Oh it can't hurt to be a little dark...

So I actually had a lot of fun writing that last poem, even if it was a little dark and a little depressing. At least it had emotion, you know? And I spent probably a good half-hour writing it. And, to top it all off, my friend loved it. So I decided to write another one and spent just as much time if not more writing it. I thought it turned out pretty well. I tried a different rhyming scheme, and, surprisingly, it worked. Enjoy this...I decided to to title it "No End to Time"
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So I was happy for a time,
Before the pain and warning signs.
Every day trying to find,
a way to travel back in time.

I need a way to stop the clock,
Reverse a tick, take back a tock.
I need some way to pick the lock,
Open the past so we can talk.

And all the times I keep trying,
To go back and stop your crying,
I keep losing, I keep sighing,
Every time I keep on dying.

I lost myself so long ago,
So long ago I just don’t know,
If I can stop the raging flow,
Stop the river before you go.

Mend this bleeding heart that’s broken,
Please take my thanks as your token,
Don’t forget the words we’ve spoken.
Either way, I’m left heartbroken.

I can’t go back and make it fit.
Stuck behind these walls, I sit,
Now I finally realize it,
There’s no end to this dark pit.
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Well...what'd you think? C'mon...good or bad, let me know!

If you're looking for a happy post...

...This isn't the place to find it. I've got a million and one thoughts on a million and one things...minus the million part. Anyway, while I'm in the mood, I figured to make good on a promise to someone to write a dark poem SERIOUSLY. Enjoy it, but maybe bring a flashlight.

"Left Alone in the Dark"

See a light,
it burns red with a glow.
It reflects in your eyes,
and you already know,
when the past is forgotten
it continues to grow
into something much darker,
even light cannot show.

I know of a song, it kills as it’s sung.
It tells you, “Remember, remember some more
whatever you loved,
what you once knew for sure.”
But you’ve forgotten, it’s over,
and you hate it for days.
The song doesn’t care,
It laughs while it plays.

The eyes that watch you,
they all shine green,
burning with envy,
poisoned with greed.
They take what they want,
they leave nothing for you.
And you cry out and scream,
but what good will it do?

Alone in the dark,
the last light burned out,
you’re left by yourself,
and now you find out,
you should have seen it,
there was never a doubt,
that’s what it’s always about.

That’s what it’s always about.

As Time Goes By

Let me tell you about the worst weekend of my life.

It started a week ago, really. When I realized I had a week to do a job that would normally take three times that long. I’ve been stressed out by it all week. It’s all I’ve done in my free time. And yet here I am, a little past 11:30 PM, with still an hour’s worth of work ahead of me if I’m going to get this done by tomorrow, which is the deadline. I’ve worked since this morning at it nonstop. I didn’t stop for lunch, didn’t stop for supper, and now, even after a hamburger, my stomach hurts extremely badly. Maybe I’m still hungry, maybe it’s just because I’m stressed. I don’t know.

It’s 11:35 PM. I’m so tired I won’t remember writing this tomorrow morning. But I have to do something to stay awake while I wait for the final few DVDs to burn. 11:36 PM.

One of my best friends, if not my best friend, instant messaged me today. She decided we aren’t going to talk on AIM anymore because of a thing with her boyfriend. I’m not mad at her. It’s not her fault. I understand why she’s doing it. But I was sad about it, still am sad about it, and probably won’t be really sad until tomorrow morning when I realize just how much I’m going to miss that. I was too tired to really comprehend what was going on. But, heh, I guess I do realize what’s going on since I have to brush away a tear that wants to form in my eye.

I don’t know why it’s there. It’s not like we won’t talk again. I see her at school, we talk at school. But what about after that? That’s what really makes me sad. She said it was inevitable that we’d stop talking one day, and this is one step closer. School ends in a couple of months. So I’ll ask again, what then?

I think you’ve been to graduation. You know what I’m talking about when I say “the line.” The line that you go through to say your good-lucks and good-byes to the graduates. That one. Where you get to say how much you’re going to miss them, how much they meant to you, how much you value their friendship.

I don’t get to do that. Oh, sure, I get to go through the line, but I have to act like I don’t really know her, like we don’t talk, like we haven’t talked for months. It’s a lie, yeah, but it’s a lie that she lets her boyfriend believe. Is it right? I don’t know. I just want to say goodbye in a way that shows we were more than casual acquaintances…that we knew each other, that we talked, that we listened, that we learned…and that I found a friend that made me feel like I was worth more than just being a thing to vent at or yell at or go to for a quick answer to homework problem.

It’s 11:45 PM. Sometimes I feel so stupid for talking like that and I don’t know why. I don’t want to dwell on the past or get lost in the future. I can’t change what’s already happened, but I don’t have to get in bed with it either, if you know what I mean. The past doesn’t control me. So when it comes down to it, for me, it’s never about what “should have been” or “was supposed to be” because if it didn’t happen, it obviously wasn’t “supposed to be” anyway. I just want a chance for the present to be right.

