Tricks in the Desert, the Old Man, and Me

I'm startled.

For a second, sitting in the sun outside because I need the anti-SADDifying effect desperately right now despite the whole it's-thirty-degrees-thing..... I thought I saw a flicker.

It could have been a mirage, like dusty dying men see in the desert on their final steps.

Or it could have been real.

I thought I saw a flicker. The kind that comes from the end of a tunnel. If it was not a trick of the light, then it sure was distant. Distant like across-both-space-and-time-and-a-worm-hole-to-boot distant.
It was faint as the flicker a pregnant woman sees of her coming children. ;)
It may have been true....

A light at the end of a decade long tunnel. And there is no good news provoking this. There is no reason for it, besides perhaps the cracks that have broken and shattered both me and the world I liv in has revealed to me through some crevice, lying dusty upon the floor, a flicker of light from OUTSIDE. The big Outside. The place where the sun shines and you shine back.

The waves are so high above my head it almost blocks out the sun. But I will dream of the spark, and cling to it like it was the first rope that got me this far. I will try to hold on with these spasming hands. Like Hemingway's old man, who's hands cramped up, clenched about the rope with which he was clinging to his irridescent fish.


And maybe the galanos will not come. Maybe the waves will not swallow me completely. Maybe I will someday, again, shine back the way I could. The way I am already shining already somewhere distant, through space and time deep within myself. That someday I will meet, and smile at myself and shake my own hand in congratulations that I made it. That I had been waiting for me for so long. And what a pleasure it is to finally be here.

And the smile that is shared between the lights in our eyes will rebound between us until it is the strength of a laser and together, we will finally jump up.

We will jump our shell together. Another shell, another level, an altogether different world. And the world we see can change, for we know surely the world is colored by our eyes and not some creationist crayola. We are the ones who make the picture. This life that contains us is contested terrain, and we can name it just as surely as any scientist could. We choose our path. And we choose what we will accept from the world around us. And I am sounding my barbaric yalp across this mother fucking cyber net and I just might make it out alive still.

And I may yet someday be a photon rising. A spark, that became a light, that became a laser.