The Road Forward

I realize I haven't written anything on here in a while. I suppose that is due to my mind being otherwise occupied. I wrote this today and I could think of no other place to share it.

I’m at that place again. On that corner street underneath the sign that says understanding and acceptance. Another long lost relationship which fell to the side of the road we call love when fear drove it’s street sweeper through our dreams and washed away the hope we used to build that street. Once again standing on this dark corner with nothing but a street light, which I recognize as the future, I currently can’t move towards for the pain of the present whispers deep seeded lies into my mind which paralyzes me. It’s not an unwillingness to walk towards the light which leaves me stranded here but rather a physically impairing lack of certainty. If I walk towards the light on the road to acceptance and leave the rocky asphalt of understanding than I will eventually come to a fork in the road with two paths. To the left is the path I walked when I was a young man. A lonely road known only by the few who have lived there because every house on this sheltered street prevent others from seeing beyond the front yard and into the heart of the homes like the one I used to own. To the right is the road of risk that leads to happiness on easy street. But the road to the right has detours and roundabouts which lead off the main path and into dark corners and alleys with muggers and deviants who threaten us if we dare to continue. Too many times before I have walked nobly down the road to happiness before being deterred by the detours from determination to be sure I wish to walk that familiar path. So again I am at that place, stuck between understanding and acceptance without the certainty to move forward. For now I stare at the simple street light in the future and wonder if it’s not a mirage or some twisted reflection of moon light which only provides false hope of a world I cannot reach.

A Day In the Life

Every morning when I wake up I begin a battle with my alarm clock. I grab the white knight armor crafted from Egyptian cotton sheet metal and try to protect myself from the audio onslaught brought on by hundreds of angry decibel warriors; slumber thirsty battle hardened vocal veterans trying to penetrate my melatonin rivers and destroy the dreams of a utopian civilization that the walls of my eye lids attempt to protect.

Like the great warrior civilizations of the past when confronted by a worthy adversary capable of penetrating the walls of my cerebral slumber party I quickly rise up from my armory and prove that my walls contain a great army of their own. Behind the walls, in my sleep number war room, I initiate an attack strategy that inspires the decibel warriors and turns them into conscious mercenaries of mortal energy which I hire to help me take on the larger territory invading my individual sovereignty, the great tyrannical grandfather clock of the time stealing sun nation who conspires to strip away ownership of time which we value as currency in the land of the living.

Now, together, I reassign the decibel warriors to the marksmen in the twenty fourth vocal archery chord battalion and gather the forces of inspiration from my mental military militia and order them to charge into the fray of the day and attack the sun’s army of time stealing bandits!

The inspiration warriors are immediately met by the cynical criticism of the beaten down forces which the time stealing grandfather clock has brought along as allies in its attempted genocide of a life worth living. The vocal chord archers quickly repel the swift steel of cynicisms swords with a quick volley of witty feathered arrows aimed at the heart of cynicism’s criticism. My inspirational warriors trudge on through the battle of time meeting and defeating all the warriors of the day’s greatest conquered armies. Typically by days end the legions of inspiration have brought folly to such forces as the self-conscious cannibals from past relationships, the cavalry of intimidation riding on steeds of social pressures, the day’s own archery unit comprised of unexpected consequences from former bad decisions, and the occasional volley of unpredictability which the clocks personal attaché of inevitability tries to defeat inspiration with.

But inspiration marches on through all battles and tests of time the day insists our two nations have. With great losses and personal sacrifice, typical of every war, at the end of the day inspiration comes back home. In the recessed stronghold in my mind the forces of inspiration from my mental military militia meet the welcoming warming war weary dreams that only sleep can bring.