In My Unfinished Room

What is this endless flight? To know the true acuity of things. To breathe air thick and thin and loving both just the same. To know blood for its rich, alluring color and the sickness it causes with the sight of an amputated arm. And, most of all, to know the love song of titans, but to be forbidden to sing with one's loudest voice.

Practicing for the havoc to come.

When I was a boy, things were so much easier - as it is with most people I suppose. I recall how it occurred to me to think of things bigger than myself, about the stuff of life I didn't yet understand. I think I was practicing, preparing my tiny heart for the havoc to come. And truth be told, my trials have come to a measure no greater than that of the average person. Nevertheless, I carry a weight greater than I should. This is who I am. I will not stop carrying the weight to please anyone, save for myself, for it has served me well; the lessons often come as an imposing array of osprey diving and diving for sustenance. They do not delay or diminish how they vie for their nutrition anymore than I withhold my tenacious care and consideration.

And as I said, I go on . . . yet, I have a limit like anybody else.

My solitary, childhood room remained unfinished the entire time I lived in it. Make no mistake though, my father was scrupulous to complete the remodel of the upstairs, yet I believe, with the looming divorce of my parents, he lacked the financial resources. So, from the age of around 9 until I was 16, I spent most of my time in a room with plywood floors and walls of bare sheet rock. As a side note, I suppose this, in part, might explain why I'm usually unimpressed with pea-cocking and grandeur and more interested in scars and imperfections.

My room, devoid of refinement, didn't bother me. I decorated it with posters of mythical beasts, mostly unicorns, which makes sense considering my tendency to be one. I also had an expansive rock collection. I had rocks everywhere. My favorites were the ones I found personally even though they were often plain and some shade of gray. This makes sense, as well, because gray eventually became my favorite color.

My left sapphire with a fleck of blood in it.

So, imagine for a moment, a lanky boy hunched over a slight belly, sitting alone in his room with sun-soaked, platinum blonde hair and eyes so intensely blue that one might mistake them for smoky sapphires.

Have any of you looked into my eyes? If you did, despite the vibrant color and regal concentration, you'd just end up seeing guts because, in my mind - flawed as it often is - every sapphire has a drop of blood on it.

When I was a boy, I often cupped my chin in the soft pads of my hand - at my desk, in the ditch in the front yard, or in my unfinished room. As I said before, I was thinking of what lay ahead of me; I was thinking about the strife and the joy I would come to know.

These days, I am no different. I often sit with my sapphires burning against a blank wall . . . just to catch a glimpse of the poignant understanding that often runs days beyond my reach. Yet sometimes, I am blessed with the occasional epiphany, with a short-lived clarity that arrives to slake the mechanisms of terror so that I might see grace as it should be, which - mind you - doesn't even begin to describe the courage one would need to employ it.

And so, this evening - as I recall the scraps of my boyhood thoughts and as I ponder their adult versions - it occurs to me to call attention to a cup that all too frequently doth not runneth over.

It's sacrifice . . .

And I ask again. What is this endless flight?

Please, don't get me wrong. I have seen many brave, lavish moments of sacrifice in my days, some even bestowed upon me. Be that as it may, I have also seen too much of the converse. And I feel my heart occasionally weakened by such, even though I have diamond-like friends who breed grace at an alarming rate.

I see many elements of sacrifice burn away far too easily. I see courage wane and wither in moments when it should grow and evolve. I sometimes can't arrest the tremors caused by ill-sacrificial tendencies, when selfishness gives rise to pain.

And I am far from perfect. I struggle with some measure of hubris. I sometimes lose my way, forgetting to sacrifice with more appropriate and healthy means. I take stock of these shortcomings, though, when I am occasionally smart enough to open my eyes. And if I'm lucky, I'll show an ounce of courage and a pound of action to mete out deep kisses to all of my fears, which seems to be the answer for most difficulties.

To this end, I implore a somewhat malignant community to exhibit more consideration for others, to painstakingly recognize how we become stronger when we station our plights second to those we love. And don't do this because MY dumb-ass is asking, do it because it agrees with your own conscience. And if you don't agree, then do it not, but don't expect me to fight off your demons for you. I've got my own problems.

This pillar is not to be leaned on without reciprocation.