Revelations

It was a humid night on the streets of Ottawa.

I wasn't sober.

I was with friends, celebrating a final night before one of us left for a time.

And I saw her. A woman I knew 14 years ago. She looked the same.

In my mind, I saw the same person I knew 14 years ago. In my drunken haze, it was my memories that flooded forward. I remembered what I missed.

Two days later I met her for coffee - she wasn't what I remembered or, frankly, all that interesting.

It is amazing what perspective does to one's mind.

I, literally, had to drink her interesting- and it wasn't even that I pretended that she was- it was that my memory of her made her interesting. It was a complete fabrication based on what I thought my memory was.

Time

We sat knowing that time was almost up.

We started by wasting it talking about nothing, and enjoying one another's company.

And then we saw that we were almost out of time.

Usually things don't stop because of a clock. Usually things stop because they end naturally. A fight. A frolick. A death.

Not because we ran out of time.

Friday, January 30th

There are so many things that I miss.

Not about you, but about life in general.

It seems that as I age, and I do it at an alarmingly slow rate, I still forget all the things that have made me so happy I cried. With or without a whisper, I can the memories from time gone by.

I miss singing down the street - and acting like no one cares. I miss dancing to Journey in bars, often on speakers. I miss the quiet moments before the jubilation. Of what, I have no idea.

I can't recapture my youth. I tried, with a butterfly net.

I wish I knew how to make each second perfect - making it always enjoyable, instead of using one minute to pay for the next.

People are drawn to me because I entertain them. I crave it you know- the attention - the laughs. That makes me shallow in a very bizarre way. But I think it is eerily genuine. It often makes me lonely though - because I crave attention from so many places. It is a tacky jerry mcguire syndrome. The crowd will always call for more.

I think I have settled - am I going to be happy by staying here and being the person I am?

I admire those who have the courage and the strength to seize what they want - and even if it isn't youth you are seizing, it is most certainly life.

Deep down, I really wish that I could make a difference. I don't know what that means, but I know it isn't doing what I am doing now. I might actually impede progress.

My ego has driven me to succeed and that success has always been measured compared to the other things people have. Not what they have done, persae, because so few of the people I know have actually done anything for society on the whole. It is a very high bar and so many people define it differently.

I wish I could understand what it meant to be truly happy - it has to be more than waking up and plodding along through life.

I try to exude happiness, but it is a masquerade.

This isn't exactly fiction - but it deserves to be on this side

The Reign

I told myself it was for charity. It was too wet for it to be any fun.

As I listened to the rumbling thunder and watched the lightning crackle nearby, I was reminded of a time a short while ago when I was helping out with some junior golfers. Not the most underprivileged group, I will admit, but deserving nevertheless.

The day was just like every other day, except that the south west horizon had a razor sharp black cloud line stretched across it as far as the eye could see. There was a handful of juniors ready to play in their first tournament of the year, and I was less than enthused about the prospect of herding them for the next few hours. Despite my new found passion for volunteerism, there were limits to what I was willing to do.

As the younglings puttered about, waiting for their call to tee-off, the sky finally opened up to release its full fury. The parents who were (ultimately) in charge of the event, huddled to confer as to what was going to happen. The kids, feeling the anticipation of "god, we don't have to be here anymore" started to collect their things and say so long. Except for one little girl who was, curiously, with three adults, all of whom seemed to be on edge. Usually, it only takes one parent to attend these social tournaments, but what do I know.

One of them caught my eye, hurried over to me, and asked "Is the tournament still on?"
I wasn't exactly sure what to say other than "I would be very surprised if it happened - it is brutal outside."

She didn't seem to hear me, or care to hear me, and quietly, she suggested to me that the tournament had to happen. Confused, and jaded by what I initially perceived as over-competitive parenting, I was about to ask "why?" when a second adult came over to inquire as to the status of the tournament. Before she began to speak, I could hear the gathering of the "official" parents dispersing, and they were headed my way.

"This tournament can't be cancelled," the second adult said, "My daughter has to play." I am not sure I have ever heard an adult talk that sternly to me in my life. No teacher, no principal and not my parents who were adults, teachers and (in my father's case) principals.

Before I got a chance to respond, the second adult pulled me aside and explained the situation to me. I looked over my shoulder, noticing that a parent from the organizing committee was patiently waiting to speak to me, presumably about rescheduling, or cancelling, the event.

