The Young Man and the Sea, Part Four (c. 2011)

IIII

To my left, I caught a glimpse of the film stills in my mind, fading in and out, and rearranging the existence they lived in.

The existence that brought me into space, joining me with the stars, mixing with the universe, and making love to the stars. Making me a surfer of the eternal black, one with the mysteries and confusions that come with life and death. Drowning me in the darkness, freckled with specks of white as it engulfed me and swallowed me whole, making me its son, its brother, its uncle, its father, its maker and its creator; its controller and its slave.

The existence that turned my skin into glass; I felt my world warp into visions of sadness, worry, and lust. Visions of definitions on high, like art house films about mystery and deep contemplation contemplating glasses-wearing vixens, thoughts of sex and desire, and plans to talk about “little boys and little boy penises.”

The existence that brought me strange words from her lips, like whispers of death, cuddling me into a worrisome state, firmly planting me in a semi-solid blob of anger, fury, and disdain.

The existence that drug me from an old American-made car, and up the steps of a southern apartment complex, where, at the top, was a mile-long trek back to safety, warmth, and comfort in the form of purple men and cartoon girlfriends, telling me everything was going to be okay.

The existence that showed me the life I tried to lead, polluted by shaky cries and naked searches for lost loved ones. Gone for days and days at a time, only to reappear in seconds, claiming everything is okay, but obviously concerned about chemical junkies in her bed.

The existence that poured lava into my bones, and magma into my mind, heating me and beating me, until I lay still, shivering, flinching, fearful of my life that really only lived on in my mind, so sure its journey through hell had ended centuries ago.

The existence that left me to be me, alone and shaking in the bed of my oddly drawn girlfriend, quietly eyeing the purple man who sharply eyed me in disdain, disappointed.

The existence that carried on into darkness, trying feverishly to hold on as my body and mind shook with control, reminding me of previous episodes, and how the hero won the girl over each and every time.

The existence that dreamed of keeping me awake in my nightmare, until I could wrap my mind around the nothingness of my position: so small, so small, so small, so small, so small, so…small.

The existence that latched onto my eyelids and pulled them down, blinding me internally. Stopping me from seeing what I should have from the beginning: a fear of loss and abandonment.

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