My passion’s like aged coffee.
I recall the taste, but it’s become strange, dark water with no purpose.
I cradle the cup, awaiting the sink or yard.
Sick of the act.
Sick of looking back in hopes I’ll feel the satisfaction of judging eyes.
Not longing; judging.
The faces have faded; why self-mutilate via memory’s tools?
Good was never good enough, because all things end.
Hoarding like furry bastards on the edge of winter’s kiss.
Passion inevitably brings sorrow, stage make-up gets easier with repeated applications.
What a torture to lose passion before losing life.
But I ain’t done yet.
My passions rest at home now rather than abroad.
Perhaps I can spare some.
Perhaps.
There’s only so many decades you can celebrate the cracks.
The last thing I remember was going to sleep. I’d spent the day with a new camera, driving around town, and filming abandoned industrial buildings for some artsy-fartsy 2013 YouTube video. I’d recently and suddenly resigned from my law enforcement career from inadvertently getting involved with an old friend’s divorce shenanigans. There were also clouds on the home front, if you catch what I mean. Being unemployed with zero direction as to where I should take my next steps weren’t helping things much.
I had a stroke in my sleep, and I never knew.
When I woke up, half my face was frozen. Me and some others played it off as something else, and everything returned to normal-ish over time. This is how you live life in small towns with no access to healthcare. It’s a dice roll.
After that, I subliminally began taking jobs away from home to further myself from the guy who died without knowledge. I now compare it to filtered amnesia. I no longer felt attachments to anything I knew. It’s like the strings were cut by unseen forces.
I think it’s because that was the frame of mind I was in when it happened. I’d recently burned a responsible career to the ground, and was riding high with the original release of A Taste of Home in the UK. I was about to be a goddamned horror writer, and the sky was the limit.
Snap. Just like that.
I became a demon with no scruples.
Fast-forward a decade, and I’m seven years into a loving marriage with a step-son in Dallas…
I was trying to paint an old picture on a new canvas.
Until today.
Oh, to exhibit the museum I’ve created in my subconscious in these ten years; the horrors, the tears, the doomsday scenarios.
Every now and then, the ones I left behind tip-toe across the creaky plank remaining from the once, great bridge to give me a hug and remind me I’m loved. I miss them so much.
Maybe it’s ok to be passionate again, because all things will end.
I think I’ve starved myself enough.
That last note…
That will depend on me.
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