After the explanation, completely dumbstruck, I pulled the organizing committee aside. I discretely detailed what I was told to them, and announced, most definitely, that the tournament would be going forward. I am not sure who put me in charge, but I was acting like it, so why wouldn't they listen? There was no opposition from the parents, but it would be entirely voluntary. No child would be forced to play in the event. I made the announcement, and informed the kids that in Scotland, this was considered a sunny day.

As it turns out, there was only one participant. A nine year old girl. I put on my rain gear, and I played along side her. In possibly the worst rainstorm outside of monsoon season. The rain was coming down sideways it was blowing so hard.

We played all nine holes, and when she sunk the final putt, she smiled with a level of satisfaction and relief that I am not quite sure I have ever seen before or since.Her mother, and Aunt and Uncle, were waiting for us on the 9th green. They cheered and then we had a "champions" dinner of hot dogs and soda. I presented her with the trophy, and to this day, her name adorns a plaque at the club.

The little girl's father died that morning, and his dying wish was that she played in the tournament. Not only did she play, she won.

The Sorrow of Legends - Chapter Six

It doesn't matter what happens to my body, I will heal. It is the deep wounds inside that won't go away. It doesn't matter what I do- that pain will never, ever go away. You can shoot me, and I will be fine in minutes. That is why I support private medicare.

I wandered for years, maybe decades, alone in the cold. I was the top of the food chain. Nothin' has changed- except what I kill, and why I do it.

God, I don't even know how old I am. Fuck, I don't even know my whole name. I'm like Madonna or Sting.

The rage is still there. The blood lust and the rise I get when I lose control. Only two things stop the rage - booze and blood. When the rage takes over, there hasn't been a man alive I haven't been able to kill. Made a pretty good livin' doing it for a while.

I have been told that I was a weapon, created by the government to be an unstoppable agent. It sounds corny, but its true. I was leased out to foreign governments by the "nice" government. I would do the work that normal assasins couldn't do. Wimps.

I didn't like takin' orders so I left. I think. I remember my last assignment- and I didn't think it was the right thing to do, no matter what the boss man said. I didn't want to kill her, no matter what they said she did. I guess I just didn't see the bigger picture. I was a lousy soldier anyway.

Really, all these years later, the biggest problem I have is going through airport security. That and the fact that I have a few enemies whose powers make me pretty much useless. When he ripped out my bones, he did it out of spite. He thought he was making me pure of their meddling. He was just making my power more painful. Healing bones sucks.

And getting it back really hurt. A lot. Asshole.

The rush of killin' has faded considerably, but the satisfaction of a rightful execution still takes over from time to time. I don't care what Chuck says- I haven't killed anyone who didn't have it comin'

It's too bad I fucked it all up, because I need him. He was the only one who could clean up what is lost forever in this jumbled mess inside my head. When he isn't around, I just turn to beers and messin' with people who think they know better. I never really hurt 'em all that bad, just enough to make 'em think twice about being drunken oafs again. Made a fair livin' doing that too.

God damn that crazy bird. Women always make men do stupid things. But, I wasn't the only one who was an idiot. If only Scott could have let it go - he left us with no choice, really. She made her choice, and man, she didn't like having that decision challenged. He had his chance, and even though he was the perfect gentlemen, she chose me. Girls love the bad boy.

Of course, I didn't expect I would have to kill him. I figured he was just a pansy with a broken heart. Turns out he wasn't such a pussy after all - if he had shown that confidence before, maybe she wouldn't have left him. I have to admit, it was tough fighting a guy who was hittin' me just by lookin' at me. Must have been tough to be in love when you couldn't even look into her eyes. I should write those cheezy cards that boys buy for girls who like to get crap.

Of course, Scott wouldn't have been able to kill her when the chips were down. Yeah, that's right, I had to kill her too. Sure, I probably saved the universe, but what a waste of such a great piece of ass. Chuck couldn't control her; she couldn't control her. Nobody else had the stones to do it. I abused the trust we had - told her it would be alright. I told her that I could make her pain and torment go away. Killin' someone you love is even harder when you know that you have to do it. When I killed her I knew my life was over, but would never end. How fucked up is that?

The deepest cuts never heal. That one is never going away. Some power- trapped in my an ageless body with a thousand souls on mine. Will someone give me a beer?

The Passion of People - Addiction

The pulsing strobe and repetitive beats stayed in his head even after he had left the club.. The bass resonated in his chest- thumping with an echo. He didn’t know what time it was, and frankly he didn’t care. The music drove him. The alcohol fueled him. The feeling consumed him. All night long. Each new song turned over the people around him – they sang along to words he couldn’t make out or understand – their shrieks of happiness where just another cacophonous howl at the moon. The acrid taste of lime cut against the whiskey. It was the whiskey that made him whole.