11:49 PM. My stomach feels like someone shot me in the gut with bullets that know how to swim around inside you. I’m so tired that I don’t even care.

When I wake up tomorrow, it has to be early. I have to get ready for church. No time to rest. When I get home, I have to work on the school work I’ve neglected for the past week so I could get this project done. There’s ninety chapters in the Bible I should read, but won’t. There’s four passages I should memorize, but will commit only partially to memory. Enough to pass, and for now that’s enough in itself.

I’m not asking for much here, at 11:55 PM. I just want a world where I can sleep for now, and maybe not have to act like I don’t know my friend. My stomach is still on fire and I’m starting to wonder if something is wrong with me. I just want to fall asleep and live in a dream for a while, maybe buy a house there, live there for a few years, make a decent living doing nothing.

See, in a dream, it all works how you want it to. I heard a song once. It said “I’ve been sleeping in for days/’Cause when I am awake/I will have to face my life.” That’s true.

It’s 12:00 AM. Happy Sunday, everyone.

I don’t really like being stuck in this perpetual haze caused by stress and exhaustion. I have to look for the right thing to say to my friend as she tells me we’re not talking outside of school anymore. I have to have patience and control not to snap at another friend with seemingly endless problems of her own. I don’t think she really wants a solution to them anyway. Just somewhere to vent about them, get a response from me, and then use it to say how much worse the problem is than I realize and that I nothing I suggest could be of any use anyway.

12:06 AM. I have three more DVDs to burn. I can’t believe I can still put sentences together. So tired, but probably won’t be able to fall asleep if my stomach still feels like this. Working, writing keeps my mind off of it. Everyone else is asleep. I sit here typing and waiting for another disc to be done.

The clock says 12:17 AM in the corner of my computer screen. The last disc is minutes away from being done. If I’m lucky, I’ll be asleep by one o’clock. Then again, this hasn’t been a very lucky day for me.

I might wake up tomorrow and wonder why I wrote while I waited, and maybe I’ll understand then. At least I’ll know that hands and fingers can type words even when you consciously tell yourself to open your eyes after each blink.

It’s 12:20 AM and the last disc is finally done. Good morning, everyone. Make it a better one than I do.

Eyes

Have you ever been haunted by a song? Or changed? Or anything? No, of course you haven’t. You’re not weird like me. But if you were, maybe you could relate. I guess I’ll have to explain it to you.

I never realized how many people there are around me. I mean, I have, but I never really “got” it. Think about your life for a second. You think it’s complicated, right? I think mine is. Sometimes, it’s too complicated. Okay, good, now that you’re thinking about that, think about this: How much of that “web of life” is made of other people? Quite a bit, I’m guessing. Everything you do in your life, it’s linked by people. Everyone you know is, obviously, a person. You have strong relationships, weak ones, good ones, bad ones, new ones, old ones, cherished ones, hated ones, hopeful ones, ones that will never be, ones you wish could be, ones that you’re just learning about, ones just being created…the list goes on. That’s your web. Like I said, it’s complicated, right?

Consider this: every one of those people has a web just as complicated as yours. And they know people who know people. There are circumstances in their life that you are a part of, and there are ones you are not, just as they aren’t a part of every aspect of your life. There’re things you keep hidden from them, things they keep hidden from you, things others keep hidden from both of you, and things left unspoken. Those complicated webs just got ten times more complex.

I’d been thinking about this for weeks. There are all these problems that people have that you’ll never know about. There’re a thousand reasons why a person is who he or she is. There’s no way you’ll ever know them all. Every action you make, every action they make, it’s made for a reason. Some people think that the future is predestined and set in stone. I disagree. The future is the choices we make every single moment, every second, every fraction of a second. There is nothing that we do that doesn’t affect our future. I’m not the kind of person who believes God has been limited by one future. If God is as powerful as we claim, should he not see all possible outcomes of all possible choices at all possible times? Just because the choices we make determine the future does not mean that God is blind to the future. If all outcomes are known to Him, he is never caught off guard.

But that’s getting away from my point, although it relates. My point is that there are all these people around us going a thousand different directions every day, including us. We don’t share a reality…instead, each one of our realities is intertwined without us even realizing it. We may never know what is really going on in a person’s life. All we see is what they do, what they say, what we think they are. Most of the time, we don’t even care about all the things that drive them to be who they are. Everyone has a weight slung around their neck. Sometimes we see it, sometimes we don’t. We’re blinded by ourselves and our narrow realities.

So, as I said, I had been thinking about this for a while, wondering what is behind every glance, every smile, every frown, every laugh, every expression that you can’t tell if it’s real or not. And then I heard this song that was exactly what I’d been thinking and it perfectly captured all those thoughts. It’s called “Give Me Your Eyes” by Brandon Heath. The first verse goes like this:

Looked down from a broken sky
Traced out by the city lights
My world from a mile high
Best seat in the house tonight
Touched down on the cold black top
Hold on for the sudden stop
Breathe in the familiar shock
Of confusion and chaos
All those people going somewhere,
Why have I never cared?

