I Was Young Once

I was young once. Though the appearance of my now 'adult' frame may not be what one would consider old, believe me it is weathered and worn like the bark of a sequoia tree that has held its ground, year after year, through the raging flames of summer, the piercing winter winds that cut so deep, they puncture the soul. Whose bark has been assaulted time and time again by the machine gun clatter of the spring precipitation cascading down upon its face, and all the while tourists leave their marks...permanently engraving their memoirs of loves, now lost, in its out stretched arms. I too am weathered.

The life that is made manifest in this frame of an adolescent young man has crashed against the rocks and reefs of this proverbial sea known as life because the safety and security of the light house never shined its warning light, its hope of home, and promise of harborage in the direction of this vessel by which I traverse these waves. Oh NO. The nights on this sea are not ones that have found rest. No eye has shut in peace knowing that the morning sun, with its golden rays, glistening off the water as it first peeks over the horizon would bring the promise of glorious day. But rather each passing morning brought another thought of why this voyage should be continued out to completion.

I was 12 years old the first time I held a razor to my still growing thighs and pretended to be a concert violinist. The razor dripped ruby red and became my quill, while my body became a never-ending canvas for the hatred bottled up within me. Like the leader of a small but grand orchestra, I conducted each move of the blade with precision, and determination. For seven years this orchestra conducted more sonnets of sorrow, hatred, depression, and fear than any Bach, Beethoven, or Sousa could ever imagine. But there was one night, different than the rest. Different, not in the fact that sleep or rest came, but because the bow wouldn't glide across the strings that had seen so many other performances, there was no momentous finish, no blood stains, only pin pricks and...tears. The flood gates were opened, and rivers raged from blood shot, dark ringed, apertures in my face that one calls eyes. These rivers became tributaries that lead to waterfalls, crashing down upon my legs as they said their last goodbyes to my feeble yet defined jaw line. As these waterfalls of teardrops gathered upon my scared thighs they mixed with the blood that came from scabs ripping open in the nights previous attempts to conduct my nightly masochistic masterpiece. Through my now distorted vision all I could picture was that one day, cast across the seemingly endless canvas, would be hope.

These razor scared pieces of flesh have been called 'brutally beautiful', and believe whoever penned those words, is right. When the end comes, and you can't pull the trigger. When all you can see is forgiveness strewn across the tattered parchment where every other day you'd see 'die' and 'not worth the sorrow' encompassed by an elaborate framework, you realize there is something bigger, and that is when the lighthouse appears on the horizon and is calling you in for the night...and even if you can't reach it soon, its calling, and your course is directed to its promise of rest and renewal. That is when it hits you, the light has been there the whole time, and the youthful ambitions and aspirations for independence, acceptance, and popularity had pointed your perspective to the depths, and not the horizon for answers and direction. Oh yes, I was young once, but I'm past those days of chasing reflections and cowering in the shadows. I'm well on my way to the harbor.