By the time he left, he was in a trance-like state – walking through the densely packed hall with no mission in mind.

When he became aware of his surroundings, he was nestled under the awning of his apartment building, which faced out into the harbour, watching the rain come down. He had been out with friends, and then, once they left, he stayed out alone. The music made it seem like he was with others- because he couldn’t talk to anyone. He drank until his state became transfixed on the light above the floor.

He was an addict. He wasn’t sure what he was addicted to, but it seemed that there was nothing that he could do in moderation. He would spend hundreds in a single sitting at the Casino. He would smoke cigarettes one after another. He would drink until he passed out. It was truly odd, he never smoked or gambled unless he was drinking, and when he was sober he was a perfect gentleman. His drinking, though totally under control day-by-day, exposed his other vices, if not create them, as he drank. For every drink he took he became more of a showman, more of a card player, more of a hustler. Alcohol was a muse, of sorts.

He limped out onto the docks in search of a matchbook he saw earlier in the day, because though he had instructed his cab driver to stop at the local 24 hour store for cigarettes, he did not have the presence of mind to get a lighter or a matchbook. The first cigarette was attached to his lip by dried saliva, but was soaked through, making it useless to anyone who would ever want to light it even if he found a spark. He cast it aside, and bundled the rest of the twenty-pack into a warm and dry spot in his coat to protect them from the driving wind and the torrential shower. He was oblivious to everything but his addictions.

He lost his balance twice while he was searching for the matchbook, and but for the staggered steps off the main deck, he would have been cast into the ocean. The last time he woke up with a mouthful of weeds and a small crab scuttling about his head. It was not his best evening, but he was oblivious to the fact that he had been lucky to survive it. If he had hit his head against any solid rock or part of the pier, he would have drowned for sure.

He had not had a cigarette for months leading up to tonight. He had gone out with friends for a drink and he got to that threshold. The threshold that most alcoholics have, but are never allowed to attain because of their credo. They swear that each day they won’t have a drink that day. While one drink will never push a man back off the wagon, the credo even prevents that from ever happening because if they don’t have one drink, they can’t have ten. He didn’t go to meetings. He didn’t think he had a problem because his life was working out fine.

He just drank bad. There is no other way of describing it. He drank until he was on the verge of losing consciousness, and then he would continue until he was an unintelligible derelict. As he drank, he would become more forceful, more agitated, more confrontation, more amorous- his various senses and desires would be simultaneously exaggerated or muted, depending on which one. He has lost more friends then he could count because he doesn’t know how to control himself. He can share a laugh, but when the laughter ends, he doesn’t always know why. Often, it was something he said or did that put an abrupt end to the party. The few friends he kept teeter-totter back and forth about the causes and rationales behind his behaviour. Several have attempted interventions- only to have their pleas fall on deaf ears. It got to the point where he just kept his friends apart so that he could drink every night- each time with a different group that wouldn’t judge him for specific instances- unbeknownst to them that the sum of their parts were blotting out all light.

He walked to the end of the pier and retraced his afternoon steps carefully. Nothing. Either the wind had knocked the book of matches off the dock and into the sea, or they were never there in the first place.

A feigned desperation set in as he returned to the covered entrance to his apartment. He sat there, endlessly waiting for the right passer-by to ask for a light. Finally, after what seemed like seconds, but was in reality over an hour, a young man on his way to the morning shift obliged him with a light. He sucked on the filter, and drew the smoke into his mouth, and down to his lungs before he exhaled the lot up into the settling fog. The rain had finally stopped He nodded his thanks to the boy who gave him the flame, and paced mechanically up and down the walk in front of his apartment building, thinking about what he would have to do the next day.

It was at that point that a nagging element of sobriety pulled him back into reality and his mind started to tick back into control. David put out the cigarette, shook his head rapidly to wake himself out of the groggy state he was in, and pulled himself into the elevator. His mind was now working faster than his body and he was ordering it to get out of the elevator well before it arrived at his floor. It was like an old buggy driver who knew exactly how his machine would perform, as David’s body leaned out the elevator doors just as the doors slid open, a full breath or two after he had asked it to move. In its current state, his body was like a sluggish computer running a program it did not have enough power to run properly. He fumbled for his keys well up the hallway from his apartment, and as he reached the door, he slid the key into the lock and turned it. He then realized that he had just locked the door, rather than open it. He cranked the lock back, and pushed his way through the door, and flat out onto the couch. Here he could crash for the few hours of the regenerative sleep his body needed and get up and resume his life like nothing had happened the night before.

