Thread: Thoughts and reflections, please let me know what you think

A little something I wrote waking up one morning about ten years ago and hasn't seen the light of day since. I figured, What the hell? He woke up with the beginnings of what promised to be a terrible headache. He knew there was something he had to remember to do, but just couldn't think of it. Pain lanced across his heart. Failure! Failure! A wasted potential, your life and what has it come to in the end? Failure. He could not escape the emptiness, the loneliness. All his life led chasing an impossible ideal. What was he a poppy eyed school boy? Why did maturity always come at the cost of such pain? Pain, failure, loneliness these were the sign posts that showed him his place in the universe. The headache, the heartache, both products of the same condition he was a loser. He reflected on this and looked over at his gun and wondered, Will today be the day? Will the bullet actually fire for me today? That was the other part of his suffering he was not allowed to bring his own pain to an end. Another controlled his destiny. He didn't mind that at all, he didn't even mind the suffering so much. He just wanted a little happiness. His life was all suffering and bearing silent witness, why was he forbidden any lasting happiness? Yet, he reminded himself that he chose this for himself. A long time ago he gave himself over to just this thing. Granted, he thought he would be someone else, living some other life with enduring it, but yes, he had actually asked for suffering. What a fool he had been No, he knew what was right and he was only bitter and wanted a little joy in his joyless life. He was what he was and now it was time for him to stop contemplating life and get out of bed. He had absolutely nothing to do that he had to get started working on. So he laid there for awhile longer. Then in a sudden burst of determination he sits up in bed and puts his feet on the floor. He opens his prayer book and so begins his day. Another day or routine nothingness and banality, his life. Such as it is. Welcome to my world, his mental narrator chimes in as if to help. His heart still hearting and his head beginning to throb, he now sets himself to saying his morning prayers. So he prays, and he pray and he is forever praying, but the silence becomes deafening. Then there is the ex. Ex, what does that mean? People ask him and he always has the same answer. We have a history. She was almost twenty years his senior but looked his age. Altough they are the best of friends, she won't let herself be alone with him. The foundation of the house of there history is sex. She has nonchalantly told her girlfriends, he was the best sex he ever hand and most likely ever will. And what could he say about her? Bronzened complextion, dark hair, light eyes, large breasts she smelled of a warm bahama breeze and tasted of a tart tangerine. When they touched, it was electric, a shock of passion would pass through them both. Better part of our nature he always reminded himself at such moments. Yet, at times, he could not help but lay in his bed and remember. He had a very good memory. Like feeding at the trough of her delight, slopping up all the juices of her ecstacy. More than a few times she had to push him from the banquet to save her own sanity. How oft does one find another to transcend the physical and enter into the higher realms with a lover? Yes, his memory was just fine. They were more then that though he knew her all of her and she him. Still a commonly held affection, a mutual trepidation, yes, much more then just the foundation in this house. As much as there was, there wasn't. They agreed on a great deal, but for every point of agreement, was a point of contention. She called him a conservative, like it was a dirty word. He called her by emotional. She had the soul of a gypsy, most assurdedly and he, the soul of a suffering servent. Never the twain shall meet, but they did have a history. Then there was the Other. The Other was her friend. She wanted to set him up with the Other. She wants him to be safe. She needs him to be safe. What is safety? An overrated, overused and illusion of a word, is safety. She wants him safe she needs the illusion What to do about the Other though? She was sweet enough, cute, and lithe. He didn't even know if she was interested, or if he was interested in getting into a situation for someone else's design. Mostly, though, he knew that he had always ultimately failed in affairs of the heart because he was neither interested in nor possessed the accoutrements of a comfortable life. The Other seemed to be in a similar situation, weather from choice or circumstance remained to be seen. She and the Other were to take him out for the anniversary of his imprisonment in the fetters of this mortal coil. Then there was the Friend. A Friar Tuck of sorts and the only saving grace for his sanity. Tuck was a great friend and a near twin in out look and tastes. He was blessed, deeply blessed, in this one regard at least. Tuck was a good if lonely friar, set in the heart of obscurity. When people think of friars, they tend to think of a character rather than a man and the friars for their own part have come to believe it is better to show the world the character. Tuck shows him the man. He is subsumed with affection for the glimpse of the man. A rare and truly godly site, the site of the man. Too, there was his own internal life, a quiet life of dispassion and mystical contemplation. How did he phrase it when pressed I see far. When unduly pressed he would respond somewhat desperately I will be no one's Rasputin. Rarely some one will ask how his insight works, to whit he is left forever speechless. How can one explain the truly inexplicable? To presume to put words to that which has never been spoken and never meant to be, that is beyond tolerance of reason.