I could’ve been a musician in another life. A guitarist tearing at the strings, tapping along to the rhythm. Letting loose the screams of what pulsed through me. Lyrically squeezing it from my fingertips. Emptied like a vial into the breeze. Whipping verses to and fro, tearing at the strings.
I could’ve been an artist in another life. Throwing his brushes at the canvas. Sweeping oils across the palate. Losing touch with reality with every stroke. Making a lasting work that found it’s way into the galleries. Finding meaning within nothing. Emptying everything onto something blank, and waiting for it make sense.
I could’ve been homeless in another life. Sipping from someone else’s cup. Without a care. Making my own way into the world and my own way out. Dying quietly in a street, with no one to care for. Losing everything to a hobo named Wilbur with a broken bottle neck and one lazy eye.
I could’ve been a lot of things. I could’ve been anyone of those people. I could be dead. I could be living through someone else’s eyes. Watching as they scream into the microphone, slash at the canvas, eat out of someone else’s garbage. But I never found my way into any of those lives. And sometimes I wonder why.
Sometimes I cry. Sometimes the world closes in around you and there’s nothing left to say, except sit there and take what it has to throw at you. There’s moments that get forgotten, pushed into the back. Moments that hide behind the curtains, under the bed, in the closet, sometimes with just a rug thrown over them to hide them from sight. Sometimes that’s all you need. Sometimes that’s all you need to make the voices stop. Sometimes that’s all you need to forget. Sometimes… well sometimes you just can’t.
Stephen King once said; “Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”
Things can seem overwhelming at times. Like a flood. Like an earthquake rattling the walls. Bringing the house down around you. Eating at the bonds between your feet and the floor. Between you and gravity. Eating at the ankles, trying to devour you whole. Sometimes things collapse. But, most of the time they don’t.
I could be dead. But I’m not. I’m here. In one piece. With a whole in my chest. And sometimes it hurts. But, for the most part it doesn’t, which is what I’m grateful for. And I’m grateful to be here. To be able to put thoughts to paper. To be able to go to work every morning, and return home every night. Because I could’ve been someone else. I could’ve been something else.
But I’m not. I’m me. And I’m thankful I’m still here in one piece – kind of anyway.