How many more times could he put his body through this, he wondered to himself, before it caught up with him and ruined what was left of his life? He then made the same oath he made countless times before to control his excesses, and not to drink more then three drinks. Why stop altogether? When I’m so obviously still in control?

The Sorrow of Legends - Chapter Five

My mind is a prison.


I have been trapped inside of it since I was a boy.

When I was younger, people thought I was the most creative person they ever met. None of the ideas where mine - I took them from the thoughts of other people. I excelled in school, but didn't know why. It was because I could read their minds.

I knew what people wanted before they would say. I knew their hopes and dreams. I knew what would make them happy.

I also took their nightmares. And when I would wake up screaming, I was living their darkest fears. And even though I was awake, their nightmares wouldn't stop. I was alone in the nightmares of another, and I couldn't turn it off. I couldn't stop the living terror. What is difficult for an adult was devastating for a child. And I knew, I felt, their deepest darkest fears. I was welcome, in their nightmares.

Eventually, I learned to help them through it- out of a sense of self-preservation.

As I grew, I honed my ability to look into the thoughts of others. I would catch glimpses of their hopes and fears. Before I matured, I would use it against them. I manipulated others for my own benefit.

Then I learned I could control them.

What I believed was the power of suggestion was actually the ability to make other people my puppets. I could make them submit themselves to my will. At first, I did it for my amusement, my own venial pleasure. I did it when I saw something wrong. I did it when I could fix a broken heart. I did it when I wanted the heart for myself. I did it because someone was rude to another. I did it because I could. If I wanted to, I could have ruled the world. With a thought I could stop a man's heart through his mind.

I robbed people of their experiences because I believed that it was right. I healed them, without knowing that because of me, it would always hurt like the first time. I kept people from the pain that made them stronger. There was nothing anyone could do to stop me.

Until I slept and the terror would take over again. It was fitting that I would bend people to my will during the day, and have their subconscious minds attack me at night. Once, in defending myself from the carnage, I killed a woman I knew. Was it really self defence? Or was I provoking her by stealing glances into her soul?

It was when I realised that I was living the most depraved and evil existence that I decided that had to stop myself. Manipulating others to do my bidding, increasing my wealth at their peril, lusting after them with the knowledge I gleamed from their thoughts. I couldn't stop myself. It was an addiction. I became so preoccupied with the thoughts of others that I forgot to live my own life.

The temptation to manipulate was so great- it drove me insane. Every waking thought was dedicated to resisting the temptation of looking into another man's mind. I did it because I could - I had the access, and they had no way to stop me. The only solution was isolation - though I remained connected to every person I had looked in on before. I had to concentrate so hard on staying out of other's minds that I lost control of my own body. Concentrating so hard on keeping my own mind in check, in control, that I lost control of my legs. I am now trapped in this chair because of my inability to keep myself focused. I dream of a mental block - but know that none is forthcoming - but understanding that I could remove one that you have.

Today, I have grown so strong that by concentrating I could end the life of a tyrant on the other side of the globe. I could end wars with my thoughts. I could end international disputes. I could affect the outcome of every election. I could become the king of all men. And my rule would be no less tyrannical than any other democracy- they would still believe they had choice. But I can't do it. Humanity has to make their own mistakes- and they can't live free under a different tyrant. In many ways, I am a god.

From time to time I will use my power to stop the most heinous of acts. It is a constant struggle to know where the bright line is in field of murky black and white. It is okay to stop a murder, but not to stop a?? I cannot become the world's policeman, but at times, I have no choice knowing that not stopping any given atrocity will keep it on my conscience- the only one in the world I can't control.

I met Magnus, who was my best friend and my enemy. He had great power, but lacked responsibility. He only saw his ends. His means where, in his words, evolution. Enslaved for what he was, he saw no humanity in them. He saw only fear and devastation - he saw his power as a tool for revenge, for domination. He wouldn't listen to my experiences. Our battles are the second hardest ones to face. My greatest battle was with myself.

I remain trapped in my mind. Unable to look outside of it for fear that I will be tempted again to control others for my own ends. Every second the temptation to look strikes again. To help, to pry, to understand- I can't trust myself to listen to the words that are spoken to me. I have to find out if it is true.

No one can understand just how alone I am. I can talk to anyone at anytime, but not without invading their privacy. Not without violating their rights. Not without being tempted to take the conversation farther. I can't get close to someone without the desire to look deeper - to see how they really feel. Asking seems so...stupid. I will never love because I will never trust - why bother when I can find out the truth for sure?

I am so alone because I have no self control.