The Wayfarer's Incident

The Wayfarer's Incident

Many moons ago back when orbital astronomers used faith, stone, and the naked eye to observe and measure space and the sands of time: there was a Wayfarer. His name was hardly known amongst the civilized colonies not so far from the desert of his calling that he roamed. His mission as a survivor was to push his very pulse to the limits, and his hope as a soul was that he’d reach an answer before the bareness of the hot earth under his feet took his current life capsule away from him. Until then he wandered.

He was an extraordinary man. Though few knew him, they knew they’d never forget him. They were aware of the pains of empathizing with him, and that dense heavy weight that his soul constantly hung. They were aware that despite his tribulation, his love to give was bountiful. The few that knew him hoped the well of care that was his compassion would never run dry. He knew they loved him, his name was Dante.

He breached a new land scape. The hot coasting winds blew dust and sand upon his boots. His hands swayed, and his feet marched along the desert ground. Remnants of memories turned around in his brain like a flipping paradigm prism shining random illuminations in every direction. His synapses fired like cap guns and pistol blanks. He looked at the sun and saw himself from an aerial view yards behind him. He saw himself drop to his knees and throw his arms up in a prayerful despair. He gave up, and that’s when the ray came into him. Like a blazing beam of positive power especially reserved for his existence. The sun shone blazed him, and his life was changed forever.

He saw the other planets and was guided toward the people who could show him the existence of other civilization’s, heroes, and people that lived, thrived, and died before him. He fought with these men for consequence, justice, and reason without a complete certainty that in the end everything would be okay. He admired them for what they do for him, and he admired the development of the self as a real progressive process rather than a futile endeavor. He destroyed himself over women and was dangled and torched by the one’s around him who wanted to be God’s. His name was Hercules.

There was another hero. His feet could leave the ground, his eyes could shoot lazer beams and he had X-Ray vision. He was the man of steel, and he was faster than a speeding bullet.

Then there was me. An underwhelming neurotic young man caught up in himself to the point of no return.

“Do you see what I do with it?” “Do you see what I Do With my Earnings?”

 

Hard work pays off, but I am still a monster sometimes. I used to dismiss it as fantasy and illusion, and then I tried everything I could do to make it real. This strange vision and occurrence that kept coming to me that something grotesque and resenentful was inside. Lingering as a moss of an entity like some kind of stagnant extraterrestrial ghost that crooks his own existence whenever he breathes. I wanted a hero because I knew I was a chump, a simple voluntary servant of cooperation starved for art in a fortress of immature victimization, critical acussation, and deranged self-epiphany.

I wrote poems oh all the poems I would write. There would be journals and books and scripts and half empty notepads, and people around me were watching me with my thigs to do list that had little relevance to my overall agenda to be a musician or a painter or at least someone who could grasp and breathe air that we knew was from the other side. The kind of air that would fill my lungs and engulf my very existence with something from paradise, something that had growth in it like I had never seen or experienced before in my life. Ultimnately I was subdued by something else, something heavier than gravity, something larger the planet, something I could not see, but knew I would spend an enternity trying to understand if it really meant something to me to figure it out.

I had adversaries. I had adveersaires of many. Platoons of judgement, brigades of debate, man to man fighting  and even a battle with God. I was doomed to fail because it was all in my head. I was doomed to change because I knew I wasn’t right. There was no possible way I could be what I had ultimately set out to be yet. I resorted to the very things that I swore I would never do. Thinking that maybe what I had rejected was something that could have been my salvation all along. Sometimes I rationalized a beer as medicine, or a cigarette as a source of stability. I was merely wrong. To think that I could have given up the very thing that I had defeated all of this time just to submit, when everyone around me was out there achieving things that I firmly believed I could not do.

I strated thinking that all of this was planned and calculated just to be some kind of huge disappointment. I tholguht that everyone was galring at me with disappointment. As if I had let everyone down, as if there were people conspiring to keep me obscure and irrelevant so that they could take comfort in their own winnings. It was the feeling that I thought that they were so afraid of. I even tried to get them to share the pain that I was going through. The pain that I thought would help them achieve a moral evolution. They denied it. They denied my pain, I wondered if I was just an object of abuse. The stagnancy, the neglect, the hurt. Wanting the approval so bad just to be rejected and sent into the very belly of hell I was already in.

I wanted to destroy the monster that I thought was causing all of this. I didn’t know who it was, but I had my guesses. I couldn’t believe that they could be all over me like that. I thought they wanted me to feel guilty and violated in the name of their authority.