Skip to main content

Jailbreak

Tonight my long, enforced solitude is ceasing. There's an excitement, crisp and boundless, riding the air recklessly, threatening to joyously infect me. For nearly 2 months Ive been calm and composed, a portrait of self-restraint. Each night Ive unwillingly been forced to leave you in the throes of that prison has reaked havoc on my masculine pride, my sanity, and my happiness. But after tonight, my wanderings will make the shift from frenzied escape to fruitful exploration. Youll be back in the saddle, and no nonsense, hearsay, or third party ineptitude will snatch you from my arms again.

Ive spent many long, ultimately irrelevant hours steeping in my own self-aggrandizing contemplation. "What are your barracks like?" Abysmal. "Are you happy?" Hardly. "Are you strong enough to succeed and thrive given these maddening conditions?" Definitely. Your resolute, inherent resolve inspired me on many days that have until now gone unrecorded and unspoken. Oftentimes, at the behest of sporadic randomness, Ive suddenly become afflicted with a crippling moroseness. I withdrawl uncharacteristically, even for me, appearing sullen and feeling unbearably angry. Many nights have culminated in me shouting, incomprehensible and furious, into a pillow, rallying against the injustice of it all. Id fantasize about meeting your inadequate, repugnant "mentor" and showing him that, yes, his sloth, pretentiousness and callous indifference do indeed have consequences. Im quickly shaken out of it, however, by the vision of you chiding me, exasperated by what you would term my irrational, boyish anger. Forgive me for being so passionate and bullheaded. For awhile, violence was my sole purview, and I had no other way of interacting with the ills of the world. As always, you reach down into the depths of my darkness, ignoring all danger to yourself, and rescue me, thrashing and snarling in a futile war against reality. I love you.

What will we do? Long hours spent hunched over my beloved green felt, wielding math with surgical precision have blessed us with an abundance of tax free money. Will we abscond to the North, secluding ourselves from life at large in our suite, in room jacuzzi and all? Shall we sequester ourselves away at Home like Vagabonds, our personal slice of Heaven, 114 steps below a choir of Angels, nostalgia and infatuation sustaining us, lulled to sleep at night, exhsusted from the dance of Love, by the steadfast rhythm of syncopated heartbeats? Or will we simply lay on the beach bathed in moonlight, frigid, relaxing waves lapping at our bare feet? All of these sound exotic and expensive. They seem to only be possible if the way forward is paved with the roughest of bricks, determinedly layed by practiced, toughened hands, and the inevitable folliage is washed away, cleared by the sweat of a fervent brow. The ironic part is that they all seem excessive to you. Money holds no sway over you, your innocent, purifying gaze seeing me, and me alone, in spite of my best efforts to obfuscate your view with ignorance and stubborness. You expect nothing at all from me, and this is why you recieve everything, boundlessly and without hesitation. A beauty and her outlaw. A princess and her rogue.

The feeling occupying my gut currently is one of overzealous anticipation. Ive felt it before, and its sudden resurgence is both surprising and telling. I havent felt this steady burn seethe through my breast since I was stationed in Norfolk. The snow would be blinding in its luminescence, reflecting the moonlight eerily. Holed up inside Chili's, warmed by an unhealthy, yet satisfying combination of steak quesadillas and Virginia Gentleman whiskey, Id eagerly await the flight that would whisk me away to normality, to freedom. The pressures of the day suddenly seemed comparatively meek in the face of my rescue. Vigor that had been long absent previously would make a welcome appearance, fueling me until my chance at returning to my past presented itself. This is what you mean to me. Recently, you wrote me saying that what we have is pure and refreshing, despite the circumstances. Ill readily agree, wholeheartedly mirroring your sentiments. Life has a habit of introducing people that come to occupy indispensable positions in my life at incredibly inopportune times. We've both agreed to cast caution aside and throw ourselves at the mercy of the viscissitudes of fate. If heartrending pain awaits me, Ill court it with a smug grin on my face and a grateful heart. Ive known you deeply and fully, will continue to know you, and may yet recapture you in the future. Im rapt with attention for the present, my eyes focused solely on you, as everything that exists outside the warmth of your being melts away. Let's live our eternity.

