Lie Smith

X
standing at the focal point of decision, at the very point where reality separates itself from dream, from passion, he stands. he finds the words to speak to himself, to whisper sweet desires and the very least of doubt to himself, to defy the foundation of himself, to explain why his life heretofore is far too complex to understand. so where could all this lead? to what point could he take his reasoning, all the things that he has learned so far, to hate and love, to scream in purest silence, understanding not the padlock that strains at his soul, holding back what he can only assume to be insanity. To what level could he elevate his happiness, his vision of self, could he become the pinnacle of light he so often searches for in the readings of old, in the books that consume his mind, would he let them, far more deeply than some reactionary game? Could it be attained, could the words flow from his mind through to his fingers, as if they were not restricted by doubt, a doubt which is defineable only by the fact that it is so huge that it contains all of the self, that it restrains the very firing of the synapses, that it lies as a bed of needles, as in a pine forest, cushioning the soul at the same time that they poke it, not hard enough to hurt but forcefully enough that they annoy? so many questions.
let us then begin, to thwart the demons, to send them back to the dark they call home, to the fringes of consciousness, to finally find themselves at the very end of their existence, allowing clarity of vision, understanding of self, resolution of conflicts past and present, even future. Let us embark on a journey of self, on a passage of rite, or rite of passage, on the way.

He stands alone, completely alone, on the edge of vast chasm. it just so happens to be the greatest hole in the West, the pit that draws thousands, via helicopter, to it's brink, to the edge of this greatest work of erosion, that is the most visually pleasing, especially to aerial photographers.

could it come to this? could this be the very verge of understanding, of discovery of place? Could he be where he needs to be at this point in time? is his life to this point purely reactionary? his memory of the early years surely seems to point at it. driven not to exceed, but punished for his failure, punished most cruely not by the laying on of hands, but with words. words spoken by the man who could most easily cut through the layers of defense he had built up, through the fledgling desire to reach greatness. words of harsh degradation, especially uttered after the revelation of dissatisfactory test scores in school, the ultimate soundingboard. that man was his father.

why so long to face this oldest and least noble of dragons? why so long to address the brutish realities of his truest feelings?

FEAR. his dragon. his quest that would have to be completed in order to continue forward ... But was it? how could he be sure that this was in fact the key to further development? how could he know that defining and confronting this dragon would yeild the results he desired?

to try. TRY. do it? FUCKING DO IT. confront the dragon, but confront him on his turf, on his own ground. tell him all the terrible things you feel he's done to you. on his own turf, as that will make you stronger, as that will prove to him that you are not afraid of his reach, of his power.

Fear this bitch. No one, but those who love you will drive you to do this, no one but yourself will actually take the step over the edge. You do, gliding through the air, feeling the tears torn from your eyes, from the ball of tension in your stomach, gradually easing as the rocks rush toward you, as gravity forces your weak and limp body into them at one over eight and a half meters per second squared. blood and bone slide down their rough hide, pooling in the gravel that ring their base.

Does he die, does his unenduring suffering come to a swift and unparalleled ending?