He stood on the hill, looking at the object of his quest in the valley below. He was tall, road weary and tanned. His body hard from his struggle to rise and meet this challenge. It had been a difficult journey, but now he was here, on the verge of paradise.

He had been told as a boy of the fabled city, dedicated to Aphrodite, and the treasures it held. He had decided at at a rather young and brash age, that he would find that city and make it's treasures his own. It was then that the training began.

Daily he would train. He would use his imagination, trying to imagine the privation of the road and journey, to help him prepare. He would practice swordplay, strengthening his grasp. He would practice the art of persuasion, sharpening his tongue. He would practice defense and camouflage, so as to hide from his enemies and surprise his prey. He would practice his spells, testing his resolve. He would pound his body, building himself up through self abuse. He would do without food or drink, bringing definition to his senses and tastes. Daily he would train, until the day came for him to leave his home and strike out against the world.

He found many cities on the road. Some filled with rogues and turncoats that neither satisfied nor filled him. He found cities full of earthly delights, but found them to be shallow and thinly disguised ugliness. He found cities of gold and silver, but found the flash to be nothing more than vanity. He found cities long forgotten and was tempted by the refuge they offered, but travelled onward.

The road was cold, it was hot. It was starvation and danger. The road provided many things he needed, but not direction. And still he travelled, searching for clues. Looking for answers and hopes. Mountains, valleys, lush forests and deserts saw him pass through on his quest.

It was the sister mountains that gave him his first hope. He had spotted them from afar and remembered what the old men had said of the legend. The sister range was the first sign, the entrance by which you must pass, if ever the city you would hope to reach. He found them as they had been described. Full of life and bearing fruit he'd never seen. The fruit was beautiful, smooth in taste and nourishing. He imagined correctly that many a man could lose himself here and never quest forward. With anguish in his heart, he pressed on and left the mountains behind.

The plains below were equally as fertile as the mountains. Crystal clear rivers, gently rolling hills and warm sunshine. An Eden of soft grasses and refreshing breezes. He strolled through the pastures and fields slowly, savoring every moment. Here too, a man could lose his vision and his quest. No one would think any such man a fool, for only a fool would leave such a place.

Weeks past. And he was well. He felt replenished and whole; satisfied and with an inner calm that had never before graced his mind. In the distance he spotted another range of weather worn hills with a forested valley below. It was here, he felt, he knew, that his quest would take him. And he pushed on, strong, powerful after the long road.

He stood on the hill, looking at the object of his quest below. The forest, glade really, surrounded the city. It was like no city he'd seen previously. It took his breath away to behold this vision, this object so long sought, this hope, this dream made real. He prepared himself, for he did not know what defenses the city had. Would the city welcome him, or deny him? Would the city let loose beasts and terrors to devour him and deny him his goal?

The sentry post passed, and no alarm was raised. The birds were singing in the forest. Joy and peace emanated form the landscape. Even the rivers and streams reflected pure life and seemed to revel in themselves. He was unafraid and yet terrified. Tension ran through him, building his anticipation, while strengthening his resolve. And then he saw what he could not believe. The gates were opening, calling him in, welcoming him.

He could not know, he did not know, at that moment what the future held for him. He passed through the gates and into the city. Ready to accept his future, ready to accept his fate. Joy, peace, passion accomplished, and fulfillment are the last we see of him as he enters his dream.

Welcome home. Well, welcome to my home. This is commonly called the Challenger Deep and is 35,840 feet below sea level. At this depth, that is almost 8 tons of pressure per square inch. This is a metaphor. Admittedly it is not much of a metaphor, and if you will excuse the pun, it is rather shallow. Oh yes, how brilliant indeed, the ocean is a deep place, with pressure yet, and you're gonna use it as a metaphor for the pressure you feel every day. Brilliant, I say! If you're a nutter.

So, enough with the metaphor. Life sucks, or is crushing, or is filled with unbearable pressure, or whatever other little complaint I can come up with when I am feeling miserable. But it does go on, doesn't it. Whether you want it to or not. And there have been a lot of nots lately, right? Anyway, I see myself in a box, which would be another friggin' metaphor! Apparently, the box I am in is the box of never ending pointless metaphors. Each more juvenile than the last.

Gotta go, before I hurt myself on another metaphor. Makes me wonder why I put this babbling BS to virtual ink. Again, PPP

What's wrong with me?

