Lenny Kravitz once said in a song, "Heaven help the fool that walks through my door."
That's my line now.
I'm so broken I can't even remotely imagine how it was once and how it would be to come to the part where I can open my eyes up and say that I'm in love. Yeah, yeah, cliche... I know. But that's the truth.
Do I still want what I had before? I'd be lying through my teeth if I said no. If I could have that even just for a flash of a second - scratch that... let me say instead that if I could have that and make it last until my expiration date - I'd be more than happy to say that I had a life well lived. Now really, who doesn't want it? But then again, opportunities like that are rare, few, and far between... and that is exactly why there are a multitude of others who, like myself, are found stuck between a rock and a hard place.
And that place is one that Dr. Seuss illustrated so well in his masterpiece, "Oh, The Places You'll Go." I read that book when I was about 6 years old and from time to time I manage to re-read it. Not for nothing else, but I suppose just to search for something that would jump at me through the text - a moment of clarity, perhaps? Maybe, I don't even know. But as far as I've read lately, I can only jump to one conclusion: I'm stuck at that most useless place - The Waiting Place.
For people just waiting
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite.
Or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night.
Or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break.
Or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.
It seems as though Dr. Seuss, in all his Cat-In-The-Hat glory, has ingeniously described every single thing that's on my mind right now. And that begs the question, am I really waiting for all those things?
After much thought, I'd have to say yes.
And, that again begs this question: How long before I stop waiting?
After further introspection, I'd have to conclude that the answer still remains unknown.
I don't know, I really don't. There are days when I feel like I'm ready to jump and break free from this monotony of sentimental foolishness that drives me to the brink of tears on nights that I don't drown my heap in inebriation, while there are days when I'm perfectly content just curling up into a ball and letting the sorrow sink in until it tires itself out and ultimately escapes my system... or at least, I like to think that it does. I mean, my heart has to get tired of sitting too long in a pool of utter melancholy right? The rest of myself sure has.
And that brings me back to my first point, Lenny Kravitz's song, Heaven Help.
In essence, the wonderful Mr. Kravitz with the exemplary backside speaks of being ready for love... and the song basically serves as a warning to whoever might be willing to take a chance to dive in love with him. Kind of like me, minus the nice ass and penis.
Have I decided that I, indeed, am ready for love again? Oh, hell no. Not at all. At this point, I feel like a beached beluga whale bloodied and beaten up so bad no sane fisherman would even dare touch me within a 50-foot rod, and that not only applies to my physical imagery (an aspect I could honestly give less than two shits about, anyway).
Truth is, the acerbic wit and acidic bluntness that I now proudly sport are nothing but coping mechanisms that defend my emotionally scarred id, ego, and superego. Harsh, I know, but true. I've gotten so used to the pain of the unforeseen loss that I would rather crap out and forget the sweetness rather than dream about it every single night - yes, even the endearing memories stab me with a tight sharpness.
I honestly think that I am far from ready, but I am for sure healing... at least, I'd like to hope so. The stabs don't come every other second anymore (ah yes, they still manage to surface 24/7, but they now come every other hour or so) and the internal disparity has been leveled to a certain minimum. But they're still there... and if I want to be able to devote me to the next good guy that comes my way, those little daggers that cut me need to die down first and foremost... and when I naturally begin to feel like my better self again, maybe, just maybe, I can make that choice once more.
And then, someone asks... What if someone comes along at this very instant... someone willing to take a chance on every bruised inch of me?
Well, Heaven help him.
The last two bits are wishful thinking on my part. I, for one, know for sure that the probability of a good man finding his way to where I am and him finding it in himself to see that I'm worth taking a risk on is slim to none. No self-pity involved, just the cold, hard truth.
And as most tragedies go, it was a truth I had, for a moment, forgotten... and shall now forever remember.