it always seemed far away

when the present author was younger, i.e., an age range presently described by the word "teen," it was largely assumed that the trials and tribulations of an aging body started much later in life. afterall, athletes were in their 20s and 30s, so it stands to reason that the body aches and pains complained about by the present author's parents were something that were decades away. of course, it's easy to not realize that said athletes often wrap up entire limbs in ice and soak in hot tubs for hours after sporting events, but from all outside appearances, physical competence seemed to be something to look forward to for another 20-30 years.

alas, when pulled muscles, neck spasms, knee pain, and general malaise began setting in by the latish 20s, the present author - in talking with others the same age - realized this was truly, gratuitously faulty thinking, and that body pain really just sort of starts way earlier than it is commonly implied when one is told by parents "oh you are soooo young" when in your 20s.

of course, the desk jobs many of us inhabit - including the writer of this piece - likely contribute to the very pains said writer is complaining about. one might be ready to then suggest that doing more physical activity my render these pains a bit less severe. alas, given the present author badly pulled a back muscle this very morning, said activity will have to stay where it has for some time; as a passing thought, the perfect cycle of an inability to play sports anymore, because the present author now has an inability to play sports.

tyndale found nothing in this town

there was nothing. it was that simple. if you made it until 30 you wouldn't make it any longer. there was little to tie you down. maybe the horror of your family stumbling upon your body, if they did, maybe a sunset, who knows, but really, nothing to convince you to stay.

this town is littered with potential past graves. the parking ramp you were going to jump from. the train tracks you could have stepped on. the overpass you could have catapulted off. the lake you could have driven into. the garage you could have hung yourself in. the nightstand that held your razor blades.

there was nothing in this town besides that. no people you knew, no experiences to enjoy. you tossed yourself halfway around the world, tossed back a bottle of liquor and benzos, tossed back all the stress of work with the tobacco spit in your mouth that leaked out and made you want to tear every inch of carpet out of your room, all to try to escape, but it didn't do anything.

you never thought it'd be a person. maybe that was your folly. you used to dream about waking up and looking outside and seeing a palm tree. about walking in winter somewhere warm enough to be in a t-shirt, no longer caring about scars. you used to dream about chicago neighborhoods or paris charm or kuala lumpur hawkers. but dreams are just that, and the older you got the more they became taunts instead of goals. there is no charm in a bedroom that is filthy, in a life that has nothing to keep you here. everything becomes routine. no matter where it is.

you convinced yourself that the only mistake was staying. was keeping yourself here, holding onto to... something, anything.

maybe that's why you'd do anything to not lose her. maybe that's why at work, sitting at your desk, all you can do is think about her. maybe that's why you want so hard to be perfect for her, even though you know she doesn't require it at all. nothing in life ever made you want to live a life like she does, just to see her smile, hear her laugh, look at her dark brown eyes, cuddle on the couch and wonder why this guy is burning his dessert on the cooking show she is so good at coming up with recipes for. maybe that's why you tear up the few times you've fought. it's conflict, but it's conflict with her. and she's not the only thing keeping you alive in the sense that she is solely responsible for your safety, she's not someone who has to cradle your mental health, and your handle on things is the best its been in so many years, but for awhile the world was grey. the palm trees were grey. the neighborhoods - what few there are here - were grey. now nothing is grey. and no matter what, you always want to see this color. the nicest person you've ever met is spending her life with you. she is nobody's keeper, but she will always keep you with her.

the rule of writing

very few things in life are said to be permanent; the common refrain is "death and taxes" although even that is a misnomer given that there are no taxes when one is, well, dead. in that sense, impermanence, as often referred to on this blog in application to some sort of personal failings we all ascribe to, is the most consistent outcome. however, the present author would like to perhaps suggest a sort of permanent reality of existence, that, while like all things is not made duplicitous towards death, exists within the constant bounds of one's lifespan. it is commonly stated that writers eventually grow to the point where previous work they have created appears crude, simple, or poor. many have stated that reading things that they have written in many years past generate so much discomfort as to, in common internet parlance, be "cringe." this experience is not held just to writers, but is commonly described by other creative types, such as singers, songwriters, poets, painters, digital artists, and more.

the present author has found this remarkably true for previously written material, particularly that which construed attempts at writings during said author's late teens and early 20s. however, a series of remarkably mediocre writings from the mid 20s on had seemingly escaped this sort of self-critical critique, largely existing in a settled acceptance of "well, it's not at all good, but it's not completely terrible, and maybe with some tweaking it could be a little less not at all good." alas, the present author committed the cardinal sin of assuming time would not wield its sword, and, upon reading said works this morning, finally felt towards them what was previously felt towards earlier works. the stories that tempted edits and consideration and feelings of potential pride now read as hollow, rushed, pointless, and simplistic. given that said stories - which compromised the entirety of this morning's evaluation - were the last stories the present author ever wrote, and will likely be so, it goes without saying that, like all things, the present author goes out with not a bang, but a whimper, stories condemned to the only permanent fixation we happen to eventually settle on; death.