Exactly. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. It’s like someone hit a pause button and suddenly I’m aware of all the layers to everything happening around me. Why haven’t I ever cared about all these things around me?

Then I heard the next lines of the song:

Give me your eyes for just one second
Give me your eyes so I can see
Everything that I’ve been missing
Give me your love for humanity.

Can you imagine what it would be like to see through other people? Not like (ew) X-Ray vision, but to see all their struggles and problems and insecurities and needs. It would be too much to take in. It’d be like squeezing a lifetime’s worth of a friendship into a fraction of a second. It would overload you. You couldn’t take it all in. It’d be like standing in front of a dam just as it burst and a wall of water washed you away. I don’t know why, but I find that incredibly humbling. I finally realize, no matter how well you really know a person, you don’t know them.

I was talking to a friend. I’m not even sure what I was doing. I know what—at some level—I should do, but I don’t want to and can’t. I was seeing it from my view, not hers. Although, I think, in all honesty, she knows what I should do. But apparently she doesn’t want to either. I was afraid of messing up a relationship, of my web getting tangled in someone else’s. I was prepared to…sacrifice a friendship to keep from ruining a relationship.

But my friend told me something that gave me “eyes” for a second. After I told her I would give up a friendship for her relationship she told me, “Well, if one were ruined, I’d prefer it if you left me the other.” Wow. That was all I could say. That made so much sense. And, yeah, I don’t completely get it. No one does or ever will.

But I think, maybe, just maybe, we see shadows of what God sees through his eyes. I have a new…genuine caring for, well, everyone. Every moment I think I know who they are and what they are, I’m reminded that I really don’t. That’s a very humbling thought. There’s real hurt out there, and most of that hurt will go unrecognized by everyone but the person it’s happening to...and to God’s eyes.

If you want to hear the song, go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTsYAZvHsEQ

Things on the Mind

I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. And it’s given me a lot of things to say with no one to say them to, and a sense of not being sure how to say them anyway. A long time ago (I think two years still counts as a long time ago), a friend told me they liked me a certain way…you know, more than a friend. But see, here’s the thing: I didn’t really know them all that well at the time. We’d just started to hang out, just started to get to know each other. I’d been down that road a thousand times and 999 of those times, the person is friendly for a few weeks, maybe months, in some exceptional cases, even longer, but eventually, they just sort of disappear out of my life. And honestly, that’s how I thought this would be. Figures that this would turn out to be one out of a thousand cases that didn’t work that way.

But that’s getting a bit ahead of myself. Whoever is reading this, if anyone is reading this, I don’t know how long it will be. But I’ve needed to get it out somewhere for a while now. You can think it’s stupid; I do most of the time, but it still is there, no matter how I feel about it.

Anyway, like I said, this new friend liked me…a lot more than I thought she could, or would, or would ever want to. I was having a hard time to believe it, because see, I hadn’t done anything for her or done anything that would make me stand out from anyone else. I was just…really…myself around her, and for once, that was good enough for someone. It was a good feeling, a really good feeling. She wanted a relationship, and for a number of reasons I wasn’t sure of and am still not sure of, I said no.

I didn’t give her the explanation she deserved because, well, I didn’t even know why I said no. Maybe I was listening to people around me too much.

You know, come to think of it, that was a fun time. It really was. There was a lot less fighting between some people then. Funny. The one person who told me to go for it is now the one person who doesn’t want anything to do with my friend.

Sorry. I was saying that I was listening to people. People told me it wasn’t a good idea. And…well…yeah, how was I supposed to know? I was just starting to know the person, right? I can’t say that I really “knew” her. So, like I said already, I said no and gave a half-hearted (if that) explanation as to why I didn’t want a relationship.

Stupid. I knew why. I wasn’t good enough. That’s how I felt. I wasn’t good enough to be there for her. I wasn’t…outgoing enough to do all the things that a partner is supposed to do, or what I thought a partner was supposed to do. I couldn’t see myself as being enough for her. It wasn’t what people were saying or anything she said. It was me. It was me not doubting myself and thinking that she could do so much better than a guy like me. I just didn’t want to be boring, which is exactly what I thought I’d be. But how do you explain these things to someone? How can you say “Don’t think about me, you’ll just be disappointed” without sounding like a self-pitying jerk?

But, and this is the crazy thing, after all that, after side-stepping and not giving her a full explanation why I said no (and I wouldn’t tell her, incidentally, until two years later), after flip flopping back and forth on things—she still wanted to be friends. I really couldn’t believe it. I thought she would be mad. She should have been. But she wasn’t. And we stayed friends, and I’m so glad we did.

