further evaluations

It’s funny, reading over old writings I did back in the middle of last year. So much pain, so much loneliness seemed to hover in my mind. Sitting in an apartment in Mission Beach, just north of San Diego, without a social outlet in sight. No real friends, no contact, really, with the either too young, or just plain too different people around me.

And now, not four months after leaving that place, and its security, its womb-like stillness, I can’t hardly believe it. Four months after a three year hiatus from the colors and realities of real social interaction? It seems like that time never existed, that it was a void, a darkness that reached into all aspects of my life.

And what now? Now I am in a place full of life, friends, outlets for hidden and dark urges. Urges that bring out the beast in me, but not violently, at least not all the time. At least he’s pawing at the surface, providing me with the bite needed to tell people NO. To put people in their place if they’re trying to take advantage of me, to walk without fear toward a beautiful woman and talk to her like we’ve been going out for years.

The triune has been broken for some time. Since that fateful flensing that so bloodily crowned the wake of my crime, have I not understood the necessity of risk. Not terrible risk, nothing like crossing a ten lane highway on foot or shooting at cops just to see what would happen. Nothing like that. But the daily, small risks that present themselves, that keep you on your toes and your mind out of stagnation.

Example. Recently a former friend of mine went out of his way, long after a problem had been resolved, to backstab the man whom he had let himself be tormented by for quite some time. As a consequence, I have ignored him ever since, not going out of my way to be mean to him, but generally treating him like some sort of foul scum.

Before I found my claws, I would have continued being nice to him on the surface, while loathing him at every turn. It would have weighed on my conscious, and I would have felt ashamed for not punishing him in some way for what he had done. Now, my soul churns easier, without one more form of blockage.

Blockage. Neurolingual programming. Only now, almost ten years later, and after countless hours of reflection, self-flagellation, drug and alcohol abuse, and many other nasty aspects of a near complete lack of self-respect, do I find myself understanding more of what happened that night when I was broken.

To some extent I became deathly afraid of actions that would lead to further punishment. At the same time, however, I became reckless, and remain so, risking my life many times. Bones were chipped and nearly broken, skin ruptured violently on pavement, clouded rage boiling up randomly, uncontrollably.

Now, I think I am closer to harnessing that rage. I allow it to sit at the surface, keeping my wit sharp. It helps me think, and is there when I logic-guess (Socratic method) fools during conversations, turning their words on themselves.

The wolf sits by my desk as I transmutate reams of information into my adopted language. He runs with Bucephalus and me, sniffing out the track, calculating trajectories and vectors, keeping the fear at bay, allowing my body to focus on the job at hand.

With this blessed, slow return of confidence, of a deep-seated desire for terrible risk and fabulous reward, I can lean into the wind, and smile at the sea of grabbing, tearing hands all around me.

With the triune reuniting, I will be whole. Soon.

Like the wind through her hair, realization shot through her mind.
She stood, not far from where he had left her,
And wept. Not for herself, not for the friends he would never see again.
She wept for him. For his need to be loved.
For his undying urge to betray those who loved him.
For she knew he would die alone.