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A Fruitful Struggle

On nights like this one, where my mind presents no ready made subject matter to pontificate upon, I find myself enjoying the mental stillness. My mind races a mile a second, never mind a minute, on a grindingly constant basis. Any reprieve from the internal cacophony of lyrics, song ideas, vivid, rich visual imagery, potently powerful memories, and general wordplay is a pause I would occasionally kill for. After the completion of the day's second workout, a sense of calm came over me, a peace unmatched by the effects of any liquor or pill. I felt deeply, almost unnoticeably, a faint stirring in my soul, in the trenches of my subconscious. In that serene, contemplative grove where innocence lives unsullied and true faith never dies, I heard the voice of God, telling me that everything would be alright, always, no matter the treachery I read from the terrain stretched out before me. As this message echoed through the mountains of my internal landscape I smiled, both inwardly and outwardly. Life beckoned.

Im tired of arguing. So fatigued, frustrated and deposed by it. My patience has grown gaunt, and I feel myself slipping. Youve given me so much, granted me my peace of mind while I was racuous and upheaved. You never left my side, my stalwart companion, partner in crime, my sidekick and sidearm. My Bonnie. Remember Mission Beach? The water softly lapping at the evaporating sands, continual and strong, carving out a future island. A light breeze blew in, carrying with it a much appreciated respite from the suffocating humidity. At least it was humid to me. You laughed at my weakness, informing me of my lack of fortitude with glistening eyes and a crooked smile. I pinched your side, and you jumped back, chestnut hair freefalling, whipping around vainly, greedily stealing the moonlight from the sky itself. Perfection. Proof that fine art need not hang in a museum, confined to an artist's easel and canvas, imprisoned by a mahogany frame. We walked hand in hand towards the inner city, the bars vibrant and lively, inviting us inside with promises of decadence and the taboo. I beheld with barely veiled amusement the glares you fired at the women that leered at me with pronounced hostility, and you neglected to notice my form steeling itself as many throngs of men salivated at you, clad in short shorts and a backwoods button up. The essence of true beauty is fatal beguilement, and your naivete regarding yours was, and is, an inexhaustible point of enrapture. You are so stubborn, and Im so headstrong. Im the bull and youre the matador, Im the wolf and youre the fox, Im the rogue and youre the runaway. Weve already accepted the inevitable, and theres no reason to sully the eternity we have left before my departure. These arent landmines were sidestepping, theyre splinters, obnoxious, annoying and irrelevant, that weve come to believe have severed our arteries and caused our deaths. No more. I love you. And Im sorry.

Ive struggled to find meaning in the mundanity that has saturated my daily life. As children we all are weaned on the idea that we will all have stellar futures awaiting us, regardless of our natural talents, fears, and predilictions. Personally, I was going to be a world famous guitarist. Blatantly ignoring the fact that I was writing lyrics worthy of financial recompense at 15, yet couldnt string a series of simple chords together to produce something melodic and harmonious, I was going to be the next Joe Satriani. Tireless and enduring, I practiced my technique daily. My became fairly competent, and could perform passable reproductions of many 80's metal standbys, particularly if they were written by Iron Maiden. Eventually, my interest, starved as it was by lack of inspiration and like-minded bandmates, waned, and I turned back to my first love, writing. Precociously talented as I was, the pen seemed to be just another appendage. The gift was so ingrained within me that I never thought to capitalize on it. Congratulating and praising me for my intimacy with the written word would have been as senseless in my eyes as awarding my skill at breathing. It was, and remains, completely natural. Its what I do, and has added a sense of purpose to my plodding existence. The truth is, Im nowhere near where I thought Id be. I expected to be wearing a suit at 25. Instead, Im garbed in the cloth of my beloved nation. I am using my head most of the time, but age and experience have revealed that my temperament is much more suited towards punishing physical labor. Hell, I hear oil rigs are always hiring. The pay is good too. Through it all, I will write. I consider it a form of public spectacle, a freely available display of self-flagellation. With the blood spilled I pay homage to Kerouac, Hemmingway, Bukowski and Frost. My roots are rustic, worn denim blue collar, and I always assumed my destiny would catapult me up into the realm of its starched, white superior. But there is nothing superior about working in an office, coddled by banal political correctness and smothering modernity. Give me struggle, give me adversity, grant me sleepless nights and early rising. Allow me the opportunity to perspire so that I may make the best of my chances. I strive to work laboriously and tentatively Sisyphean, so that I may grow lean, hard, strong, rebellious and foreboding, so that I may one day resemble my Father, Grandfathers and Uncles. Abandon me society, label me an outcast and forget my existence completely. May I never require a handout or anything but the grace of God for sustenance during hard times, the periods where my mettle is forged in the flames of uncertainty, pulled forth white hot from the din of battle, emerging sculpted and finished, renewed and driven. I dont need success on their terms, only on my own. An acre costs $4000 out here and about half that in Texas. Let me live and just leave me be, free in my own personal Heaven. Thats all I ask.

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