So we kept in touch, talked, got to know each other better, and all that wonderful stuff. The next year, she got a boyfriend. I felt good about it. It meant that she wasn’t upset about me being such a jerk toward her. She was happy and we were still friends.

Then things started to change. I guess I should mention that I was friends with her boyfriend. Or thought I was. It turns out he doesn’t like me. At all. When I’ve seen him lately, he hasn’t even responded to a “Hi there.” But let’s not get ahead of ourselves again. What was happening was, the guy, her boyfriend, he didn’t like that she was friends with me. She never really told me how much he didn’t like it until a few days ago. She should have stopped talking to me. But she didn’t. She said I meant to much as a friend to her. And, once again, I was a little amazed that anyone would want to be my friend that much.

Another year passed, and that brings us to now. Her boyfriend is graduated, they still love each other, but she still talks to me, even though she’s not supposed to. And this year…this year…she’s my best friend. I don’t know what I do without her. School would be a lot more boring and a lot lonelier, I suppose. I never really had someone who really “got” me like she does. It’s pretty awesome. Sounds great right?

Well…here we go again. Her boyfriend, the graduated one, he still thinks she isn’t talking to me at all. She knows she’s not supposed to. But she does. I just don’t get it. We tried to stop talking once…and that lasted a week. I never really got how big of a deal it was that she wasn’t supposed to talk to me until a few days ago.

It turns out, if you boyfriend did know she was talking to me, he’d break up with her. Break up with her. Can you believe that? I don’t want to put that weight on her. I told her that. But she wants to be my friend anyway. I told her not to worry about. She still wants to be my friend. It’s…just incredible.

Why would she do that for me? I don’t want to hurt her. But…it doesn’t seem to matter to her. What if someone would tell her boyfriend that we talk and hang out at school? I don’t want to think about it.

And now…now I don’t know what to do. I should tell her that I can’t keep talking to her…that I shouldn’t make her be, basically, lying to her boyfriend. That’s wrong. Extremely wrong. But could I do that? And more importantly, do I want to do that?

No. No I don’t.

Always do something when you say you're going to...

Ugh...okay, this was totally something a friend asked me to do while we were joking around doing the dumb stuff we call conversation. But, all joking aside, I...I really don't know what I'd do without that friend. So they told me to write a poem (the emo thing to do, you see), just for laughs? Just for kicks? I don't know, but writing does usually help me feel better about whatever. So technically, this is for the friend, but, er, untechnically, it's for me too.

ANSWERS

An answer is like a weight falling from the sky.
It never looks where it’s going,
Doesn’t matter where it’s been,
It’s your weight now, and that’s what counts.
Slowed by two failing arms,
Hindered but not stopped.
It presses, harder, harder.
Your heels dig deep into the earth,
An inch down, now two.
You grind your teeth,
You grimace with determination,
Each heartbeat is a canon,
Fleeting cries of lost victory.
Breathing becomes a chore.
The air is sand and dirt and gravel.
Your eyes are darkening,
Light is choked by poisonous night.
Your footing is lost and at last the weight falls,
And in a passing thought,
You wonder why it takes so long.
Until you see a hand by yours,
An arm reaching alongside you,
And the face of friend,
Holding your weight,
And telling you to breathe.

I am by no means a poet. Short stories, essays, obnoxiously long rants generally about nothing important...I can do that. But poems have never been my strength. So, perhaps you got a chuckle out of it, and if you did, good for you. You're a healthier person for it. Now get out of here.

Autumn in the Park

In my quest to get more serious about my writing, I've been trying to write more short stories that are diverse and outside of my typical work (mystery this/comedy that/etc). And, more to the point, I need to write something other than the big long thing I've been working on since last year. So this is another story I wrote, inspired by fall, October, and J. Michael Straczynski, oddly enough. Anyway, I hope you enjoy "Autumn in the Park."

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The fall leaves blew in circles across the gray sidewalk. The grass was littered with them, its pale green color obscured by their oranges and browns. It was October, and the little children knew that it was time to make heaping piles of leaves for play. Their cheeks were rosy and their noses were runny, but they didn’t care. They loved the leaves, and that was all that mattered.

The walk curved to the left ever so slightly, following the black road. Naked trees reached out their arms, creating spiny arches over the road. All was dead, and all was beautiful. That was what was so mesmerizing about autumn. It made death beautiful.

She loved fall. Oh, yes, she did. I remember once she told me that if it was fall all year round that she would not miss the other seasons. She enjoyed them well enough, but fall was so different, so versatile. Some days were memories of summer and others hopes of winter, and some were simply fall, no other way to describe them.

I reasoned that now would be the best time to try to talk to her. Maybe the season would calm her, make her more receptive. If only she would listen, I could explain so much.

I looked about the park. Save for the children and their mothers, it was deserted. Most people favored a cup of tea and a warm room this time of year, but Mary had taught me to love the season.

