Being Honest With Fiction

And here I am now, alive and well, and equally searching the same as I have always been.
I am alive and well because at minimum; I have my ten toes and ten fingers. I have two eyes which I admit do not see as clearly as they used to.
My heart beats. My ears are still on the sides of my head but like my vision, my ability to hear is not the same as when my body was in its younger form.
I am seeking something above the average.
I suppose we are all seeking something.

I want more than the soft or the quiet solitude which is a common thing for me at sunset. And yes, I find sunsets top be a peaceful moment and sure, I feel the beautiful reverence of a sight for sore eyes.

The heavens are perfect this way. The day corrects itself and the history behind us is in the past.
The sun subsides and the moon reveals itself in stages of cathartic bliss.
I see the sunsets this way.
I see this as another on of our great and daily transitions.

I notice how the sunrise has the same impact on me as well.
Only the difference between the two are the rise and fall, which operate like polar opposites.
One begins. One ends.
Either way, a new chapter is about to begin

I consider myself a people watcher. I notice the good and the bad and of course, I notice the beautiful as well as the ugly things around us.
Still, though . . .
I consider myself the same dreamer I have always been.
I am not so different.

I have not outgrown my truths and I still have the need to find something, which is something more than just “more.”
And more than the average or the everyday and the commonplace, I want more than the simple or basic things.
And still, even still, I want the simplest things because my truth is simple.
The depths and the span of my dreams are simple and basic. However, my dreams are rare and far and few.

It is not an easy find or to have our dreams come true.
It is not simple to grow or to achieve or to perfect ourselves in such a way.
No, this takes work.
This takes effort.
This includes pain and sweat and blood and patience.

And so . . .
Here I go.

Popeye is my bird. He is behind me and green like the darkest grass you an think of. His beak is yellow. He is sweet to say the least and gentle.
Popeye never bites.
At the moment, Popeye sits on a perch behind me in an open cage.
He is talking and mumbling, hoping to catch my attention, which I deny for the moment because I have too many thoughts to share .
Popeye speaks clearly for his kind. He mutters the word, “hello,” which is always the first word that birds learn to say.

Popeye says, “I love you,” and “who’s a good boy?” and I laugh while this happens in appreciation for Popeye’s comic relief.
He is not like other birds, screaming and cawing at full volumes.
No. Popeye is not that kind of parrot.
Either way, Popeye is my boy and my interruption for the otherwise lonely moments. 

My life is simple and complicated and while I deny the tragedies and the recent catastrophes; I recognize the errors of my ways, which are plentiful, of course. But I am no better nor worse and I am nothing more than another human in search of something simple and something divine.

I look at people around me and wonder about their thoughts.
Are they thinking like me?
Am I so different?
Are you?
Are we?
I notice a small woman who exercises at the gym. She goes consistently and frequently, which I admire because of her challenges.
Her life is not the typical life and her thoughts are not like that of a so-called normal person.
If there is such a thing.
She is slow, I’d say, following her mother from one exercise machine to another. I notice her and try top soften my intensity when I am lose or around her.
I see her smiling proudly for every time she pulls her own weight; successfully too, I add and I add this with a great sentiment of care and appreciation.

There are people I see who struggle or have less than my physical abilities. I see this and still; I see how they arrive, on time, and without complaint to show up for this thing we call daily life.

I used to see a man at my previous worksite.
His difficulties to carry things or open doors as well as others difficulties did nothing to slow him down.
I noticed how he showed up to work, earlier than everyone else in his company.
I used to arrive at 5:00 am.
This man showed up at the same time.

He made sure the mailroom on the 11th floor was ready for business. He did his rounds throughout the office which was an entire floor. The space was large to say the least and located in an old Midtown building that dates back in New York City’s history.
I often saw the man as he approached the lobby doors and I often waited and held the door for him
The man thanked me, of course.
I recall how the overnight guard questioned me about the man.
The guard asked why I always waited and held the door for him.
“Because I was raised to hold the door for people behind me,” I explained.
“Yeah, but you wait too long.”

I wanted to explain myself to the guard differently. I wanted to physically explain myself as well.
Perhaps a beating. Yes.
I wanted to do that.
I wanted to offer a beating of the severest kind.
Instead, I stopped.
Why am I so impacted or affected by either the guard or the man with challenges?
Perhaps I hate the feeling of being less than or being incapable.
Maybe this is something that is all too familiar to me.
Maybe I am angry because as capable as I am, my thoughts and ideas often render me as otherwise.
Maybe I am afraid of being weak and helpless.

I can break this down from one thought to the next.
I can tie my ideas together and separate this like a flow chart of a corporation from the president at the top to the lowly workers at the bottom.
I call this taking my inventory.
I have learned how to do this and break down my thoughts into a better perspective. .

I connect this like a line chart that shows my inabilities and my lack of confidence and further, I connect these thoughts which lead to the feelings behind my incompetence.
I hate this part of me.
But this part is real too.

I do not like being reminded of helplessness and nor do I be feeling helpless.
And here I am, mostly healthy and physically capable and still; I am not as strong nor as capable as the man who could hardly hold the door for himself.

I thought about explaining my inventory to the guard who spoke about the man’s difficulties
But why bother?
I was reminded of a verse which said, “Do not cast your pearls before swine; for if you do, they will trample them under their feet and use them against you, to tear you apart.”
This comes from Matthew 7:6, which I use in this context but not in the religious sense.
I use this only as a reminder that there are pigs in this world and there are swine and there are evil men among us.
I know too many of them.

Instead of sharing my honest truths to the guard I kept my explanation short.
Rather than break down and be humble or share my thoughts or feelings, I explained “whatever you do unto the least of my brethren, you do unto me.” and then I said, “that man is far from the least of my brethren.”
Also, I offered a less religious and spiritual regard and offered to the opportunity to think carefully before speaking to me like this again.
And then I explained “Because if you ever bother that man, then I will beat you until you are crippled worse than him!”

The guard and I rarely spoke after that.

I can say that I know bad men. I have seen evil, up close and personal.
I have met people with blood on their hands and filth beneath their fingernails with no care for salvation and no worries for the devils in sight.
And somehow, I have seen evil people who succeed and do well.
I have seen them find riches and rewards. Meanwhile, they deserve the worst.

I think about this.
I think about my resentments for being “caught in the act.”
I think about all that I have done to find penance and redemption.

My punishments are just, I suppose.
And perhaps my resentments are like that of a spoiled child who got caught while the other kids got away.

Blessed are the meek, they say.
Right?

I am not the meek one.
I am able and capable.
But out of everything I know, I know this above all else.
I am not as strong as the small woman I see at the gym.
I am not as worthy as the man I used to see at work.

I am just a witness.
I am just a man, hoping that I might be absolved
And so luck will shine my way.

Or wait . . .
Luck already has

Right?