo intellectual bullshit that happens with a frequency that i could likely have both sides of it with myself. I need to stop coming here, never again, never more. “Quoth the raven never more.” I smirk, a smile I can only feel knowing that the pedantic idiocy of the yokels know not of this reference and it falls on ill-bred ears. I stand superior to the masses in my mind; their self perceived god ruling an empire of ignorance. I step back into the cold, longing for the brothers that once stood with me years ago. We may talk, we may lament, we may feel. Feel something that once was and will never be again. We have changed. Not necessarily to the people we should be, but to the people we now are. And yet I walk. Walk home to a love out of convenience. A love that happened at the right place at the right time. Not that childish love of youth, the truest kind love that will only exist in a flash, a blink of time only to be perused and never obtained. No this is a different love, one out of a mutual comfort, a comfort of not having to die alone. I burn another one, my only solace in the desolate wasteland that I have chosen. I stand as man who has forsaken my family, forsaken all those who have judge me [those who could judge me.] I will never be their man. I will never be the coattails upon which they hoped to ride. My parents will die old and alone as I cannot give the life they strived for me to feed them. I am cold. Cold with the realization that I am destined to be among the desolate; I fucking hate the cold. I remember, as I will never forget, the times that I saw life on the silver platter. The times that my family gifted an existence that I could have obtained but never wanted. I will embrace the darkness. I will live the heart ache as if it was written to be mine and mine alone. My own selfishness feelings are the crushing weight of the infinite as though it is the only love I have ever known. I arrive “home.” One. Two. Three. Four. I know what waits for me on the other side of this lead laden door. A woman who desires only my embrace, but at the same time stands on the edge of the travesty that is our existence, fully accepting the misery I have brought upon her. I light up number three…or is it number four…who gives a shit. I would rather die at 30 than live to see myself broken down to nothing. I quietly open the door. The comforting smell of familiarity makes me sick. I hate my comfort, I hate my strife, I hate the obligatory relief I am expected to feel in this dump. I brush off the snow, climb the steps to my every day. It is so set in stone. Fifteen steps towards the love of my life. I chuckle whilst I brush my teeth. Love. What a childish idea that was crushed long ago. Smashed upon the rocks of reality. I pet the dog, I lock the door, I embrace suburbia with the heartache of a man that was destined for more. I could have embraced the shallow 9-5 and all the predetermined dialogue that lies within. I curl up next to the physical embodiment of our failures. “Tomorrow,” I say, “tomorrow it will be different.” Knowing full well in my heart that tomorrow I will feel the biting cold once again. I find solace in the trivial; solace in the fact that today is but a few brief hours from tomorrow. The day that holds nothing but possibilities but offers the same cold, hopeless walk. I drift off into slumber hoping for better days, all the while with the knowledge that what has been written has been, and always will be written in stone. “Tomorrow,” I say, “that is the day that I will finally come to fruition.”

Created: Aug 20, 2012

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