It is an atomic bomb!!!!!

Melissa:  how's your fantasy team??

 me:  it is an atomic bomb!!!!!

 Melissa:  kablooom!!!!

Going

There was a man who loved a woman. He knew the direction in which he raced, metaphorically. There was a place where he would find some measure of happiness.

But where is it? The man wondered this to himself every day. Where am I trying to go? Where am I headed? There is a certain measure of insanity in sprinting as quickly as possible without knowing one's destination. For each instance in which he wondered this, a second thought quickly followed, in the manner of a person and his or her shadow, synchronous, inseparable, without discernible cause and effect. But if I cease my efforts to ponder this, if I take the time to consider for what and for whom I strive, should I pause and ponder the worth and the value of reaching this end of which I do not know, I shall never arrive.

And in this manner, he went. For he was not driven by fear, but by longing. Driven by a person he did not truly understand, or at least refused to, to an end which he surely did not know, and would never attain. It was not that he did not understand that each step he strode up an infinite dune simply pushed sand down and not himself upwards, it was that he simply kept his focus on the top of the hill, not bothering to see where he strode, not knowing that each foot was placed in the same place again, and again.

What stops such a man? In truth, he is never stopped and yet he is forever stopped, because he has never gone anywhere. He may fumble aimlessly for all eternity so long as he believes there is an end to his means. What he is doing unknowingly is waiting, waiting for the one whom he loves to match his movements in reverse, so that he need not go the distance, because that is not possible. He may make every effort, move mountains, part seas, storm the heavens, but all that matters not without a single step from her. This is so because he knows not even where heaven is in order to storm it, as his mind is elsewhere, distracted, forever longing.

Fortunately, this man is not a metaphor. Such people exist only as concepts sketched by a wicked writer's pen. In truth, not knowing the place to place one's struggle eventually meant for him that he ought not place himself at all. For one should only enter into heaven in order to stay there, and thus I will not advance until the time has come for me to go and remain.

One Hundred

One hundred times,
have I now been here,
for moments found free,
for thoughts written drear.

In hope my words given,
for more words returned,
yet as wounds bleed red,
did I seek praise unearned.

A slow drip slowly fading,
the nature of hope scorned,
left by I for another,
those thoughts left forlorn.

And yet returning for return,
each instance do I return
my ideas offered up,
as never have I learned.

So now must I complete
another entry dear,
may here find my heart,
words my heart hope hear.

Promises

At any time of the night, they might come. Through the glass of the window, or through the plaster of the wall and ceiling, each one floats in, transparent, ghostly. They enter without heed, unbeckoned, uninvited. They make no sound but the sounds I hear from my memories, emit no light but the visions I have kept within.

In the room, as I sit on the bed leaning against the headboard in the dark, I feel them coming before I even know. Even though each night they return, I am still surprised, for they vanished with the passing of slumber, drifting away as they came during my unconscious state, or perhaps simply vanishing slowly, becoming more and more transparent until they simply fade away from the perception of my consciousness. They are never invisible, but they are mostly unnoticed. Is there a difference?

And now that I have found my nightly place, my time to remove myself from this world, they return to anchor me, to hold my mind to the fabric of this reality. Each one fires out a little tether which binds onto me, keeping me here, keeping me here.

And when this happens I cannot hope but to remain here, for they are what brings motion to my body and mind, motivation to limbs puppet-like, determination for my soul's actions. For they are promises, promises which I need to keep, miles and miles yet to tread on this road, steps to be taken to reach my goals.

Promises encompassing everything. Following social order, following the law, following expectations. Promises for each hour of each day, for what I say and what I do. Promises that determine the person that I am. Doing what I have promised to do, being what I have promised to be, that is a promise as well.

The promises send out their little reminders as I lay there until I am wrapped from head to toe in promises, promises that lay claim to each bit of my being, smothering me until I can no longer stand to know the world, leaving me unconscious, asleep, until the following morning, when I rise to fulfill each and every promise.

Discussion with Alan

me: oh right
well... federer is definitely on his way down now
he's not plateauing anymore

Alan: your face is plateauing