I fall in love with what I cannot have, like a psychological language game, as a little boy in my parent's house, apparently, whatever I wanted had to pass what the majority rule decided was right for the family as a unit, in all its dysfunction, but how could I know I'd carry the bag for the rest of my life after I left their home, which was not my home, my castle.
As a child, I wanted to live elsewhere, in a castle, or even, a lighthouse, like a hermit living inside a cave, my hero became that eccentric man, a recluse hidden from society, like a crab beneath its armor plating, I wanted to hide away from the world, defenseless against a world so hostile, so violent, never to shed a tear in remorse, without a heart, for actions irreversible, irretrievably lost to paranoia, fear of power unobtainable, inexcusable, my parents were not dictators, but were dictatorial in their decisions.
What I wanted then, I surround myself with today, like a crazy cat lady, I have become someone so repulsive to myself I want to hide from myself, but as Felix carries his bag of tricks, I carry my childhood inside my head, hidden away from prying eyes, my own and others who would sooner boil a crab than see that we all mirror each other, as the mind is a diaphanous glass to mirror both the self and the other, I became someone I could not foresee, a man without a future, nor a past, only an eternal present, a gift from the gods, high up, on Mount Olympus, only Prometheus was entitled to see the future and the past as one.
Time became a hobby for me, like trains, motorcycles, sports cars, the need for speed, for others, objects become property, a source of pride and of recognition, but what is time to most people extends beyond the clock, beyond the sun and moon, an object of study to understand, a property of our humanity, we are ground to dust by time, within time, like a prison we can never escape, not at least within this lifetime, but death is no release if the lock is still latched, to figure out the lost combination may take an eternity to unlock, but time does not care, it has all the time in the world for me to solve the riddle this life presents to me as a small gift, I see time as the key to imagine life as fiction, as guided imagery.
To reimagine myself and my life as a character whom I can rewrite certain details to let go of the bag that I carry as my childhood burdens, who wants to bear this weight for their whole life, so, it is necessary to rewrite, or more, reimagine my character, beyond childhood struggles on the playground, beyond family conflicts behind closed doors, no one could see, no one could know, the pain hidden inside their home, why, I don't know, maybe because my father's father died when my father was a child, so he lacked that paternal presence some children find a comfort, a luxury, a given, this gift of time, of presence made present, when filled with love becomes a container, a vessel that radiates love to all, but when filled with confusion and anger, must be emptied and cleansed, scoured until clean, before love can enter, or I am wrong, for it is love itself that cleans the wounds.
My past becomes poetry on the page, since I never grew up as an adult, I got stuck in the pain my father beat into my heart, anger and confusion, became my gateway to understanding who I am, who my father was, and why our family was the way it was so long ago for such a long time, I must sit on the cushions to unravel my past, to meditate on the present, this gift of love, trapped within my childhood, my past.
I fall in love with what I cannot have because I seek the love I cannot share, I cannot radiate the love within, it lies dormant, a volcano at rest, asleep for all intensive purposes, a sleepwalker come back to rest in bed, there is no metaphor for love, but death.
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