In the middle of September, after capturing a tidy sum for a few hours work, I retreated to Lestat's. Prior to the arrival of a rather unwelcome guest, it was my personal respite, a nocturnal hideaway filled with everybody and nobody in particular. The poetry composed there could fill its own volume, and may one day see publishing. During one of these midnight dalliances, having finished my customary Earl Grey and Mint iced tea, a potent combination, regardless of which country, or ocean, you reside in, I decided to take a walk. Headphones secured firmly in both ears, hood up and brass knuckles brandished maliciously, yet surreptitiously in my pockets for protection against the various vagrants that stalked and prowled at night, I set out. As I strolled, my thoughts, unencumbered by the maniacal pace of the day and undeterred by stray, distracting whispers, turned to you once again. Loneliness, my well known, uneasy companion, gnawed at my heart. Strangely, tears didnt appear on the peripherals of my eyes, straining my vision. Instead, I found an odd sense of reconciliation that further solidified my love for you, and my embrace of the connection we had cultivated out of the abyss that surrounded us both, a twin lifeline unwound and refashioned from the nooses tightening perilously around our necks. I glanced at the moon and realized that, unless you had succumbed to a fitful, restful slumber, you were in all certainty beholding the same sight. I silently said a prayer for your safety, for God to grant me a modicum of your quiet strength, and for us to emerge closer, with a hardened bond. I thought of closure, redemption, and renewal. How by courting and embracing the thing I had continuously and pathetically avoided for the past few years, monogamous commitment, I found a salve for my festering wounds, a calming silencing of the constant din of battle raging in my head, second by second, in voices only I could hear. I glanced at my phone. It was 2:30 in the morning. I had a game to get to. It had the promise of soft opponents and gratuitous amounts of dead, unclaimed money. It was time to go back to work. With your radiant face, crooked smile and flowing, endless chestnut hair dominating my vision, I had all the motivation I would ever need.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

My Return To The Field

How often must I remain here? I must have died unexpectedly, and my wandering spirit, aura thick with malevolence and anguish, refuses to acknowledge my own death. Indeed, I have become a ghost, cursed to haunt diners, coffeeshops, bars and beaches, pen brandished and book unsheathed. I've grown so distant from others that Im more statue than Man, yet where this separation once stung painfully, it now soothes reassuringly. Lumped in with a generation of "men" with testosterone levels lower than a woman's would be 30 years ago, and forced to make due with "women" that proudly proclaim themselves sluts and will actually attempt to fistfight men if they are ignored and eschewed, as they should be, my sentiment is clear. I want no part of this generation. It's filthy and degraded.

You could say I'm living a daydream right now, a fantasy granted the breath of life by divine providence. How many shifts at work have I frittered away contemplating the perf…

The Terrace

I never imagined that I'd be writing this here in Hawaii of all places. I was the kid who wasted his potential, the wunderkind that sullied his genius through the pursuit of prestige and neglect, the prodigy that nearly failed out of high school pitifully. Now, a little over 3 weeks from my 26th birthday, Ive stepped back to reflect, as anyone of above average meaning and consciousness is apt to do. At 17, I would fantasize about traveling the country playing cards, busking, guitar firmly in hand, and writing, producing a sustainable living with my words. Less than a decade later, Ive made $1000 in less than a week off of an investment of $100 in the poker rooms of San Diego, had my poetry published in a variety of online magazines, and have recorded music with independent artists in 3 different states. Ive traveled the world and been inducted into the famed Order of Magellan. In short, Ive done everything my detractors deemed outside of my reach. If this seems self-aggrandizing, …

My Path In Physical Culture: Part 1

Unlike a growing contingent of “athletes” obsessed with efficiency at the expense of results and productivity, I love to train. In fact, I fucking LIVE to train. The understated ease yet enjoyable difficulty and toil that comes with increasing your work capacity, refining a previously intimidating technique, perfecting the firing of your neuromuscular proficiencies, and simply pumping your limbs full of blood until they are close to bursting all amalgamate to form a potent cocktail that will forever remain unmatched and unsurpassed by any narcotic or liquor. In my opinion, it even beats the height of orgasm at times. Arnold said it first, so by default it can’t be wrong.



                                                             The King has spoken.

It is both the bane and the blessing of every bodybuilder’s existence. It can leave you unfathomably sore and crippled with DOMS after the ecstasy of the experience has subsided, yet, in the moment, you can feel as if you have the body…