I loved Mary, and Mary loved the fall. It was quite that simple.

The green bench was peeling and chipped like it had been the day we met. Whether yesterday, a thousand years ago, or longer, it made no difference. The memory was there, clear and unmarred. It had been a day just like this one.

We were strangers sitting on a bench. I was reading a newspaper, and she was anxiously holding a purse. I was on leave from the service. I was young and the world was such a large place. There was still some mystery left out there, wherever “there” was. The whole planet was an unexplored territory, and I was its conqueror. I liked to believe that I was invincible. Maybe I was. I’d never get the chance to really find out. The war ended a week before I resumed my tour of duty. But on that day, the prospect of battle was still a burning notion in my mind. The paper was all talk of killing and gunfire and in my naivety, I was thrilled by it.

Young fool, I thought, seeing myself now, a lifetime ago, sitting on that bench. You wouldn’t have even noticed her if she hadn’t said—

“War is ugly.”

I looked up from my paper, shook it to straighten it, and then folded it down. She was beautiful. That was my first thought. She was bundled in a pink jacket, furred with gray, and a matching pink hat set squarely atop her head. I believed for a moment that a host of heaven had taken the seat beside me. But, as I said, I was young and arrogant and therefore chose to ignore that. I snidely replied, “And how would you know, lady?”

“I can read just as well as you, sir,” she politely answered. “I’m sensible enough to know when something is good and when something isn’t.”

“Well, look now, I’ve been there, you see?” I pointed to a picture of the European landscape that the paper had placed on its front page. “I’ve been in battle and it makes a man feel alive.”

“From what I’ve heard, it can also make one very dead,” she said. A hint of a smile curved her lips. She beautiful and full of sass and I was arguing with her.

“Aw, you women are all the same. Scared of death and everything with it,” I said, waving a hand to dismiss her remarks.

“I said war is ugly, not death,” she went on, ignoring my insult. “Fall is my favorite season, yet it’s the season of death. Leaves die and fall to the ground. Flowers shrivel and hide. And still it’s breathtaking. Death can be a beautiful thing, though death on a battlefield isn’t what I have in mind.”

Setting her purse aside, she reached down and picked up a leaf. She held it in cupped hands and looked it over with squinted eyes. A sudden gust of wind snatched it from her hands and carried it off into the park.

“I never really looked at it that way,” I said to her, less arrogant and more intrigued. “Death always seemed so final to me, so grim.”

“Yes, but springtime comes after fall, or before, depending how you look at it. It’s a cycle. Life, death, life, death. There is no ‘final’.” She folded her hands on her lap and looked out in the direction the wind had carried the leaf.

I felt awkward, sitting there in silence. I searched for something to say, but nothing seemed as profound as her words. I was speechless, a rare condition for me in those days, I assure you. Instead, I simply stared into the same distance that she did, wondering what she was looking for.

“Say,” I said at length, “you look like you could use a cup of coffee. I’ll buy it for you. I could use a cup myself.”

She was hesitant. She was that kind of woman. She thought for herself and wouldn’t be swept off her feet by some trigger-happy kid looking to start a fight with some Nazis. I reached over and lightly touched her elbow. “C’mon,” I said, “We can look at the leaves on the way there.”

Cautiously, she stood up and we walked down the same sidewalk that I treaded now. The fall breeze came in a quick burst and the memory was whisked away like the leaves. The bench was empty again, and I walked alone.

I buried my face in my upturned collar, trying to block the wind and forget the past. I passed no one on my way. Every sound was drowned out by the persistent roar of the wind. I was left to my thoughts, and it was best that way. I became so absorbed in them that I nearly passed my destination.

I looked up and Mary was in front of me, here at the end of the park where one lonely bench remained. Like that day so long ago, I sat down and pulled a newspaper from my coat pocket. I turned the pages, seeing words but reading none of them.

After a few moments passed I said, “Hello, Mary.”

She didn’t reply.

“I know you probably don’t want to do this, after what I did. But I thought, maybe, that today, on our anniversary, you would listen.” I creased my newspaper and put it back in my pocket. I folded my hands in front of me and looked at her.

“It’s fall, you know. Your favorite season. I—does it make you happier? I’m not trying to say what I did was right. I know I was wrong.”

She didn’t acknowledge me.

I went on, “I had to leave. You understand that, don’t you? We needed to be apart…I needed to be alone. You’d think that after two people had spent as much time together as we have, they’d know each other inside and out. I guess it just goes to show that everyone has things they keep hidden.

“Do you even remember what we were arguing about? No, I don’t either. It was dumb, I’m sure. These kinds of things always are.”

She still wouldn’t look at me, and I felt a tear running down my cheek. I wiped it away hurriedly. I didn’t want her to see me like that. I needed to show her that I was still the strong one and that I could still be there for her.

“I just wanted time alone, I said. That’s all. And when I came back, we would talk things through. Things would be better then. So I came here to talk and to say I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I would never do anything to hurt you.” I paused. “Maybe my biggest mistake was ever knowing you.”

