I remember thinking when I was 11 that he was being destroyed. That he was beautiful and there was something happening to him that I could not see.
They have done this to him.
And all this time I thought he hated me.
I was afraid of his brilliance, awed by it. And at times he disgusted and angered me. BUt there was always an admiration for him that I couldn't put my finger on. Something that he was and something he could be that eluded me.
This is what he was.
He was a boy. He was sad. He was being lied to.
This is what he is.
He is a boy. Much the same. His sadness has not fleeted, merely grown. He has opened his eyes. He now can see farther than they care to tell him about. They have drawn the horizon for him. He traces it with his fingers. He feels it and holds it and rejects it to be able to sketch his own crippled trees here and there. To show them he's not ignorant.
I want him to know that my intuition has always led me to believe that he was afraid of something. Maybe it really is the blank TV screen. Windows that only reflect back at him.He told me of this fear once. He tries to peer through his reflection. It is too dark tonight to see through his own eyes. But he is far from blind. He choses not to see. Or he did, the last night he gave me a window to look at with him. And I admit, I saw nothing. I WAS blind.
Life took me away.
"Time goes by so slowly"
He is still there but I do not see him. Until I make mistakes. Mistakes I wish he could understand. Nothing can take away from the fact that the mistakes were of an offending nature, were contagious and diseased and dangerously hovering over the people I loved. And this disease that I held, I let it take over me to a point that I allowed exposure to beautiful minds.
But I had nothing that day, I needed to buy. He had something he needed to buy, no money. He told a story to me about his car. His home. The things he was coming so close to losing. He said that if I were to do him a favor, if I would release him for his burden he would surely give me a good deal in return. It was the cash he needed. To put gas in his car. To keep his brother in a home. I was in a position to make a deal. I made that fatal leap. I do not deny that it was I who made the jump. And I left him, with my disease. I kept it in my pocket while I waited for her to stop scratching herself with ink. Leaping has a strange affect sometimes. Sometimes you land on your feet. Sometimes you crash.
I free fell for and endless amount of time. And as I fell and fell, down and down, I decided that I didn't want my disease. I wanted nothing more that to release my body of its corruption. And it was a careless mistake that led me to crash. BUt a significant one none the less. And my only regret is that the disease did come close to people I loved. And I hated myself for that. Could never forgive myself for that. But I have, now being free from disease, decided to make it up. If I can ever really do this.
I have looked at my life. I have stood away from it and peered at it through a strangers eyes. And what I saw was ugly. I saw an artist there, free from disease, still ugly, and hopeless. And she really has no talent. And her "brilliant" work is part of the illusion.
But I will not let her ugliness become my disease. And I will not let her apathy and self destruction be my demise. I will walk with the crowd. Because when I tried to walk away, I failed. When I tried to see clearly, I failed. And there is nothing left for me now. My dreams are fading. Happiness is out of reach, and I accept that for myself. But for my mother, for my father, for the boy that I write this to. I will no longer be wasteful.
I will paint. I will stand back from the canvas and look at what I can become.
She is seated next to him. He listens to his parents speak, hidden behind the door. She looks up at him and he gives a gesture for her to keep silent abour his presence. After tears and pain from his mother he finally gives away his position to give her a hug. To let her know that he loves her.
Then they all sit in one room. They all speak in different conversations. The mother and father put out guilt to the children. She knows that they are selfish. They turn up another bottle of alchohol, they embrace their disease. THey live in its filth. they Speak of apathy by the children for letting it become such a mess.
"So, Derrick, when you took the trash out this morning, just how many empty bottles could you have broken?" she thinks.
" I could tell you how wrong you but I am just going to sit her and be silent " he says to his mother.
And she knows he is right. And for just once, she wishes someone would say it.