55: Sister

The bike, the chair, the Sister, assorted accoutrements, and a dog named Trail: these will be the contents of our convoy in a mere handful of hours.

Years ago she moved away. I hope she’s found what she needs, because what I really need is her, within sharing-a-beer distance.

My best friend is coming home.

55: The Love of the Beautiful

Image credit: This is kind of gross.

When I was done, I smiled and looked at my work. The detail was exquisite: every finely crafted wheel and cog shone brilliantly as it turned. I carefully wound the spring and held my creation aloft, and it lit gently into the air, fluttering on rice paper wings.

“Strength,” I said, “is an earthly monster.”
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FFF-55 Vol. LX. Tell a story in exactly fifty-five words. Go see G-Man. An ode to Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Artist of the Beautiful, a short story that changed my life. (Also relevent: A Life Without Beauty.)

Chained

Image credit

I like to call it incomplete despair: I’m not exactly hitting bottom here, but my ass is sure dragging. The weight atop and the sludge below grind together and mash me into a human stew of emotional insolvency. Duty pulls me forward on a pointed hook fitted through a bloody hole, ensuring the only way I’ll ever really sink is if I break the towline and therefore lose any means of ever ascending again.

There is a light, some days, that I follow. Hope doesn't necessarily lift me, but seems to clear the waters, keeping alive a dream that I will emerge, in time, a Better Man. I know my foundation is true, but I doubt my course, and fear for my future, and given the example I’m setting, the futures of those I love.

I know it is not for naught, but I mourn the lost days, knowing when I finally stand free I’ll wish I’d acted years earlier. If only I knew what to do, I might even do it today. If only… but these chains are hard to break, especially considering I still have yet to understand them. Link by link, I must get through it. I owe this to myself and the people I love.