Lostpoet... The almost hero
The stadium erupts with the sound of my footsteps rushing to meet you. But no matter how hard or fast I run, the end result is always the same: you hanging there between the bleachers of our high school. As if you were sleeping or playing a joke. Why did you do it? What foul thought pushed you over the edge—leaning out, leaning? What was going through your mind?
I wish I could change time. I can see you as I run; I can hear you as I run, calling out not my name, but "Lost."
Lost, clang, Lost, clang, Lost, clang—in an endless rhythmic cycle that still drives me half-insane, that won't leave me. And I am never strong enough, or fast enough, to reach you; to bring you back to me before you pushed off into the abyss of nothing leading to nothingness.
I wake up to the sound of my alarm clock going off. It is 8:45 and I still don't want to get up. I want to go back to the dream, back to being an almost-savior. My phone bings, and there's a Facebook update that informs me that someone (I don't recognize) says: "My heart goes out to the family—he was the kindest, most generous person that I've had the pleasure of meeting with every Sunday evening."
And that's where I stop reading because the ringing in my ears make it to hard to concentrate on the words, and I have a sick feeling in my gut. I bite down hard on my tongue to stop myself from throwing the phone against the wall. I haven't talked to my father in years now because of the things that were said —things that shouldn't have been said.
My forehead is piping hot and the ringing in my ears is so loud that it makes me feel like a giant tea kettle. I want to smash my head against the wall just to make the noise stop.
I can no longer take anything, so I rush down the stairs to head outside—to head anywhere. I run into Lisa at the banister and she worriedly asks me what's going on. I say nothing, only that I need my jacket and I am going out.
"OUT WHERE?" she asks, and I yell "Side!" and slam the door behind me. Although before I can turn the corner and head up the street, she has me by the arm and tells me if I don't let her know what's going on, she's coming with me. I don't want to argue; I just want to be alone. So I tell her fine, just stay on the other side of the street, and I keep walking alone. I don't even glance over to see if she is trailing me.
"You dropped my hand to go play,
I dropped yours to walk away,
Two worlds that will never be the same."
"Are you trying to tear us apart?"
'No.'
"What is it then?"
'Nothing.'
A man has five senses... Focus.
The first sense is sight...
I look down and focus on my feet as I walk down the sidewalk.
Why do I have to run while you walk?
Because I am older and taller than you, and my stride is longer than yours. When you are older, you won't have to run to keep up...
I stop and watch as a family plays with their kids in their front yard on the other side of the street. I can hear them laughing and enjoying the long summer evening. Has there ever been a greater distance between two individual worlds? They say no man is an island unto himself, so why do I always feel like the tides of misfortune are constantly battering and dragging little chunks of me away?
A man has five senses... Focus.
The fourth sense is touch...
I reach into my pocket and feel the loose change, I close my eyes as I walk. I can see my father as he tiredly empties his pockets onto the family's coffee table and announces to all of us kids that the first one of us who can add up all the coins correctly can keep them. My oldest brother, a little annoyingly, gets up and starts counting, putting all the coins into piles.
He excitedly goes up and slowly, methodically starts to count. This game is for him. And he nails the answer and excitedly collects the coins. I think his bank is still untouched.
The crescent moon is beginning to rise in the sky and a chill hits me like a bus. But I've learned to take the cold—take it like it was my own, like I decided to turn the thermostat on the world down to fit how I was feeling inside. The mountains have a dark purple tint to them at this time of night. I feel stronger—a strange kind of power, like when I would look up at the moon as a kid and feel like it was following me.
The houses cascade by in an endless line of blurred yellows and blues. The streets are cold and I feel like the only thing out here (unless Lisa is still trailing me). Everything seems grey.
The world is a grey ball on a string,
And I'm an outside dog off his leash.
A man has five senses... Focus.
The third sense is taste...
I feel like a lost traveler through a cavernous cave that stretches up to heaven. The only visible thing is a slit of clear blue sky, and I am a black bean being baked inside of a toaster oven. I can't think further than my left and right footstep. My mouth is nothing but the desert floor, my skin an oily, flea-bitten refuge, and my head is pounding—vibrating the same way I imagine heatwaves do. I think my mind is filled with nothing but heatwaves. I'm exhausted, but my body, on its own volition, is dragging me on. I want to stop and give in. I want to lie down and sleep and dream of my past life. I close my eyes but my body seems to walk on and I try to remember and live through life again, perhaps forever.
The landscape is bright and orange. I'm the only black shadow scurrying around. Lost souls—even bones turn to dust here. Oh God, grant me wings to fly. How long can a canyon be? Oh God, how did I find myself here at this place, at this time in my life? I wish I could retrace my footsteps; maybe then I wouldn't even stop and would go straight through until I was buried deep in my mother's womb. This place is like the womb of a 4.6-billion-year-old mother.
