My Mom and My Theory

This weekend marks the thirteenth year since the worst day of my life.  Nothing that ever happens to me from that point on could ever be as bad as then, having had my whole life rendered assunder and starting anew as though I had never previously existed.  Yet, as time has gone on, I ponder whether I would have had the gumption to pursue the path I have chosen any further than I have; whether I would have been further along than now or perhaps doing something entirely different. 

As it is, I feel as though the ten years that followed were part of a life sentence in the deepest, darkest hole in solitary confinement in a prison everyone has heard of, but no one could find.  In recent years, I have slowly reemerged on Facebook, rediscovering friends and acquaintences from years past.  Some had given me up for dead, some knew I was around, but could not find me.  I know that my "blackout period" was unreasonable in many  ways; I was a shell of my former self in knowledge and ambition, only trying to survive as opposed to striving forward to an unknown destiny.  I lost ground to many people younger than I am in the film industry and other fields I was once had a burning desire to dominate.  Today I feel like an old man, lost in a new wave and confused about where I belong.  And the worst part is, I'm not old (still thirty-something)...

And every year, around this time, I feel it.  It creeps up on me and pulsates in the cold, where my heart once beat and my mind once beaconed.  It does its level best to overwhelm me and remind me of what I lost not only then, but in the ensuing years.  My innocence is gone.  My youth is fading.  My idealism is checked.  Much that remains is dreamlike, but without the spark that ignited so many ideas and a concerted effort to bring them to fruition.

I have lost my belief in people.  I become irritable and uncomfortable in company, thus avoiding as much social activity as possible.  I'm suspicious of a person's intent, especially when a compliment is involved. 

I have given up on finding or retaining love.  The few relationships I've had up to now have ended with the woman staying friends with me for years, then disappearing *snap* just like that.  I remind myself that it's the price of admission for the game I chose to play, where I can become rich and famous for entertaining people with stories based on my own bewilderment; a promising life not cut off too early, but stunted and repuposed by God's will. 

And as I write this, either adding to the lie or lying to myself, I think of what has inspired such self-loathing and destructive thinking...

I miss my sister, and I miss my Mom.

They were heroes.  To hear it from my siblings and my niece who grew up with me like a sister, they somehow managed to saved us from the world we currently live in.  Idealism in its last form, a portrait of innocence before it completely disappears.  To this day I torture myself with their memory and how the world is just a cold and empty space without their voices and the warmth of their presence.  I cannot replace what has been lost, so I cling to what I have left: their memories.

To which, I present this song.  Think of it as a representation; not of the facts (neither Mom nor my sister suffered the horror that is the unsaid subject of this song), but of the theory of what has been happening to my soul since then.  As as I get older (faster as time goes), the song seems to resonate with me more.  For now, it just hurts.



I hope you undestand why I had to write this sad piece; I'm not the type to hold back.  I do hope, however, that there is something to be learned by whatever I have written here, and that it may help someone (maybe yourself), put things in their own proper perspective.  I may be off-base, but I'm honest.