252 days.
If I rise from ashes then I do so from the charred remains of a dysfunctional body that no longer fit my person any longer. This past Easter I spent the day with my mother and sister, along with my soon to be brother-in-law's family, and it was really nice.
Following the death of my grandmother when I was 18, now half my life ago, I felt any semblance of family (and genuine happiness) had passed on with her. The spirit of our familial bonds had been sucked out of the room. Over the years aunts and uncles and cousins all moved south.
I gave up on trying to help my father. When my mother left him I breathed the loudest sigh of relief, for now I had no ties to him. My sister and I never had much in common outside the absurdity of growing up borderline white trash with teens for parental units, plus she was well on her way to becoming a teacher. She had all the work ethic and stoic logic driven emotions.
I was on my own. Completely. Utterly. I filled that void with comic books, sci-fi action flicks, weed and meditation. I had no friends and felt stuck in a dead-end cubicle job and bound to an abusive and manipulative girlfriend. I then went insane. For what did anything matter when you had no one to share your life with.
I began to write. Those words of escape and longing evolved into this voice you're hearing right now, into this epic work of personal mythology non-fiction. Through this process of gutting myself and examining the entrails of my broken persona I become someone new, someone fundamentally me.
I saw darkness within me, and crafted a tale of Fenris, beast-dog of the Apocalypse. But my actions told me I was good, my instinct was to help and heal despite what this jaded and cynical world told me. So I wrote until I healed myself, always a work in progress, processing infinite eternity, all the time all around me.
I lived a good life, with happy memories, and I always have. always been a dorky enigma lover poet rockstar. The only difference is now I'm letting myself.
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