The wind wrapped its icy fingers around us. It was so cold. Today, fall chose to give us hope of winter.

“I just wanted to talk,” I said again. New tears formed and spilled down my cheeks. They caused my skin to chap and each one stung like salt in an open wound. “I hope you can forgive me some day, Mary.”

I stood up and turned to leave, convinced finally that she did not want to hear my voice, even in the fall, even on our anniversary. I blinked to fight back more tears. I looked back one last time.

Her tombstone was surrounded by leaves. She loved the leaves, too.

“I love you, Mary,” I said one last time. I was alone, and I found now that it was never what I had really wanted.

Two Men Have Words

A story I read recently inspired me to write a short story/conversation between two men. I'm not that great at titles, so I simply called it "Two Men Have Words." I hope you enjoy it and I hope it makes you think a little bit. Comments are welcomed.

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“What’s worth dying for?” he asked.

“Everything,” I said.

“What’s worth a life?”

“Nothing.”

He looked at me with wary eyes. They probed for hidden meaning where there was none. He asked me another question. “Nothing can balance the weight of a life? Do you really mean that? ”

“Do you really think I’d waste words on it if I didn’t?” I replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh it’s hard to tell with a man like you, you know.”

“A man like me?”

“Well, yes, a man like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“Why don’t you tell me? After all, you are your own man, aren’t you?”

“I’m speaking for myself, at any rate.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

I smiled. “Fine. Yes, I am my own man, though what does that actually mean? A man’s person is still his own, even if it’s led down a path that contradicts itself. Some men simply lack the ability to right their own lives and straighten their own course. Me, I’m a man who likes to be his own and know it, if you follow me.”

“I don’t.”

“I like to be in control, friend. That’s what I’m saying. It’s all well and good if a man is his own, but it’s without merit if he can’t make something of it. Live for something, you see. Without purpose there’s not much of a road travel, eh?”

“So it would seem.”

The room was dark and cool, made of stone and mortar. Light was ice, and the shadows were colder still. We faced each other, both of us seated on wooden chairs. Two men, we were. Two men sitting a few feet apart and separated by an infinite reality. That’s how it was meant to be and, I might say, how it should be. The man opposite me spoke again so our conversation would ward off the reaper hiding in the dark.

“What you’re saying,” said the man, “is that you put yourself in every situation of which you’re part.”

“I try.”

“And no matter what anyone around you does, your fate is what you decided?”

“Now, look here, I didn’t say that. I said I try to make myself responsible for my predicaments or whatever you want to call them. It’s as I said: I’m my own man and know it, and a man who knows where he is and what he is knows very well when things aren’t as he would like to have them. A curse and a blessing together, you understand. It’s a paradox, yet the only sensible way to live.”

“A curse to know reality?”

“And a blessing, I said. I am in control, if I know myself. Yet in knowing, I also see where I have lost control.”

“Then do you really know anything at all?” asked the man, perplexed.

“Only that knowledge alone isn’t enough to find your way,” I said.

“Then what is enough?”

“That’s a question with no answer. Unless you’ve actually found your own way? I’d love to hear about that.”

“I made no such claim.”

“And neither did I,” I laughed. “Let me explain it like this. When you were a boy, did you ever throw a stick in the water and try to follow it? I did. There was a stream behind our house that I loved to play in and around. Anyway, I decided one day to throw a little twig in the water and follow it as far as I could. So I did. And at first, the sailing was smooth. The stick bobbled atop the ripples and waves, right down the middle of stream, caught in the strong current. But then it came to a rocky place. All sorts of stony, protruding obstacles blocked its path. It had to float around all the rocks, and sometimes it would get stuck for a few moments, but then would be freed again by the current. Eventually it washed up on a far bank, among dozens of other sticks and debris. See now?”

“Not in the least.”

“Of course you don’t. The stick. That’s you, that’s me. We think we’re something. We travel down this river, down this path and we think that we’ve got it good. It’s all so smooth. Then we hit the rocky area. We’re thrown this way and that and we get sidetracked or thrown off course. But in the end, we end up like everyone else: washed up on the far bank. And from the bank, or, if you’re lucky, even before we got the bank, we can see where we came from. Once we see how we got there, we finally realize the truth: we were never in control.”

The man contemplated this and tapped a finger on his closed lips. He nodded. “I see now. This is what you know?”

“Yes. I’m one of the lucky ones. I see the river behind me, and I know that the whole time, I was never the one who charted the course.”

“Now you’re contradicting yourself,” said the man. “You said that in being your own man you know when you’re not in control and when you are. But apparently you’re not.”

“Wrong, my friend. I do have control. I chose to stay afloat. That’s my purpose. If I can keep my head above the water, I might just see the end of the river.”

“You know, that actually makes sense.”

“A hard fact for you to admit, I’m sure,” I smirked.

