Red Thirteen

It is that  time. Delicate emotional consideration is always necessary to be in the proper frame to revisit this project again. My annual thirteen-year dance, a tiring one. But as the music faintly begins to drone in the background within my head these days, the saltation with my keypad becomes as much my unique purpose as it always has been. I hear the wind playing a melancholy chorus through the brittle, broken, and bare limbs outside, a familiar song refrain presents itself. As if it somehow is aware of my timing. It continues on, approvingly.

The hidden hands of an annual clock have once again beckoned me to return. What began over a dozen years ago, is still as heart-piercing today as it ever was. In this case, time hasn’t changed a thing. I must not allow it to do so. The words not yet written are required to be as jagged as the others. An original life-script so carefully typed alongside my child’s hospital bed back then. Those days were surreal and raw. The thoughts I scribed, recounting vividly as my family cascaded down the waterfall of normalcy and happiness, into a pool of uncertainty and forever hesitation below.

There are some days when my written memories take on an entirely new scale of recounting and reflection. Always requiring quick action and attention. Today  has made itself known to be one of them. So here I sit alone, to pause briefly and gather, like so many other instances throughout the decade previous to this one. I venture back and relive it all over and over and over again. Each and every word, sentence, tone, paragraph, tenor, and chapter, will be scrubbed for intent to make absolutely certain they reflect all of those visceral episodes which took place some thirteen years ago, and beyond.

Trust me, it doesn’t get easier. This open wound never heals. I treat it and do my best to keep the infection at bay for as long as I can. But rapidly multiplying cells of emotional trauma course through these veins; I have found the only way to slow them is to tire them out. I let them flow freely for most of the year until a certain internal fortitude becomes my new identity. I embrace it when it happens. I must do so, knowing exactly when it has become the appropriate time. Thankfully, it is now.

I will face the battle again for most of the day and into the new week. Purposefully, the thoughts on my Mac will offer greater clarity and hopefully begin the final process of actually slaying the monster within. I am at fault fully for allowing it to gain so much power and strength over me. Most would readily accept the past and position themselves eagerly to move on. I simply have not been willing to do so; regretfully I saw too much. Horrors no parent should ever be exposed to. Visually disturbing images that attempted to become commonplace and desensitize me over time. I refused, but have carried them with me. Each and every one, for over 4800 continuous days.

Hopefully, with some certainty, a declaration of finality can soon be forthcoming. Though too, knowing it cannot be guaranteed. Yet, I see no explainable reason to haplessly pacify the images from yesterday which have been carved into my brain…any longer. They mustn’t have a place there anymore; they are not welcome.

Today I revisit and write more thoughtful anecdotes regarding our plight…again. Hopefully doing so on the heels of a final series of revisions to begin within the upcoming weeks. One last set of entries. One last reason to go there. It really needs to be. The aligned stars have beckoned; it is time to simultaneously say “goodbye” and “hello again”.

And so too, a meaningful journey shall unfold in the written form, fully known as…Stealing Home. When it does, it shall be presented for the entire world to experience just as we did.

Excerpt from the forthcoming novel:

“Whoever said the destiny of a man must be determined by the journey of his past? For me, I’ve subscribed to this way of thinking for far too long. It is time to break free from the binding emotional chains which have dripped with the vivid red blood of my son’s childhood trauma. The story has to end, it simply must after thirteen painfully long years.”

It is time. It just has to be.

Cheers…A

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6 replies
  1. Aric H. Morrison
    Aric H. Morrison says:

    Subscribe to these blogs. If you enjoy them, tell your friends and ask them to do the same! Together, we are building a wonderful community of like-minded, thoughtful, and supportive individuals. Feel free to leave a comment too.
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  2. Cal Bobbe
    Cal Bobbe says:

    Pretty nice post. I just stumbled upon your blog and wished to say that I have really enjoyed surfing around your blog posts. In any case I will be subscribing to your rss feed and I hope you write again soon!

    Reply
  3. Karen Cunningham
    Karen Cunningham says:

    Aric, I cannot wait until the next book comes out! My friend turned me on to your blogs and then I bought the book. You might recognize the name from the sale. Anyways, I love the stuff you are doing. Hope to meet you someday in person.

    Reply
  4. Anne
    Anne says:

    The journey continues, but the story never ends, does it? The finality of the ending of a story brings about the ending of the joy as well as the pain–both will continue to exist in life’s journey, unfortunately. Reflection on the past offers acknowledgement, which in my mind takes away some of the power of pain whereas denying past pain actually intensifies it, causing it to constantly simmer under the surface. Keep blogging, keep inspiring, keep prompting deep thoughts…
    A

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