How Many Roads?

This song is very meaningful to me. I whistle it every now and then, most often when my observations lead me away from my country and kin. The clarity of group think and how much I wish not to be a part of it rises up through the land like the evening heat of Phoenix. People often consider this behavior anti-social and clutch their teeth with insults couched in between their enamel. Do I need to hear them? No, I know they are there. It’s human nature to browbeat others into a certain point of view. Women have been aware of this for a long time now. Alas, their human nature gives them cause to commit it themselves.

How many roads must a man walk down, before you can call him a man?

The white-hot injury of seeing a woman I thought knew better lead me to give the finger once again to a country who doesn’t give a damn about what they say, rather the agenda hidden in guilt-seeking bluster. It’s a civilization that cares not to water the flower, rather scream at the weeds and turn a blind eye to the collateral damage. The song doesn’t change, the subject and singers do, and it’s on the road and on my own again. There have been times where people have finally figured out the reason of my trekking only to find a cold campfire and another swath of cut reeds leading onward.

Maybe this is why its so unbelievably difficult to stop smoking? Part of me doesn’t want to live in a world of such dishonesty and power lechery. Another part is upset that I simply refuse conform and be happy. Yet another is distraught over the myopia of humanity and the expectations of sacrificial compliance. The demand of the able to make way for the unwilling. Winston. Oh, Winston, I was there when you bonded with the propaganda. I was so sorry they broke you, and cried when you walked the corridor. You tried.

All of this is the price of being cognizant, specifically the understanding of self-harm. The embarrassingly sad part is having a foreign country better at discussing such an issue than your own. This was not without my forethought, though. I didn’t run into it by happenstance. I had to seek it out. As I stood on my stoop Saturday night, once again angry at the conflict of emotion brought forth by my actions and not being able to make sense of it all, a piece of the puzzle appeared where there was none before. A tiny rotation by non-conventional means that presented a picture of brilliant clarity. I was intentionally hurting myself, and sought comfort in the spectrum of anguish it parlayed over my entire being. This is all that I had known, all I had been taught. I instantly felt sick. Sick and betrayed.

The idea isn’t unique in nature. In fact, it is quite akin to the self-flagellation of the devout. My sins were that of being different, and ultimately unworthy of the existence around me. But why? The why was simply by the negative responses of those existing in tandem. These were responses I knew based in fear and selfishness and the ugly side of imperfect creatures. Cognizant to reject. Helpless to accept. Damn them all.

After a brief tussle today, the power of light brought me to the only thing that had remotely worked in the past. I place it with care and utter oaths to remind myself of the damage done by others and myself. Never again. I take my life forward, and not look back. The comments that flutter in the breeze pass through me like the Winter winds of the fields. I march onward.

So, how many must a man walk down? The answer for me is all of them. There is no shortcut. There is no bus, as I am taking routes too unpopular and too scary for the compliant. Thinking independently has no beaten path, but it will lead me to my home.

Tagged , , , , , ,

6 thoughts on “How Many Roads?

  1. Nicole says:

    It’s not hard to quit smoking at all. Look at how many times I’ve done it.

  2. Sounds like you’re truly fucked off. Hope it gets better.

  3. kerbey says:

    You are hella intense, my good man. My ex can’t quit smoking even when his son BEGS him to, so I imagine without a child nagging you to be alive at his graduation, it might be easier to just continue. Don’t do it to conform; do it so that when you finally get up on Mount Obersalzburg and start singing “The hills are alive…” you will have plenty of lung capacity. Somehow I can’t see you sucking on a Peach Schnapps-flavored Blu e-cigarette and reading Orwell at the same time. I don’t know if the answer is blowing in the wind, but I do know that all we are is dust in the wind. That song always makes me feel like a tumbleweed about to disintegrate into nothing. But in a good way. 🙂

    • I was close to Daniel Plainview intense last night. While I was cleaning up my office, I likened my writing to alcohol. There may be a post about it later.

      The conformity of which I speak is that of current societal norms and the bullying associated with not having a straight on “yea” or “nay” position on a topic. For example, the woman I spoke about in the post was being over the top about Feminism to the extent where even *egalitarians* were misogynists. Egalitarianism is not Feminism, and thus not a firm yea nor a firm nay. The whole de facto notion of not being able to have a different point of view was something I thought she was above. It was so upsetting.

      E-cigs never really cut it for me. I tried them for a month or so and they were hard on the teeth and mouth. I used to smoke Djarum Blacks with a glass of scotch during goth nights in a college town not too far from here. Cloves are rough on the lungs but taste so good. Now it’s just a matter of not letting the collection of negative experiences push me into a position of harming myself with a pack of Camel Blue.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: