Untitled.

[About: Blank]

I think that's as close to a title as this needs now. It's not some speech about the world, or some aggressive pursuit of happy moments and all the best fruits in life. I've written about that over and over again. It seems to be my default topic even, not that I think that's bad. People are scared, they're afraid of what's out in the world, of all the things that can burn them, bite them, scar them, or, even worse, break their hearts. I've climbed some very tall mountains to speak some very loud words on these matters. I've spoken harsh critiques of fear, of how moments in life are all to brief to sit back and drool on yourself well they pass you by, but there's always been more to the story than that. It's never been just about encouraging those of you out there who read and care to listen to what I have to say -- that's small time. The words I scrawl out here, shout out loudly in public, and stomp out under my feet? They're hope, and not just for you, but for me too.

I've lived in that blank, faceless, existence, for a very long time. I've been bludgeoned stupid by the fear of action and fucked -- rather unpleasantly -- by many of the rabid and unscrupulous beasts that roam around the jungles. I've loved and lost, laughed, cried, screamed, shouted, pounded my fists on the walls in rage, howled at indecencies I felt powerless to change, and taken great pride in the little things I've been able to do for the world that seemed, even for just a few minutes, to make it all better -- maybe not for everyone, but at least for someone besides myself. I know, too well, how easy it is to find yourself chased into the darkest corners of your own mind and how closing your heart down to the world can seem like the finest idea you've ever been sold. I know why people can, and would, make those decisions;  but there's never even the rare case where I'd advocate it.

I'm not in the business of lying to anyone. It's a waste of my time, their time, and life in general -- but it hasn't always been that way for me either. I have lived, at various points in my life, a meticulously crafted lie. There have been points where it was stretched thin enough to be transparent, and there were lessons to be learned about just how one paints a picture of a life they want others to see. It was the mystique of illusion that drew people in and, as long as I could keep it up, seemed to fascinate them. Why am I making this, seemingly imprudent, disclosure? I'm making it because it's important. I used to lie, an I used to do it very, very, well. I had to, simply because I couldn't accept what I was being told about the world and what I should expect from it.

It took me a very long time to realize that experience was the best teacher, but you had to really, really, look at the lessons it was teaching you too. Bad things happened, and they happened often. I would lie about them when they did, and make them seem like nothing. It was the expectation I had been taught, through various means and methods. I would never be as good as anyone else, an I should be satisfied with whatever scraps of life I was handed -- and, for a time, I was too. I lied about the bad things, but, what's worse, I lied about the good things too. I had come to believe I was undeserving of good fortunes in life, and I would lie about them whenever I saw them. I would sit back, let them pass me by -- sometimes violently destroying them -- and then claim they'd never come my way at all.

Neither I, nor any part of me, was ready to handle what life actually was, because I hadn't been given the proper tools to appreciate it. I didn't know how to smile, I didn't know how to laugh, an I couldn't let go of that fear of the world. I knew there were things about it that were no good, but I was worse than all of it. Every time I would dare to brave the world beyond the confines of the cage I'd built, I'd retreat. The sun was too bright, the heat was too intense, and the loud noise made my ears want to bleed and my eyes want to explode. So, I stepped back into that dark corner, sat down on the floor, and stayed there. I wandered through life like this for a good number of years, pumping myself full of anything and everything I could find to turn down the brightness of the world, to keep the noise at bay, and to shield myself from the sun.

I offered nothing because I was not in a position to give anything. I had not learned just what it was that I could be or that anything about who I was carried any real value to it at all. I was a broken, useless, insecure, sniveling, cast off of a wretch; unwanted by everyone -- including myself. I couldn't stand who I was, even the facade I had intentionally crafted around me had grown fetid, and everything I saw in the mirror made me ill. This patten went on for longer than I can remember. I burned out my eyes, shut down my brain, fried my nose, and stuck all manner of sharp things under my skin; trying desperately to carve away the filth and slime I saw.

One day, as I sat staring into the abyss I had built for myself, it occurred to me that I was tired. I had exhausted myself battling against myself and now I had nothing left at all. I was weak and starving, ill nourished on my own fruits, gasping for air and retching up the contents of myself all over the floor. I was empty, hollow, and staring down the black rabbit as it rode in on a pale horse. It was in that moment that I decided to pull myself, kicking and screaming, into the sun. Sure, it hurt like hell, but what did I have to lose anyway? I was blank, faceless, without hope, and could feel the thunder of Death's horse rolling in -- I was a child who'd lost nothing, but wasted everything. I'd been surrounded by fear and the walls had been closing in tighter all the time.

It burned like a million suns. The wind whipped across my skin in an unrelenting fury, my ears shrunk down against my head, trying to get into some kind of shelter. My heart felt like it was going to explode, my blood was on fire, and my brain? Well that thing turned to mush and leaked out my head. I remember screaming and crying about it all, about how bad it hurt, about how the pain was like nothing I'd ever imagined. I remember dragging myself along the floor of my prison, pulling myself further and further away from the comfort of everything I knew, leaving behind a trail of ashes in my wake. The next thing I knew I was unconscious and absolutely blind. 

When the color finally came back to my eyes? I was gasping for air. Somehow, I'd survived the ordeal and all the sounds of horse hooves were gone. My heart my was screaming, my ears were ringing, but the strangest thing? It was my skin. The feeling of sensations against my skin was all new and absolutely bizarre. Hot & cold sensations swam over me in a whole new way. I felt wet, sticky, almost sick with everything that was rushing into me. I remember, vividly, coughing and sputtering into my eyes shooting open and a whole new set of colors. No longer was I a blank template, but rather a vessel waiting to be filled with what life had to offer.

The point of this story? No matter how painful and frightening the difference feels like it is, living is always better than being blank faced and closed off in an ever shrinking box. Shutting yourself off from the world is a surefire recipe for stunting yourself and making yourself sick from a poisoning of your own design. It's always better to be yourself than to be blank, it's always better to breathe than to suffocate, it's always better to live than to continue on a path that is little more than a prolonged trip down a trail of chills and death. Trying to continue on with this lie, no matter how good you are at it, is a formula for misery.

Be full, not empty. Be whole, not broken. Keep your eyes open, not closed. Live instead of slowly dying.