I was going to put this into a story, create characters and a setting where I could trick myself into showing myself, myself. A man speaking with a therapist. I was going to drink three bottles of wine and smoke a packet of cigarettes. I was going to do what I always do, drown the senses with illusions so it spews the truth for a sober man, but the drunk are never sober, and he just kept saying the same thing, that tomorrow will be better, but he was too hungover to make it be, too rattled, too… something I couldn’t be bothered trying to figure out, and lent on a faith that I was too dishevelled to feel.
the prompt is simple, as the therapists replies to the man that admits that he is always scared by asking, “What are you scared of?”
use humour... say cats, or magpies in spring, or rolling my ankle.
lets start at honesty.
I am scared of this heart leaving its rib cage, in the brown eyes of my girlfriend, who closes them to fall asleep in a bed with sheets and covers that I didn’t know existed, but allow me to sleep and watch my dreams. The girl I have fallen in love with, who has created a life in the external world whilst I have been exploring my inner one, and all I have is the wisdom and perspective to alchemise the fear of losing her into gratitude for having her, knowing I never will, but she does want to dance with me, and we both have a say in the choreography, but have failed trying to control enough times to allow the moment to dictate the movement of the bodies, the surrender to the music.
I struggle to just say it. Because I do not know, and I scramble through this ink to try and find something, I hope to get out of my own way, to see myself, but… that three letter word, that is as indecisive as good is powerful, to see my own eyes, to see myself in the form of the tree that sways in the cold wind of Melbourne, the night breeze that has a smell you wouldn’t know unless you left it.
I am scared of the past, when I was happy, when I was in the moment, blindsided by everything I was blinded by, and I suffered enough to know I should have enjoyed it all whilst it was around, even enough wisdom to enjoy the pain, knowing that passes too, now I have a best friend who loves me, who I love, and the pressure makes diamonds, but I am a chunk of coal that may just crumble, who’s destiny was nothing but fuel for a train of thought.
I am scared of me, for all I have done to me.
well, let my characters interject, the ones I have allowed to grow within as the outside sheds. My characters say, “Riley, our vessel, stop pretending you are in control, something far more magical is, and that love you try and imprison to ensure it does not hurt you, can never be held captive, so let it consume you, rearrange you, reform you, implode you into stardust.”
Ok, character, I have no idea what you are on about…
What are you scared of? Reinstates the therapist.
You, I reply. You, and your ideas of what should be. The more you tell me, the more you do not understand, no one has yet, no one, and that is not because they weren’t correct, but there is a stubborn mule in my bones that will ensure you are not. My rebellion has kept me alive, and will happily kill us all to do so. There is no one we envy, so do not present a blue print, because there isn’t a shade other than black and white on that page. So please, I beg you, to not give me advice, do not tell me what I should do, do not tell me what is right, because I will do the opposite, just to keep my life mine.
but I love her, only love can tell me, only love knows, and no one knows love, as soon as you do, it becomes something else.
What are you scared of? This educated prick asks me again.
Death. I am scared of death, but I just drank a glass of wine and smoked a cigarette and the more I do the more the grim reaper seems to leave me alone. I have died plenty of times, I keep waking back up after it… but no, save the Bukowski bullshit, I am sorry therapist, I don’t want to waste your time even though it pays for that fancy car in the drive way, but I am scared of death, and not the coffin and funeral type, the type where a man instils fear in me because I walked the wrong way down a hallway with white lights, that has the smell of shit from the site shed toilets, because if that man does not like the way I comply, I will not be able to cover the interest rates on the loan that puts a roof over my babies head. And that baby, I really wanted to be a different father, I wanted to be a fun one, that asked the toddler questions about space and the personality of the tree in our backyard, that wasn’t in a rush to be no where, but at work, even though I one day knew it shouldn’t be, it has me, it has forced me to stop being present, because the presence is insufferable, and as much as I pretend to care about the way you have to care about things that no ones actually cares about, you just cant get in trouble, you just cant afford to lose this gig, you just cant wait to look at your phone when you get home, and watch the footy because something, there has to be something, there is a soul in there, but shut up for two seconds my child. Has anyone done it?
