Monday, February 27, 2006

What Dreams May Come

Awash in the down-pour of a rainy afternoon, I walked to the place. Unsure of what I would find, or how I would feel when I got there, I continued. Uncertainty clouded my mind as I approached the first of ten markers along the path. These were a reminder known only to me. Arrested by the knowledge of why they were placed there, I struggled to keep them out of my field of vision. I walked on growing weary of fighting my fears for the past few years. I needed to make peace with the ghosts of the past. To put an end to what was the darkest period in my life. A time that I or my mind can't be released. At least not until I my sins are cleansed. Marker two. Damn, I hate these things. I find myself slowly remembering those days. There's nothing fond about them. What I did, who I was, and what I became as a result of my indescretions. Some people have quite a few skeletons in there closets. Mine is more like a graveyard. Too numerous to count, too many to mention. Marker three. My pace is steady. My breathing is normal. My mind is cluttered. Why must I replay those events over and over again? The ground is slick and wet, just like that day. It was raining then, too. A bit harder, though. My feet were soaked and there was so much rain. No traction. No grip. Why was I here? To commune with the past or was it to drive out its demons. I had to go. Whether I wanted to or not, I had to. Marker four. Drops cascade down my face as I move on. Eyes to the ground, never looking up. I don't like those damn things, not one bit. I swear, everytime I think its safe to look up, I see another marker. It's almost instinctive. It's like my mind knows they're coming and my eyes want to check. They have significants. For me, at least. Only for me. Marker five. Half way there. Man, I'm exhausted. I should've brought some food or even a little water. I had forgotten how long a walk this was. It was a lot shorter back then. Only twelve paces. That's all it took. I stop and tilt my head back. I open my mouth and hold out my arms as if to surrender to the storm. The water is refreshing to my tongue. It creeps down my chin and past my collar, onto my warm chest. The cold stings at first, but then the drop eveporates. I wish these thoughts would disappear; like that rain drop. Then again, this drop was pure. These thoughts and memories, not even close. They wash like tar. Scrubbing and scrubbing yet, I am covered in its inky, sticky, blackness. No escape, lest I use a harsher method. That's just up ahead. Five down, five to go. Damn, I hate those things. (to be continued)

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