Feeling mortal

FEELING MORTAL

     Tired--- so very tired I feel the wind chill as it courses through the holes in my rusted armor. Once resilient, the tarnished exterior succumbs to the wear of a seemingly never-ending onslaught.

     I find that once I embrace that youth is not eternal, mortality become more imminent. Each grain of sand that slips through the orifice of the hourglass represents another lost opportunity. Often disregarded as ceaseless gifts, these grains represent the time fleeting. The orifice widens. The sands, they fall as the transition mocks us with the truth of an eventual eternal slumber. We must play before bedtime.

      No longer feeling like the sting of a wasted day is not felt. The days, they slip like pages torn from a book, blowing--- lost to the wind, their words to be forgotten. I scramble to gather my words, my legacy, trying to hold onto the best chapters. Maybe someone will want to read someday. Will anyone care?

     How did this personal erosion occur unnoticed? The silent carcinogens of doubt, of apathy--- they ate their way through. It spreads the disease that eventually releases the tethered cords that secure me to the stronghold of my spiritual wharf. The wind it blows. The wind it is cold.

     So tired--- I realize that my body is no longer able to withstand the torrent. Bruised and blistered, I may have won the fight, but realize that upon healing, the scars restrict the agility once needed to maneuver the obstacles. I bend, it hurts. I twist, the body responds with pain.

     Will the realization that the path I now tread is far off course from the destination I once sought. The goal is no longer to arrive where I once aimed, but to simply find sustenance along the way, to not emotionally starve as I seek refuge from the expectations I once had. It doesn’t taunt, but it does haunt. Will I ever settle again into feeling I am almost home?

     I find it challenging to separate this score I keep with myself as to what I ventured to achieve, the successes that I once harvested; long since consumed, now left with the remnants of missed expectations. Although playing for both teams, I find myself rarely celebrating victory.

     The hypocrisy sneers as it sinks its meat hooks into me. It bears its enthusiasm as I am made aware that I detach so easily and divert from my nature. I derail. I slip into a lack of awareness that I am not able to counsel myself with the same love and compassion I would show others, including my enemies. Does this make me more contemptuous than my nemesis’? How can inflict the deepest cuts yet allow myself no sutures?

     So tired. Unable to fly I am held captive by guilt and responsibility. Living in the shadow, the sun no longer reflects off my now rusted armor. The once impervious metal now only adds weight. Responsibility stands in the way of dreams. Dreams being the air that sustains me and dispels the pain, yet with responsibilities choking off its nourishing supply. Blue I choke, gasping I whither and release my clutch to hope.

     Holding myself in contempt, I realize I have opened Pandora’s Box and have lost the lid. The sirens call to lure me further from the shore, beyond where the lights upon the shore illuminate the refuge for return. Time being the link to possibility; the rope grows shorter with every passing day. Soon I will be set adrift at the mercy of the current.

     Mortality it looms over the fallen. Only can I rise up and patch the holes that expose me to further barbs. Perhaps realizing I am mortal, I can hold time as a most precious resource. I am not immune to the disease of doubt--- contagious and draining. Should I choose to rise like the phoenix from the ashes, I must add faith to my arsenal. I mustn’t stand as an army of one, my current condition needs support. Standing over my defects like fallen comrades, I must check them like bodies on the battlefield to look for survivors. Once nursed they can stand beside me guarding the flanks.

     So tired, yet once rested may I rise to a new dawn. Hope it can peek through the cracks like a sliver of sun’s rays to warm whatever it touches and to light the way to the door. The fool continues the same path with his progress eternally impeded. Choosing right, choosing left is choosing the life restoring detour. Just go! Wait no longer for the rusted armor to weigh down the soul into simply sitting before the wall that impedes it, cursing its presence.

     Perhaps shedding the weight of what once protected is the ideal course. Vulnerable yes, but light, allowing the body and soul to heal and run freely in the direction of the sun. No more shall the burden of past baggage weigh me down. Rest and restore. Sleep to soothe the tiring ache, arise to the promise of new shores. Seek solace in the realization that one pivot in a new direction leads to the potential for a new journey with a new outcome. Eternity shifted in a simple pivot. The subtlest of turns affects destiny.

     Mortal I am. The opponent of mortality is life. Sleep will I now to awaken with new hope. Life is not measured in time spent. It is the collective story between our entrance and departure. Sometimes more of the story needs to be written for the rest to make sense.