“Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams.
Now I wash the gum from your eyes.
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.
Long have you timidly waited,
holding a plank by the shore.
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, and rise again,
and nod to me and shout,
and laughingly dash your hair.”
--Walt Whitman, Leaves Of Grass
"Love isn't there to make us happy. I believe it exists to show us how much we can endure."
"What I always hated and detested and cursed above all things was this contentment, this healthiness and comfort, this carefully preserved optimism of the middle classes, this fat and prosperous brood of mediocrity."
--Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf
"You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star."
I feel like a madman.
Relentless waves of sadness wash over me like salt in gaping wounds that are as old as dust in an abandoned house.
Chaos abounds and swings me like a pendulum held between the fingers of a giant.
Manic frenzy, creative and sexual, alive and awake and assured and then dead, dead, dead, gnarled and rotten and buried alive in the cold dirt of lethargic lassitude and total and utter hopelessness.
This morning, I felt like a young boy, now I feel like an old man.
All in one day.
And that’s OK.
I am the broken boy.
I am the wiley wolfman.
I am the sunshine, the superman, the wolfman and the motherfucker writing this goddamn post.
I contain multitudes, and invite them all to tea in the mansion of my madness.
Typing these words feels like a near impossible task, my arms a gluey swampland of elephant poop.
But I type.
Come hell or heaven or somewhere right smack dab in the middle, I punch the keys like a heavy bag in a boxing gym.
But it gets hardest round' midnight.
The moonlight, my oldest friend, has become my enemy.
For the first time in my life, insomnia is my companion.
Several dark nights have been spent tossing and turning like a pig on a spit, roasting over the glowing coals of unexpressed rage and loss that feels as lonely as the face of the moon.
But underneath the lost boy, right behind the sad little chick, lies a wild beast in gentlemen’s attire.
Growing is agony.
But it is unstoppable.
The last five years I’ve been a sword being honed in the fire, and now, with a Baryshnikov leap, I am dancing my way towards the cool shores of manhood.
I’m done being Clark Kent, the emblem just underneath my shirt and tie is ready to come out and shine my way towards authenticity.
I’m pulling the cape out of the closet and brushing off my tuxedo.
Even if I have to trudge through a mile of shit, I’m putting one foot in front of the other.
I’m heading into the sun and washing the gum from my eyes.