“Indeed,” he replied. He scratched his chin and looked off into the shadows, conscious of their presence, then returned his gaze to me. “But, see here, that’s such a broad outlook on life. That whole bit with the river, I mean. What about here? What about now?”

“What about now? Isn’t it obvious?”

“Obviously not.”

“Well, I have my purpose now, don’t I? And purpose requires devotion.”

“Funny that you should speak of devotion.”

I ignored him. “It requires devotion, not to things, not to possessions, but to ideas, concepts, and principles.”

“You’re going to speak to me of principles?”

“No. I’m speaking to you of devotion.”

“What good is devotion if it never leads you anywhere?”

“Impossible.”

“But…”

“Without devotion, you sink beneath the water. Devotion is what drives you to fight the downward-pulling current. As long as you stay above the current, it will lead you somewhere.”

“Yeah, a dead end, eh?” he remarked.

“I never said it would be where you wanted. Most of the time it isn’t. But would you rather reach the end of a journey because you were merely washed there by the tide, or would you like to be able to look back and say I actually did something. Even though everything around me was stronger than I was, I fought back. That’s what makes it worth it.”

“If, as you said, the only thing worth dying for is everything, then what is worth fighting for?”

“What you believe is right. If you’ve done right by yourself, your family, and God, you have nothing to regret. A wise man once said that if you alone among all the nations are the only one to stand proudly for what you believe, then hold up your head. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“A madman would say the same,” remarked the man insinuatingly.

“He would not. I’m sure of that. Can a madman reason? Does he think rationally? Of course not. That’s why he’s mad. A man with radical beliefs does not make him mad. Eccentric, perhaps, but not irrational. Surely you can agree with that,” I said, shifting my weight from one side of the chair to the other.

“I can…and I cannot. Madmen too have radical beliefs. Surely you can agree with that.”

“Completely. But can madman substantiate them? He’s unable to provide a basis for his actions and words. Without a foundation, there is no devotion. There are only loose ideas strung haphazardly together in an incomprehensible strand. A decent man, however, may be labeled radical and possibly even mad simply because his beliefs are different than the beliefs of those around him.”

“And traitors? What do you call traitors?”

“I call none traitor.”

The man stood up suddenly and looked me squarely in the eye. He leaned forward and glared sternly at my face with a thorough gaze. I was unresponsive to his act of intimidation. Straight-faced, I returned the stare.

“How can you say that!” demanded the man.

"Easily," I replied. "A traitor is one who is untrue to himself."

"And what about to country?"

"What about country?"

"I asked you."

"What do you call country?"

"Why, our nation, of course!" exclaimed the man, throwing his hands up into the air. "Our great state! Our government! That is country!" He paced back and forth behind his chair, while I remained seated.

"If that is your view of country, then it's narrower than I thought."

"What do you call, country, then?" scoffed the man.

"People and yourself."

"I don't know what that means."

"I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand."

"Now, listen..."

"No, sir, you listen. A country is only as good as the men and women who live in it."

"So what?"

"So, what is devotion to country? Loyalty to borders or compassion toward brothers? A country must be united if it is to stand. Yet if there is no mercy or sympathy among its inhabitants, where is unity? And without unity, to what is each man devoted? Selfish motives, petty segregation, useless bickering: these things are not country anymore than a deserted island is a sovereign nation.”

“What are you saying then?” asked the man, clearly frustrated. He looked once more at the shadows at the far end of the room. They wavered and shifted from one side to the other like some sort of living mass of darkness. He gave a quick nod, almost unperceivable, yet existent nonetheless.

I followed his gaze and grinned at the shadows. “I submit that there is one nation, one country. The world is man’s country. If nature had meant for there to be divisions among peoples, it would have drawn borders itself. Yet none exist, save for the seas, and even they cannot ward off man.”

“Then I suppose every war is a civil war?”

“War is never civil. But, yes, I suppose so.”

“Ludicrous!” exclaimed the man.

“Utterly fantastic, isn’t it?” I chuckled.

“You equate our enemies with us.”

“No, I count them as part of us.”

“Incredible. Absolutely incredible.”

“Perhaps too much so,” I said, “for you to comprehend fully. Despite what you think, this is nothing radical. Only logical.”

“Then you deny that there is good and there is evil?”

“I said nothing of the sort, friend! I couldn’t do such a thing. For what is one without the other? We use good to define evil and vice versa. What is good? The absence of evil. What is evil? To be without good.”

“I’ll give it to you this time. That’s sensible enough”

I nodded, “It’s as I said before. I’m not irrational. You’ve asked me quite a few questions. Let me ask you this one. Is any man evil?”

“Of course.”

“Is he?”

“I said yes! Murders, burglars, liars, and worse. Surely you don’t call them good?”

“I do not, actually. No, they are misguided.”

“Well, yes,” agreed the man.

“But then, aren’t we also?”

