When I was younger I did not like the taste of bitter mixed with sweet. Actually, when I was younger I did not like a lot of tastes mixed together – I was very much a separate eater. I’ve developed quite differently in that regard, come to think of it. Strange how that happens – how utterly illogical we are as people. It’s pointless trying to suss us out or even predict how we’re going to turn out.

But I digress.

I much preferred the sweet. My undeveloped palate couldn’t understand how something so acrid could be pleasurable. I liked simpler tastes, simpler combinations.

I’ve always fancied myself a simple man, of simple pleasures. But that’s not true at all is it? I like the bouquet of fragrances – the savory, the sweet, the harsh, the bitter. So very, very bitter. I like the way it melds in your tongue, how everything comes together into this intricate, heartbreakingly beautiful ballet.

I’m a very good dancer. I’ve been so for a long time now.

It’s silly. This morning – rather, yesterday, by the hour – I walked into my new office and arranged my book case and magazines. I shredded some old paperwork, copies of old case files. I moved literally across the whole, and yet there is this… threshold.

I was told tonight by someone I hold in very high esteem that I must not lose myself. I’ve been told this before a number of times, ever by people whom I love dearly. And this above all, to thine own self be true. How strange that such words were first spilt from the lips of a master of self deception?

I’m excited and I’m trepidatious.

For the life of me, I want to waver. Believe me when I say I wish, sometimes, I were not this strong. But… you were right. Of course, you’re right. You gave me the answer before I ever knew the question.

I will not waver. You ask me how I have the courage to stand?

Well, who would, if not I?

When I graduated law school I got my class ring inscribed – not with the date/time of my graduation, or something that might remind me of the good times (hah) we’ve had, but with three little words. Three words which, these days, mean little to few, but mean the world to me:

“Alea Iacta Est.”

Julius Caesar is said to have uttered this proclamation as he crossed the Rubicon, the first step in the transformation of the Roman Republic into an Empire. Thus it has always been with men who dare to reach, and thus I say it again now, today:

The die is cast.

I’ve spent the last few years of my life building walls.  It’s been so long I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t building up a wall around myself.  I don’t honestly know the reason that I build them.  Long ago I learned the walls are useless against pain.  And it has been some time since I have lived a life ascetically, failing to partake of simple comforts or drinking deep of life’s pleasures.  Risk, I’m certain my friends will tell you, is something that I’m on quite good terms with.

I build walls to keep people out.  And yet I’ve always had a fondness for humanity, a deep abiding love of people.  I liked being the stranger in a sea of people.  It meant I was always lonesome, but hardly ever lonely.

Every once in a while someone creeps in.  Like some disturbed elder I try to shoo them out.  I fear that if they see what lies beneath they’ll turn away – horrified, disappointed.  I’m not sure.  So I push them out, I push them back, I build the walls again.

Once in a great rare while someone actually manages to find themselves back.  I don’t know why, myself.  They prefer the company of the man over that of the mask.

And still, I build walls.  I build walls around those who have managed to claim a place inside.  I build walls to kill the man inside them.  Someday I will brick myself away and I will be nothing more than a machine.  I will succeed in having killed the man.

But the people who have managed to work themselves inside don’t like to be walled in.  They have a tendency to break those walls down.  They keep the man alive.

So you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell…
-Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here

I came to the realization today that if I am to survive tomorrow, I must once more become hard as stone, but not be anyone’s rock.  Strange.  To come to depend on people, to help strengthen them, to be a part of humanity, I have given up my own strength.  I have sacrificed my survival for the good of another, all with no pretext or expectation or remorse.  But I have become weaker.

Did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?

The warrior must awaken.  The struggle must begin again, and I must leave this place of comfort.  I have grown fallow, and I have gone soft in my dormancy.  Today I begin again, I summon the warrior again.  I dress myself in shadow and drape myself in the cold and empty places of existence.

How I wish, how I wish you were here
We’re just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl
Year after year
Running over the same old ground
What have we found?
The same old fears
Wish you were here

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own…
-Coldplay, Viva la Vida

Life moves inexorably forward.  Tempus fugit.  Wounds heal, scars toughen.  Will I soon be nothing but a calloused shell – untouchable, untouched?  I wish to be hard, but I no longer am the stone.  There was peace in vaccuum; there was stillness within the void.  Now the tempest is upon me, and I once again must answer the Question.

I don’t know who I am, and there will never be a point.  I know who I am not, and I know who I want to be.  It is sad that the two lists share so many things in common.  I am no augur, I cannot read the future; but I can read the present well enough.  I begged that hope not rear it’s vixen’s head, but alas.  Here we stand.

I don’t even know why I write anymore.  I used to find answers when I sorted my thoughts, filtered them through the keys.  These last few days I find only questions.  Questions and shadows… so few lights.  I can count them in one hand, and they are precious to me.  If I were a less stubborn man I would fall upon my knees and beg them, pray for their warmth.

Ages ago I would have said that it was strength that let me carry on without the flame.  But I know now that is foolish.  There is strength, yes, but also pride there – pride builds hubris.  There is greater strength in asking for help – there is greater strength in letting go of pride.  Am I proud?  Will that be my undoing?

I cannot fight where fate has taken me.  Why do I continue to struggle?  Let me simply accept where I’ve traveled and find my feet from under me.