The Fires of Yesterday and Tomorrow

Throughout these sullen years I’ve figured that my call to adventure would arise in a pillar of smoke, perhaps comparable to the raging fires of Troy. Whether or not that would be a good thing is of little importance to me; I suppose that in some form I was right -- I see the smoke in the distance. But for now, I see only the troubles that lay before me, small and incomparable to what’s to come ahead.

I’ve lived in this house my entire life; all my memories lay dormant here, and the few that lay elsewhere die slowly by the day unless I am to refurbish them with a new memory, which regretfully, is almost always lathered with disgust. The twenty-years in which I’ve accumulated here are so eclectic and dishonest that I fail to see my past in its entirety, but I fear that once I look upon this house from an outside perspective, from the perspective of a stranger, I will see my past in all its tracheary.

My parents divorced some odd years ago, maybe when I was eighteen. It was something that we all expected, but all found great distaste in. When my mother had told me that the divorce went through, she was in tears, but I turned from them because I was mad at her at the time, I don’t remember why now. What little importance my daily emotions come out to be! When I think of the future, my stomach churns and a smile comes to my face – yes, it just may be among the likes of Odysseus, who’s to say? It has all the potential to be so. Only when I lay in the quiet waters of my death will I see my past clearly. The future, a gift to me, sits on its throne and laughs merrily before its slaughter. I wish only to be satisfied in the moments of my death. Given my propensity for laughter in the face of such trials (a byproduct of my love of stories) then I cannot help but feel that I’ll take it as it comes and laugh death in the face. That is, unless I die before my time.

In terms of the splitting of my family, we all know it to be a sad affair, but we all pretend, as we should, that it is a tale of liberation! My mother, she who has bellowed out that she is a slave (in response to having to do the dishes and clean the counters, an activity she enjoys) sees the bills to come as liberation from her failed marriage, something which haunts her daily, despite my Father’s dulled engagements, solemn interactions, and calm demeanor, aside from very few – as of late, thankfully – moments of anger. My Father, on the other hand, I worry for him. My family, this terrible bunch, this broken mirage, this fractured mural, has celebrated the destruction of our unity, but deep down, in the same manner as I, weeps for its deconstruction.

My Father spends his days as a prison guard, a corrections officer. He watches over the worst humanity has to offer, sees violence daily, and is forced to interact with it – be a mediator or complacent spectator. My Father is a classic kind of man, someone I feel is misunderstood in our modern age. And still, he is respectful to the family. My siblings are products of a pitiful modernity, accompanied with a fear, a great fear. They all have a list of misdoings in which he has done to them, all he has done with purpose in his eyes. And what of it? I hated him too once, and yet all I can see – all I fear – is the day when he is no longer with us. That day is what I truly fear, not death. How funny; I feel less fear of the war than of that day. I’ve dreamt of it in the worst of possibilities.

I’ve stayed behind. My siblings all jumped ship, and good for them – but it was my duty to stay back for what’s left of the family and mediate their troubles, as they are incapable of doing so themselves. And this is what I’ve done, even if sometimes I’ve failed. But now, we’ve done it. The house has been sold. We have until early next month to move. Our family will be fractured very soon. I am to pack what I have (far too many clothes and even more CD’s and books) into my car. My life has only just begun, so I could fit it all into a large suitcase, were it not for my guitars, amps, piano . . . my possessions which I love so dearly. And yet, if they were to be destroyed, I’d only replace them with another. What are they in the grand scheme of my destiny? My guitar may accompany me most of all. My piano will change forms throughout my life, but I will maintain contact with those smooth wooden keys of beauty and suffering. True freedom is found there.

My little brother of thirteen . . . I regretfully say that I don’t think of him often. He is me in many ways, and the opposite of me in others. The trials of life, I believe, make one stronger. I’ll see to it that he chooses his habits properly, and all else is a part of life. I cannot imbue strength into another, it is only when they idolize it that it becomes true. Truly, what is my life when compared to the grandiosity of Napoleon, Muhammad Ali, Tolstoy, Elvis, Malcom X, Alexander the Great . . .

What are these woes if not a splinter compared to the trials of these great ones? I tarry not, as I too will have trials such as they. Indeed! Great men are measured by their successes against their trials. This ambition, however regretfully, stops me from caring much about many things. What is this life but a suitcase full of actions and a book full of memories? I only wish I could weep less for my family who suffer as they do.

And so, it’s arrived, my call to adventure. The first step has already been taken. I intend, if allowed, to spend a semester in Europe, join the Air National Guard, and perhaps become an Attorney. This is of course an objectification of my goals. Truly, in time, my actions will be seen not as actions but as fulfillments of will. And if this life should displease me, then in another life I’ll try perhaps more dutifully and faithfully to myself. Never grow tired, you ambitious one, he who I see in the mirror!

I only wish that my family should live in peace. If there were a way to take their sufferings from them, then perhaps I would. Though I do not know why. I may have learned to love their hooks in me. So be it. And so I’ll set off, suitcase in hand, and I’ll begin my voyage to Troy, to the future, to the great fire in the distance. And only when I feel the heat upon my skin will I begin to be satisfied.