The Boy

I am the boy that watches cartoons. That hides in comfortable do-nothingness where time doesn’t exist. I can come here any time I want. I like to come here any chance I get. I look forward to coming here. I anticipate it.  My feet move faster coming here. 

Here there is no problem, no conflict, no fight. Here is the bed, the tree. The couch. The story. The escape.

Here there is nothing to feel. Here I am not separate from myself, not looking on as I look through my eyes. Here there is only the sweet comfort of the story. Sometimes delighting, sometimes boring. Sometimes I check the news. But the news is here too.

I can fight dragons here, safely. I can crush on girls here, anonymously. I can hide and I have stocked my hideout with everything a boy could want.  All the candy and soda and magazines and movies, all in my treehouse apartment, all by myself.  

No more working for weeks for a morsel of pleasure. No more self-talk, willpower, digging deep, no more caring. I can stay here for a while.  

Always with the small box apartments.  I’m so easily distracted, I need distraction to forget the box I am in.  I can live here, even in a cave. Even in jail, I often wonder, and suspect to be true.  I can’t be hurt here.

Why would I leave? It’s so easy here.  Isn’t that what I want, an easy life? It's so hard to want and care and feel and move and risk and be vulnerable and practice and be good and do good. 

But I can’t stay here forever. Not unless it's all I want to do,ever.  Because here is a fast road to death.

A difficult concept to grasp, for a boy.

I spend more time here since the accident. I always liked it here but now I want to go here a lot.  And over time, what I watch is time, my only friend, coming to visit as persistent as a parent.  Time just sits here and takes me.

My neck and back bend now, propped up by a pillow, even when I stand.  It doesn’t hurt if I numb it though. My chin is pressed to my chest. I try throwing my legs to the left when I remember, they always rest to my right.  I think having my right foot over my left all the time is probably not good.  But that’s what my body does naturally. I don’t tell it what to do.  I just need to move a little and settle back to my comfortable soft mattress.

Here I can be alone. I like being alone. There is no conflict, or judgement, or guilt, or shame when I’m alone. I’m not perfect but here there are no mirrors, I can’t see my defects. The problem is that I get weaker doing it this way. It does not bring health or vitality. I need to find a way to be alone that does. In a box I sit, still, all day. In a box I sleep as the world turns. As I age. As lives are lived, sorrows mourned, new loves blossomed, disaster strikes, others die. I die. Slowly, comfortably, without pain. I do not fear death, only suffering.  Here there is no suffering, except at the edges of my sight, around corners, behind doors, waiting to tell me about the pain. 

Here, the challenges of every day are the same.  Just get up. Just take a shower. Just get to work. Just work.  Mind is still, sluggish in the fog. Careful not to bump into anything sharp.  Its a noble cause, and one that, through lack of good sleep and a distracted mind, can take up most, if not all, effort and thought and determination. I don’t need those things elsewhere, other ships are too unwieldily to navigate. Better to stay in the foggy bay on my small boat than to venture into the oceans of the soul. There be dragons there.  Here, just familiars. If I were a younger man, I could stay here forever. 

Its getting harder to stay here though. I know it's bad for me. I see more and more signs my body is not able to handle it. My body wants to move, to be strong, to be free from pain. But it's so easy here that I forget my pain, and there is no effort needed. No giving of self. No self even. Just the adventure of the story, all I have to do is hold on and go for a ride.  

If only my body could pretend, like my mind. But my body knows better even if my mind chooses to forget.Each day is a step down from the last. Like the song says ‘one day older and deeper in debt’ - the debt piles up as hair loss, wrinkles, extra pounds. Stiffness. Soreness. Hints of something more serious underneath, like a stroke, or heart or lung problems. 

I look out, from my comfortable place, and see others who don’t come here. I used to be like them. But I have always liked this place. I came here to spend time with the Thundercats and duck tales, as a kid. I climbed my tree, the Maple standing resolute next to the street in front of my yard growing up in Canton,  to come here, by myself. All is well here. And aging happens, right? Who is hurt if not me, and I want to come here.  Now that I am alone, there is no one else who lives with the consequences of my choices.  Just me. 

And buried deep inside, is the man, who knows heartbreak, who listens to Dylan. Who wants to be known, who has something to say. The Man who has done what he has in this life, to whatever end.  People do not see the kid, or know him when they see him. They only see the man, and the man ages. The kid lives forever young.