Mitch//Dumbass Kid//Fort Wayne, IN
Ask me anything
As the year marches on, the lens tinting the world around me is beginning to shift. Today was the first to truly feel like spring since this unforgiving winter descended upon the Midwest sky, and in the light of that brilliant sun I, for the first time in so long, felt the fire in my veins which I have for so many months longed to feel. The unquenchable fire of youth, that brilliant and awful catalyst of the need to live. That which at the worst of times smolders quietly away, stuck in limbo between dream, memory, and distant reality, but at the best of times rages radiant and blinding in the eyes of the artist, the singer, the poet; all the youths who recklessly seek to change and experience all the world has to offer, who want to live, live, live so vividly and passionately that whatever god may exist might only envy them in their raw and splendid and untainted thirst for creation and destruction and life, oh god life and living and all it entails. They drink it as water as they drink their whiskeys and beers to maybe dampen that flawless and unquenchable torrent that floods through their veins. I saw a spark, a hint of that fire today, and felt it as one feels love and joy and all that is great, and I cannot wait, oh I cannot wait, for that flame to wholly and completely consume me.
It’s late Winter, and the breeze outside is beginning to taste like Spring. But the air in this house is stagnant and stale, heavy with the great burden of memory. Everything inside has been tinted the hazy gray of late night cigarettes, slowly and constantly burned out of equal parts habit and distraction, hoping against hope to find peace of mind in old familiarity. The gray permeates everything within; every thought of the laughter that this place once held is now tinged with the bitter taste of tragic inevitability. What taints this air will never be removed, the familiar ghosts walking these halls never to face exorcism. They are the new tenants, secured here by the unalienable squatters rights forever assigned to those most melancholy of memories. Their lease here is one that defies contention. And this, I accept. The spirits of those now-gray memories can have this place. And maybe someday I’ll rejoin them, reunited in the hazy gray of memory.
I want to say something. I want to write something that would change the way things have happened. I want to figure out why, why something like this should happen to someone like that. But I can’t. Life and Death are so beyond anything that I, or maybe anyone, will ever understand. Because, really, there is nothing to understand. There is no logic, no pattern to the cruel and careless comings and goings of fate. A person does not leave this world for a reason. Friends, sisters, daughters are not taken from those they love for a reason. What we call fate, destiny, divine providence. It’s all bullshit. A sad excuse to make sense of the insanity that is human existence. But really, is that so bad? To accept that there is no higher purpose for that which has happened, but to recognize simply that it is a tragedy. To not make excuses for why we should feel okay and rejoice, but to allow ourselves the right of grieving and sorrow. A person unlike any I have ever met is no longer with us, now. And that is nothing but a travesty. To make excuses, to drown out the reality with a supposed purpose, to say that, in the end, this will have been a good thing is nothing but selfish. This was and will never be a good thing. If this is part of some god’s plan, then that is a god I want nothing to do with, for he is a selfish, cruel, indignant, wrathful being. He is not the “good” god spoken of in the testaments. He is something entirely different, and entirely worse. And I think it’s high time that he was the one to ask for forgiveness.
- Jack Kerouac (via fourteendrawings)