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Prose by
Michael
November 22, 2002 |
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Tale |
I've been many things and many places, although mostly in my head. I have lived and died and loved ten thousand times, but nothing -- no story line or fantasy -- has ever stood up to what I live now.
When I was a child I used to stare in the mirror with a vague sensation that there was some vital truth, just beneath the surface, to which I was blind. All my life I have struggled against my ignorance -- like a blind man: sometimes thrashing for salvation, sometimes stock still, afraid of what he may harm.
I never meant to cause harm, although many times I have. I would regret it if I believed in regret. I repent it if anyone cares. Perhaps it is only I that carries guilt or memory of my crimes.
But now I whistle when I walk down the street, and I smile at strangers. My crimes are few and inconsequential, minus those of omission that are so old, they seem as natural as sidewalks.
I sing to myself and to the sky, and I see birds where before there were only barren trees. To my eyes -- my old eyes -- the world was much more bleak than this, although I believed in its beauty.
I grant that there exists some creature who could look over my shoulder and shake his head in pity of my ignorance and arrogance, but I can't feel that way now. I see myself as I was -- all laid bare -- and pity that creature for its blindness. So perfect and bright is my life these days that the very thought of greater enlightenment is beyond me.
No more do mirrors give me a vague sense of dread and failure. No more does my mind wander -- in the first person -- into imagined lives. Cities three have I lived. Loves two have I believed. And this my story I live today, hold onto it with my hands and teeth, and think: "This is fleeting. No life could be so full." And so, I slow my stride and breathe in vigor and happiness and roses.
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