“What?”

“Explain to me how you are any different than that man who killed his fellow man.”

“I think it’s quite obvious! I never killed a man! I didn’t take a life!”

“Of course not. I didn’t suggest that. But tell me this: have you ever held a grudge against another fellow? Surreptitiously, I mean.”

“I’d be lying to say I haven’t, and so you’d be to.”

“Indeed.”

“What’s your point?”

“Another question,” I said. “Who was more honest? You or the murderer?”

“I say, what are you getting at?”

“This. You hide your feelings and your hate, but the murderer brings them out into the open.”

“Good heavens, you can’t say that the murderer is the better man!”

“Not at all. Only that he is no more or less a man than you. He killed a man. I can’t justify that, and I wouldn’t attempt to. Yet he was honest. You, however, hated another man but never confronted him about it.”

“I fail to see the relationship!” yelled the man, visibly disturbed at the notion that he and a murderer were on the same level of humanity.

“My dear fellow, sometimes I wonder if you’re blind. Perhaps we should get brighter lights.”

“This is not a time for levity! Explain yourself!”

I laughed. “As I recall, I was never given a chance at trial.”

“Do I have to repeat myself?”

“No, no. Though you may have handicapped sight, my ears work just fine. Try to see this. Your hate was the same hate that compelled the murderer to kill. Is there any denying that?”

“I should say…”

I cut him off. “No, there isn’t. The murderer simply lacks one crucial characteristic that you possess: self-control.”

“I—I can’t…”

“Don’t bother fighting it,” I said. “If you are an honest man, as you would claim, you’ll know it to be true. And returning to my previous point, grudges and hate are what dissolve unity or prevent it all together, and in doing so, destroy nations.”

“So what does that make me?”

“You would say a traitor. I would say you have misplaced loyalty.”

The man was enraged. He stood up, picked up his chair, and hurled it against the wall. It cracked and snapped and broke into several pieces. He put a hand around my throat and squeezed tightly, but not so tightly as to choke me. His eyes were wide and his nostrils flared. He was anger personified.

“I’ve listened to you for the past hour, sir,” he boomed, “and I’ve heard your remarks on everything from life to country. I don’t agree with it, most of it, at any rate. But I listened, you hear? And I sat by and heard your filth about good and evil. I let you drag me down to the level of murderer. Murderer! The lowest rubbish in all society! I dare you compare me to that again, you scum! What gives you the right? You think you’re better than me? If that were the case, then our positions would be swapped! You have the audacity to speak of loyalty? Loyalty! Do you know what loyalty is, sir?! I mean real loyalty, not this half-baked crock about world unity and whatnot. Of course not! You have your own ideas about that, too, don’t you? And where has it gotten you? You washed up with the rest of us at the end of the river, I’m afraid. All your talk hasn’t gotten you anywhere. So tell me, man, to what are you loyal? Where does your allegiance lie?”

His grip loosened ever so slightly. I didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. I would not give way to his boorish intimidation methods. He knew it, too. I said, quietly, “I do not pledge allegiance to nation, state, country, or government. I do not recognize invisible walls constructed between lands. I do not consider one man enemy and the other friend. I do not believe that anything need cost a man his life, for life is beyond value.”

I paused. The shadows inched forward.

“No, sir,” I said to the man, “My loyalty lies with mankind and with God. Call me traitor, call me betrayer, but know that I do not hold it against you. You see, true loyalty makes you understand. Everything is illuminated. You finally recognize that everyone who does not know true loyalty and devotion is just a lost man searching for a light in the dark, and in our world that means traveling with a gun at his side and war in his heart. True loyalists are peacemakers, and warring men fear peace, for without conflict, they know nothing. And so it is the duty and devotion of every true loyalist to speak out against the fight, and likewise the mission of warmongers to silence them.
“And here we are now, sir. We have followed this formula without deviation. We’ve reached the end now. But, like I said, I hold nothing against you. I’ve done my part, and I suppose you’re doing yours, though I should say that it hardly seems like the right one. We were bound to come to this. Two men have words and then reach a conclusion. It’s the way of the world, and even this loyalist can do little about that.” I looked into the man’s eyes. His hand fell away from my neck. He put both hands in his pocket and turned away from me, walked a few paces, and then turned around to face me again.

When he looked at me, I said to him with a nod, “I’m ready now.”

From his pocket he pulled a handkerchief. He walked toward me, and as he did, the shadows stepped into the light. Twelve men with guns stood in identical positions, each with his gun poised in front of him. Every muzzle was pointed at me; every eye had me targeted.

As the man tied the handkerchief around my head, effectively blinding me, he asked me again, “What’s worth dying for, traitor?”

“Loyalty,” I replied, “and loyalty is everything.”

I heard his footsteps grow fainter and fainter. Silence was a weight in the air.

Twelve hammers cocked.

Twelve triggers tightened.

A crack of gunfire, and then darkness.