I come across the bus stop bench and decide to sit down...
"I'm pregnant!" Lissa screams at me from our apartment bathroom while I'm in the kitchen about to pour my first cup of coffee. I stand there frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. I rest against the sink and try to show a sign of approval or excitement, but nothing comes. I feel scared and nervous. I've always wanted kids, but it seemed so late in the game that I had already resigned myself to late nights in front of the TV with Lissa and Savi, arguing over who was our favorite "worst singer" in that god-awful show Lissa loves.
The coffee sign across the street flickers and I wake from the memory. I wonder how long I have been outside walking around. It's starting to get cold and I look to see if Lissa is anywhere near, but I can't see anyone.
A man has five senses... Focus.
The fourth sense is smell... Focus.
I get up and begin to walk down the street past the glaring coffee sign. I take a deep breath and remember the scent... deep breath... and then that scent.
Lisa and I are in the coffee shop together and I order anything that comes with a warning label, and then Lissa orders her chocolate frappuccino with extra whip.
I can smell the roasted bitterness of the beans clashing with the synthetic sweetness of her syrup. It is the smell of our lives—bitter and sweet, messy and unplanned.
I open my eyes and the memory dissolves. I’m standing on the sidewalk alone, the cold air biting at my lungs.
A man has five senses... Focus.
The fifth sense is hearing... Focus.
I listen. I don't hear the stadium footsteps anymore. I don't hear the "Lost, clang, Lost" of the bleachers. For the first time tonight, the tea kettle in my head has stopped whistling.
In the silence, I hear the distant hum of a car and the rustle of a windbreaker behind me. I turn around. Lisa is there, standing fifty paces back on the other side of the street, just like I asked. She looks small under the streetlights, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, shivering but refusing to leave me to the ghosts.
I think of the coins on my father’s table—the game that was never for me. I think of the "Lost" girl in the stadium and the "Lost" man in the Sunday evening Facebook posts. All my life, I’ve been running to keep up with strides longer than my own, trying to add up the change correctly and always coming up short.
I look at Lissa, and then I look down at my own hands. They are shaking, but they are here. I am not a black bean in a toaster oven. I am not an island. I am a man standing on a paved road that leads somewhere—even if I don't know the name of the destination yet.
I don't wait for her to cross the street. Instead, I take the first step toward her. My stride isn't longer than hers, and I don't have to run anymore. I just have to reach.
"Lisa," I whisper, and the sound of my own voice is the only thing I hear.
I wish I could change time. I can see you as I run; I can hear you as I run, calling out not my name, but "Lost."
Lost, clang, Lost, clang, Lost, clang—in an endless rhythmic cycle that still drives me half-insane, that won't leave me. And I am never strong enough, or fast enough, to reach you; to bring you back to me before you pushed off into the abyss of nothing leading to nothingness.
I wake up to the sound of my alarm clock going off. It is 8:45 and I still don't want to get up. I want to go back to the dream, back to being an almost-savior. My phone bings, and there's a Facebook update that informs me that someone (I don't recognize) says: "My heart goes out to the family—he was the kindest, most generous person that I've had the pleasure of meeting with every Sunday evening."
And that's where I stop reading because the ringing in my ears make it to hard to concentrate on the words, and I have a sick feeling in my gut. I bite down hard on my tongue to stop myself from throwing the phone against the wall. I haven't talked to my father in years now because of the things that were said —things that shouldn't have been said.
My forehead is piping hot and the ringing in my ears is so loud that it makes me feel like a giant tea kettle. I want to smash my head against the wall just to make the noise stop.
I can no longer take anything, so I rush down the stairs to head outside—to head anywhere. I run into Lisa at the banister and she worriedly asks me what's going on. I say nothing, only that I need my jacket and I am going out.
"OUT WHERE?" she asks, and I yell "Side!" and slam the door behind me. Although before I can turn the corner and head up the street, she has me by the arm and tells me if I don't let her know what's going on, she's coming with me. I don't want to argue; I just want to be alone. So I tell her fine, just stay on the other side of the street, and I keep walking alone. I don't even glance over to see if she is trailing me.
"You dropped my hand to go play,
I dropped yours to walk away,
Two worlds that will never be the same."
"Are you trying to tear us apart?"
'No.'
"What is it then?"
'Nothing.'
A man has five senses... Focus.
The first sense is sight...
I look down and focus on my feet as I walk down the sidewalk.
Why do I have to run while you walk?
Because I am older and taller than you, and my stride is longer than yours. When you are older, you won't have to run to keep up...
