As I sit here looking out the window, watching time merrily go its way, I find it necessary to keep a record of this journey so that none will lose sight of its destination. I am endeavering to finish this account before the journey's end, so this is not a complete tale. This is merely the introduction to the true story, which will not happen here.

This is a story of grace and mercy, of pain and death, of hope and redemption and a confused little boy. Seeing as that confused little boy is now not so little, but still very much confused, please allow for a few side jaunts and meanderings in the following story.

There was God and nothingness. Then there was the earth and a long time later there was me.

The day I cracked was sunny just like every other day. The paper was delivered slightly late just like normal. The sun rose; the birds sang (or not if they didn't feel like it); and I didn't care. Why should I care? Caring isn't good for you. Caring hurts. When you care people notice. And they talk. Always talking! Shut up a minute already! Why do you always have to be doing something to someone with some form of destructive implement! And who really wants to break things anyway? They don't want death or pain or horror (well most of them): all they want is out. Out! Do you here me? Just let me out! Get me away from all this insanity! I can't handle it anymore. They drive and drive and drive and nobody knows where they're going. They could be driving off a bridge for all I care. I could be driving off a bridge for all they care. Who cares? And why should they? Don't you ever stop and listen to the screams in the dead of night? When no one but the only slightly sane or sanitary slalom the midnight while. And while they slalom, and slalom they must, who's going to hold their skis? Surely not I. So we journey, you and I, to the edge of the cliff and wonder why, it is the edge or maybe only the corner and thinking of this plunder off the precipice and strike the not so edge-wise corner of an old-time corner restaurant with a banner in the sky saying eat at Joe's when no one really knows who Joe is or cares for that matter. And when you find out your phone number is composed of fives that's when you really have to worry. Because they say (and I don't think we can trust them anyway) that fives are worth watching and five hens are better than one as Confucious never said. And we linger on the brink of the edge of sanity and we wonder why we ever thought of going back. It's much nicer on the swirly side of things and there are plenty of padded walls for everyone. And that's how I cracked. Did I ever get around to that part?

There are things that hold and things that persevere and then there are things that are better left unsaid, forgotten with the wash of memories. Hold your head up high enough and your liable to get noticed; bang your head on something most likely. Watch for those low hanging branches they'll get you when you're not expecting it. To gaze upon infinity and blink. To stand before all the glory and power of Heaven and flinch. To share with all the world the deepest secrets of your inner workings and in the next moment to cough; or sneeze; grit your teeth and squint at the illusion you see fading away. The dream of what you once had.

And then I think of whatever I'm touching or tasting or observing and notice how strange it is. Why do we live in houses? Why do we drive rounded cars? Or drive at all? I have to eat and I have to sleep, so something must be real. But where does the reality stop and the perception begin? Some people might think that this feeling is drug-induced, but this is more powerful than that. The mind can alter perceptions in far more interesting and dramatic ways than any drug could. Then the whole realm of movies and books and that sort of fiction comes into play. Why are people always making up stories? Are they trying to escape from reality? Or trying to find it? Is this swivel chair and this computer and this house and this life any more real than a fairy tale? Or a book? Or a movie? Who's to say what is reality? Why, when visiting an insane asylum do we automatically assume that we have a better grip on reality than the inmates? Who is more real: the delusionary psycho, or the complacent businessman? When I feel the wind on my face, is it true wind or is it merely the sensation of a drop in temperature?

As I sit, hunched over my keyboard, the perception we call reality begins to reassert itself. The TV is turned on in the background. My brother walks around the house. I think about food and school and running. And the moment of delusion or enlightenment slips by. I still understand the thoughts I was thinking, but the feeling of detachment and confusion has left me. I know where I am and what I'm doing. Until the next moment.

Hmm... and they lived happily ever after. They played tiddly winks and thumb wrestled for the first fifteen minutes and then the side-kick hanged himself out of sheer boredom and the damsel ran off with another guy. The hero being not such a nice guy after the whole saved from a fire-breathing dragon effect wore off. The hero went into a state of depression and now spends his time getting drunk in bars. Noone listens to the wise old hermit anymore and they eventually locked him in a padded room for mumbling about visions a few times too often. The elves have been introduced to modern culture and now go around with numerous peircings and have traded their traditional green for black. Dwarves have been greatly interested by the phenomenon of Monday night football and their once legendary strength has withered into numerous potbellies. Even the evil minions left over after the great villain died have been affected. They generally work for firms, insurance companies, or the government. There are still pockets of backwater civilizations where the news of the great triumphed hasn't reached yet, but they are slowly being eroded and will be non-existent in a few decades. The centaur civilization has been almost entirely bankrupted due to gambling addictions, mostly horse-racing. The mer-people have decided to get rid of their excess garbage by dumping it onto the beaches of the world. The sphinx is due for reconstructive face surgery soon, and Mona Lisa will finally get those annoying braces off.

Either numbly whither away and die, or live and be smashed to pieces for being so audacious. Ah, but what pieces those would be. More alive and vibrant than any the decaying husk that still clings to the sinking wreck of precaution.

Why so glum? Because the world sucks. Because there is a heaven and there is beauty and hope and truth and life and eternal peace and tranquility, but it still hurts now. I still wake up and stub my toe on the bedframe. People still hate each other and they beat each other to shreds, intentionally or not. The world itself is fallen and broken and I think I sliced my heart open on a piece of broken world. Some careless idiot left it lieing in my way and I, another (or quite possibly the same) careless idiot stumbled on it in the dark.

Have you ever heard an echo louder than loudly echoing before? It's ringing ever in my ears... booming scream that builds until the unmistakable smash of the mockery that was the instant from which it all had started warbles through the esoteric reaches of the shades of darker mind, like an ache that finally bursts the head on which it feeds. How many times will the flames come? How long for the burnings? Crumbling subtle absurdity drags a white hot poker down the ventral flesh to sear impressions of the so oft imagined falsity of the real.

Today is the day before the OSU-Michigan game. They had a car painted Michigan colors by Dreese Labs that people could pay to smash with a sledge hammer. A crowd had gathered and it was kind of interesting to listen. There were jeers and catcalls and the occasional O-H followed by I-O! But mainly there was the sound of the hammer: BAM! and a cheer, BAM! and another cheer, BAM! and the crowd goes crazy as the roof of the car finally caves in. I can almost here the music starting up... Hey savior, you're a failure; you can't even save yourself. Mankind is still just as capable of hatred and mass cruelty as it was 2000 years ago.

My greatest hope is that someday I will be deeply hurt and I will turn and someone will be there to catch me and lift me up again or that someday I will find something incredibly exciting and there will be someone there to be excited with me. Consequently, my greatest fear is that of turning for solice and finding none or hearing a joyful shout echo by itself. It seems that sorrow can almost be cherished when secure in another's arms and joy turns quickly bitter when all by itself.

It is often that way, "Where lies our greatest fear, there lies our greatest hope."

Sometimes I just wish...
Is it alright to hope? I guess I have never really let myself hope for anything before. Can I allow myself to open up? To bare myself before the world or before the only one who for that moment counts? I want to hope so very much. I want to stand on the brink of the world and shout. Yawp for all the world to hear. I want to dance with abandon. I want to run and not look back. I want to hope. And I want to Hope.

I do not know what I am doing. I'm not quite sure what I can do. I have no guarantee of success. But I will hope. For Hope. And for the future. And for me.

But for now, I suffer. And for now, I can only persevere. Character is reserved for better men and hope is their reward. But I can suffer. And through the pain and with the pain, not despite, I must persevere. I can only do this little, and I am not even sure if this I can do. But I must, so I will. In Hope of better days.