Life as an Extreme Sport


I should sleep, but I can’t. It’s a combination of coffee and spinning mind that’s pushed me to body-tired but mind alive. I somehow found myself walking down memory lane, bringing up pictures, literally and otherwise, of people I’ve not talked to in a dozen years or more. People who were so influential on my life, vanished like the ephemeral memory they’ve become.

It’s time for me to get my data from Michael, so I can weed and walk through the past again. It’s information that tracks me, my damage forming, from innocence to wherever it is I am now. I think it’s important I use that in this upcoming project, although for what I don’t know.

Is there a point where this wall didn’t exist, ever, instead of being something that falls but springs back up as a protective at the slightest provocation? Always the odd child out, but this arms distance from everything and everyone, can I really trace that to being thirteen and sad? To death and heartache and solitude and love and pain and all the cliche’s of early teen passion? Have all my experiences since then just served to reinforce the walls he helped me build? At times like this, it seems so clear, so likely.

How do I deal with 16 years of living like this? How do I tear down the wall? Maybe the answer is to start writing again. Maybe the answer is a letter, a letter to each of them. Raven black hair, huge hands that won’t leave me alone, sly smiles stolen in secret, red braids flowing free, shy grey ghost and sexy rockstar…

It seems that only the extremes and elements bring me to this point where I can stare into my own personal abyss.