That is th death I am scared of, the death of the one with enough courage to dream for a life that is his.
Me here, the writer of this… I am asking the therapist, I hate that guy, because I think I am better than him, so why am I paying $150 an hour to talk to him, missus probably made me, because I keep pissing the bed when I drink too much and I don’t want her to leave me, because I have been alone and as much as I think that if I was alone without anything I would do nothing but create good art and write amazing novels, I just drank and pissed the bed. I don’t think I am a genius, but hoping my soul is, and my talents reside in letting that shine through, as much as the loss of control has caused ridicule, and made me lose everything I didn’t have the courage to walk away from, I have faith that the genius in pure consciousness that I will continue to allow shine through me, has the ability to not only put a roof over the head of a family, and food on the table, but a smile on their faces as they eat, and a shoulder to cry on when life does what it does to all of us.
God, I don’t ask for much, but let me pray for that, if that is okay?
Okay, back to this smug therapist who is more of an alcoholic than me, and who does coke, and everyone just leaves him alone because he is the therapist, whos wife does not ask questions because he does pay the bills, who’s children do not ask questions because all of his answers are predictable and therefore unbearable.
What else are you scared of? He asks.
thank you for repeatadly asking, I reply. Because the more you do the more I realise I am not. My faith, my gosh, its thicker than a doves neck. This writing of mine, my gosh, it instils so much courage and contentment, everything will be fine, but this writing, what a shame it is the only thing I have to show for it.
What are you scared of? I ask the therapist, to try and see myself, to try and see the other guy.
before you answer that, I say, where is the bathroom?
end of the hall on the left, he replies.
as I went to the toilet I left the story, back here, in my life. My girlfriend asleep, with Arnold, that beautiful dog, and I wanted to open the door, because there are cigarettes in my backpack on the floor, and I had my hand on the handle, and decided to go without, to not wake her, you see, little things like that is what makes me a true romantic. That feminine figure of glory I call my lady does give me a hard time in a few moments, but her judgment is only mine, in her silences I fill her brown eyes with everything I know, and the burden of being a women, instilled with pain by a mysogynistic god, the constant suffering, who can only love their children unconditionally, to prevent them giving birth to a remnant of a coward, who says I love you but, and I say, no buts… but, reality hits, and we need to pay the bills, and the paper I write on is worth less after I have. The burden of women is the responsibility of judgment, and with pain and that, they love in a way only a broken man ever could, so we break ourselves to feel it, but me, that is enough self infliction now, life promises enough, and I want to be good for her, because she deserves it, and I deserve to be someone she does. God bless.
I walk back into the therapist room now, he is crouched over staring at the carpet in a state of heavy contemplation.
Doc, I say.
What? He replies.
Doc, like doctor.
Okay.
What are you thinking about?
Your question.
What was my question?
What am I scared of.
Oh yeah… and?
When I was younger, I wanted to be a novelist. I wrote three quarters of four books. I drank heavily. I smoked. I did everything I could to observe consciousness from different positions. At 26 I was living in a stolen caravan on my second cousins property. I had not written a single word for eight months. Because of pain and drugs, I believed in god, and I asked it for more, two months later I was offered a job cleaning commission houses, that’s when I met Gemma, my wife. Her family took me in and there I lived as I studied. Gemma worked three jobs to support me, her parents and her two younger brothers. Now we live on a bit of land and her parents have a granny flat, her younger brothers both have good jobs and a young family themselves, they are doing well. I have three children who I love…
So, what are you scared of? I asked.
I am scared that I will ever be tricked by romance into believing the person living in a caravan with nothing to care for or about is better than the man I am today.
hmmmm I get it doc.
Do you? He asked.
as I went to answer, he told me that the time was up, I paid the bill and I left the story,
back to being me,
the writer,
as my beautiful girlfriend sleeps next to the dog,
her brown eyes closed as she dreams about the man I will be tomorrow,
as I sit here,
as the man I am tonight.
