A Century Solitary
12.24.2012

I've been dead before. (I'm sitting on my bed looking at a postcard of Los Angeles. We just partook of a group song of "The Little Drummer Boy" and an attempted, failed, rendition of "Twelve Days of Christmas". One man booed and we chastized him, rightly, but I find myself wanting to stick up for the Grinch. Maybe it's his only way of joining in. I feel sorry for him. I can imagine him sitting wanting to be liked but being unable to "self-efface", to dismiss his self-consciousness.)

But, I've been dead. I know death.

Ten years of my life I held the Reaper at arm's length with push-ups and mattress curls. Last month my heart began to hurt and I had to cease exercise. I experienced raw isolation for the first time... it's the deepest hurt I've ever felt.

I ate my first boiled egg, my first oatmeal, banana and yogurt after five years straight of bologna. I took my first shower in five years. I've walked around a tier with no handcuffs.

This is no joke, my story. I'd given up on life. I. Stopped. Caring... Ten! Years!

It is Christmas Eve as I write this. My hair and beard is still five years long. I find myself comfortable this way, plus I'm afraid if I cut it I'll lose something. Wisdom, maybe? Maybe I'll forget the pain that changed me. Will the world accept me if I never cut my hair again?

Eccentric thoughts... but my heart hurts less and less lately. My family will hear my voice for the first time in five years next week. Will we remember each other's voices? Can you guys imagine this!!!

I walked an outside yard and giggled at the wind dancing around me, like it was alive. Truly alive. Telling me something in its subtle shoves and whispers. The sounds! Of OUTSIDE! So... so BEAUTIFUL! It's ALL. SO. BEAUTIFUL.

I'm like a child again.

I want to go to Los Angeles and stand atop that tallest, circular building and feel the wind. I want to be hurt by the world and forgive it again and again. I want to bleed and cry and lose and win and die unexpected and be mourned by someone I love. I want to live.

I've been dead before but never again because dying's a choice. Dying's a mindset. Death is conceptual.

That wind shoving and tickling me on the yard is alive. Born millions of years ago on the brow of our ancestor chasing a caribou. My giggle will reverberate.