Father Time

He was born in a very small town, a crossroads really, to a family of six including him. Like me.

My town was bigger than his, has grown bigger even still over time.

He had a lot of big dreams in that little place. His father gave him wise advice. And he lost his father at far too early an age. Like me.

What he wanted to do was not something he could articulate to many. It's difficult to describe why you're not following a traditional path to mostly tradition people. It's nearly impossible to make people understand the urgency of a passion.

Art of any sort is not a good career choice. There is no safety, no sure thing, lots of disappointment and invariably a bit of unavoidable tragedy. But when you are taken hostage by an art, like music or writing or painting, there is very little choice in the matter. You do it because you have to. You do it because it keeps you alive inside. And it only ever makes sense to you.

He and I both understood this. He and I both were taken hostage at an early age. Sometimes I think he felt guilty. He thought maybe it was his fault that I had also been taken hostage. A curse and a gift. We both tried to focus on the gift parts. The curses came of their own volition.

He moved from that small town, made a lot of his dreams come true, found a person he wanted to spend a long time with, and had children of his own.

His passion had to compete with reality. Family. Duty. Making a living.

It was difficult to balance. It was mostly imbalanced one way or the other.

He fought his inner demons and sometimes he won. Most times they won.

In the end, the passion served him well but the demons stole too much of his spirit. They convinced him to take detours. To give in to the old stereotypical miserable, tortured artist. They took away his self esteem. His personality. His family's trust.

Of course, his family would always love him, too much, but with equal hate they tried to battle those damn demons they couldn't even see. The demons were never their opponents. They were ghosts of too many thoughts and not enough stillness within him. And ghosts are only scary to those who can see them. I could only make out their outlines. I tried hard to find a way to kill the inevitable. I used all the weapons I was given. My words. My passion. Reason. Love. And even, under advice from those who swore they knew better, that silence. The last communication was just that. None. I never thought the advice might haunt me for so long. I never thought silence, a refusal to react, was going to cause so much pain. But in the end, what do you say to someone who is possessed by spirits no one but he could even see? I said nothing. I was hoping he would win again.

But those demons are stronger than any reasoning could ever be.

"There are no monsters under your bed." He said this to me, when I was a child, because he knew it would comfort me, to bring reality into fantasy. I said it back to him, years later, before the silence. But all he saw were monsters. Everywhere. And maybe they were real, after all. I still look under my bed, and sometimes I see them too. Those demons can travel through time, and they remember what you're afraid of most. We both thought we feared nothing.

The best trick the demons perform is proving you wrong.

He did still have that passion, and still had so much love. But as the demons closed in on him, everything seemed to twist and turn. Nothing made sense to him anymore. People's faces and intentions were distorted. The demons whispered often, "Run."

And, "Is this all there is?"

And before I could truly let him know how very much I related to him, before anyone could put a mirror up to show him how much he had lost because of those invisible monsters, those demons he battled marched in and stole the last hope. His last breath.

And still, the demons float around, inhabiting bodies all around me. They take all sorts of forms. They follow me around like shadows. So sometimes I hide in darkness, so that at least I can't see my shadows for a while. And in the darkness comes all that hurt again. Either way, you're bound to hurt.

And still I miss his physical presence.

Nobody knows what kind of trade off art can be. No one knows how much to wager on reality and how much to save for big dreams.

Least of all me.

Death is not the worst of things. And memories are not always good.

But still he lives on in ways, and now I see his monsters for what they are.

The fear of not knowing.

But we will never know.

And so the solution neither he nor I can seem to follow for very long is to take it all as it comes. That's not easy when flexibility frightens you most.

But I bend. Every day I bend more.

And I remember his battles. And I root for him still.