I stop and watch as a family plays with their kids in their front yard on the other side of the street. I can hear them laughing and enjoying the long summer evening. Has there ever been a greater distance between two individual worlds? They say no man is an island unto himself, so why do I always feel like the tides of misfortune are constantly battering and dragging little chunks of me away?
A man has five senses... Focus.
The fourth sense is touch...
I reach into my pocket and feel the loose change, I close my eyes as I walk. I can see my father as he tiredly empties his pockets onto the family's coffee table and announces to all of us kids that the first one of us who can add up all the coins correctly can keep them. My oldest brother, a little annoyingly, gets up and starts counting, putting all the coins into piles.
He excitedly goes up and slowly, methodically starts to count. This game is for him. And he nails the answer and excitedly collects the coins. I think his bank is still untouched.
The crescent moon is beginning to rise in the sky and a chill hits me like a bus. But I've learned to take the cold—take it like it was my own, like I decided to turn the thermostat on the world down to fit how I was feeling inside. The mountains have a dark purple tint to them at this time of night. I feel stronger—a strange kind of power, like when I would look up at the moon as a kid and feel like it was following me.
The houses cascade by in an endless line of blurred yellows and blues. The streets are cold and I feel like the only thing out here (unless Lisa is still trailing me). Everything seems grey.
The world is a grey ball on a string,
And I'm an outside dog off his leash.
A man has five senses... Focus.
The third sense is taste...
I feel like a lost traveler through a cavernous cave that stretches up to heaven. The only visible thing is a slit of clear blue sky, and I am a black bean being baked inside of a toaster oven. I can't think further than my left and right footstep. My mouth is nothing but the desert floor, my skin an oily, flea-bitten refuge, and my head is pounding—vibrating the same way I imagine heatwaves do. I think my mind is filled with nothing but heatwaves. I'm exhausted, but my body, on its own volition, is dragging me on. I want to stop and give in. I want to lie down and sleep and dream of my past life. I close my eyes but my body seems to walk on and I try to remember and live through life again, perhaps forever.
The landscape is bright and orange. I'm the only black shadow scurrying around. Lost souls—even bones turn to dust here. Oh God, grant me wings to fly. How long can a canyon be? Oh God, how did I find myself here at this place, at this time in my life? I wish I could retrace my footsteps; maybe then I wouldn't even stop and would go straight through until I was buried deep in my mother's womb. This place is like the womb of a 4.6-billion-year-old mother.
I come across the bus stop bench and decide to sit down...
"I'm pregnant!" Lissa screams at me from our apartment bathroom while I'm in the kitchen about to pour my first cup of coffee. I stand there frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. I rest against the sink and try to show a sign of approval or excitement, but nothing comes. I feel scared and nervous. I've always wanted kids, but it seemed so late in the game that I had already resigned myself to late nights in front of the TV with Lissa and Savi, arguing over who was our favorite "worst singer" in that god-awful show Lissa loves.
The coffee sign across the street flickers and I wake from the memory. I wonder how long I have been outside walking around. It's starting to get cold and I look to see if Lissa is anywhere near, but I can't see anyone.
A man has five senses... Focus.
The fourth sense is smell... Focus.
I get up and begin to walk down the street past the glaring coffee sign. I take a deep breath and remember the scent... deep breath... and then that scent.
Lisa and I are in the coffee shop together and I order anything that comes with a warning label, and then Lissa orders her chocolate frappuccino with extra whip.
I can smell the roasted bitterness of the beans clashing with the synthetic sweetness of her syrup. It is the smell of our lives—bitter and sweet, messy and unplanned.
I open my eyes and the memory dissolves. I’m standing on the sidewalk alone, the cold air biting at my lungs.
A man has five senses... Focus.
The fifth sense is hearing... Focus.
I listen. I don't hear the stadium footsteps anymore. I don't hear the "Lost, clang, Lost" of the bleachers. For the first time tonight, the tea kettle in my head has stopped whistling.
In the silence, I hear the distant hum of a car and the rustle of a windbreaker behind me. I turn around. Lisa is there, standing fifty paces back on the other side of the street, just like I asked. She looks small under the streetlights, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, shivering but refusing to leave me to the ghosts.
I think of the coins on my father’s table—the game that was never for me. I think of the "Lost" girl in the stadium and the "Lost" man in the Sunday evening Facebook posts. All my life, I’ve been running to keep up with strides longer than my own, trying to add up the change correctly and always coming up short.
I look at Lissa, and then I look down at my own hands. They are shaking, but they are here. I am not a black bean in a toaster oven. I am not an island. I am a man standing on a paved road that leads somewhere—even if I don't know the name of the destination yet.
I don't wait for her to cross the street. Instead, I take the first step toward her. My stride isn't longer than hers, and I don't have to run anymore. I just have to reach.
"Lisa," I whisper, and the sound of my own voice is the only thing I hear.