Today I got a purple bracelet/band from someone I work with that said AComplaintFreeWorld.org. My first reaction? This is Pollyanna/New Age-ish B.S. What kind of reaction is that for a basically good idea to try to get people to stop complaining so much? I know that a decrease in complaining can help foster a more positive mental attitude and outlook. Needles to say, but saying it anyway, my first reaction was poor. Do I complain too much? I try to keep it to myself a lot, except for a few people I kinda trust. Most of the time, I get the sense that people don't really care about what you are complaining about or going through. False sentimentality and fell-good pablum psychobabble are infuriating. I should know, I dispense it by the truckload. ( at least that's how I feel sometimes) Sometimes I buy the crap that I am selling and it seems to work for awhile. Too bad it doesn't come with a money-back guarantee. The again, what does?

I imagine myself stuck in a hole and I am struggling to climb out. I sometimes get very tired of climbing and stop. Cold. Sometimes I think I am not so much climbing, because the exit doesn't get any closer, as much as there is someone underneath digging like hell to make the hole deeper. And contrary to popular opinion, I don't think it is me doing the digging. I am in one of those moods today. Tired of climbing, I don't see the point anymore. What, after all, is there of a foreseeable future for me? Getting up, coming to work, going home, repeat. Wash rinse and repeat. The secret of life was apparently hidden on the back of the shampoo bottle all this time.

So, am I complaining too much? Is it complaining to review your situation? Wife who doesn't love me and would rather be anywhere else - and anyone else - and may already. Check. Involuntary virgin status. Check. Unruly adult man-child who berates me and projects all of his ills on me. Check. Finances in the toilet. Check. Job sucked dry of any joy. Check. Feeling burned out and dreading coming to work. Check. Office managers who behave as if they want you gone, fired, forced out, or otherwise removed. Check. An employer that chastises you for not appearing supportive of the office manager with one hand while the other hand pulls the supports out from under you. Check. Institutional VP's going behind your back to find any dirt, and when they can't making ad hominem attacks about your character. Check. Plenty more to check, but you get the point.

The road stretches forward, I keep on walking, but I don't really know why. I have become the most pathetic thing I know. And not in anyway that deserves any sympathy or empathy. More of an object of morbid curiosity. Weak in spirit, mind, reserve, strength, character, drive, hope, faith.... Plain old PPP

Close your eyes and try to relax.
Good.
Unclench your jaw and relax your toes.
Good.
Breathe, softly and slowly.
Good.
Relax your shoulders and let go.
Good.
Now, wait....

The scent of salt air comes uninvited to your senses. The barest outline of a door can be seen behind closed eyes. Soft, gently breaking waves pull you forward.

Wait, you are almost there.
Good.
Now open the door...

The world is cast in dim aquamarine gliding light. It is as if you've stepped into an aquarium. The salt air is heavier, but not overwhelming. The waves are just as your ears imagined. The call of gulls under the water a welcome aural accent piece.

Look around and tell me what you see.

A beach of pure white sand perhaps fifty yards across, leading from a smooth rocky ground to the sea. The rocky surface soon gives way to a tropical forest rising up the mountain and into the water, the top unseen. A Stone bridge connects two outcroppings of rock, both two to three stories tall. The one, surrounded by forest is rough and natural. The other, by the beach is smooth, carved out to make a home. Comfortable looking couches and chairs, tables full of fruit, and soft light can be seen in the seaside rock.

Good.
What else do you see?

The sea stretches forever. No other land is visible. The sea is gently rolling, no whitecaps or large waves. Fish are jumping - the smallest are man sized. They provide a backdrop of gentle arcs and curves as they leap and fly through the air. Water pours out of the sky like a reverse waterfall and sounds like a brief but intense rain. The ghostly for of a reef can be seen at some small distance from the shore. And between here and there, colorful fish of every variety, shape, and size. A pointillist seascape, ever changing. A child's kaleidoscope; beautiful chaos.

Notice the sky.

The sky is a soothing blue, bright lights flashing through its depth. White bellied fish dot the sky. The gulls circle beneath the sky and call out to each other. The sky, beginning less than a thousand feet up from the seaside, is water. Light shines through the water, speaking to its shallowness, and gives the beach that aquarium look. It is every bit as awe inspiring and beautiful as it is impossible.

And what do you feel here?

Safe, relaxed. Peaceful. At ease. Humble. Amazed. Tranquil. At home, at last...

Good.

I glanced back, briefly. Hesitation? I lifted my hand and looked at it as I drifted back and finally into the sea. Slowly sinking, I could feel the weight of my existence pulling me down. This then is my journey.

The colors are brilliant and their forms peaceful. I know there is an underlying violence here as fish defend their small bit of coral; as one living thing devours another, but it doesn't matter. The beauty is the thing. It is relaxing to the mind and soul. The gentle pull of the tides pushing fans back and forth, the fish schooling and swimming in mad shapes, the corals waving to the sea horses passing through. The sounds are muted and distinct at the same time. A contradiction made possible by the sea. Parrot fish crunching as the surface sounds fade.

One by one, the colors fade. Red abandons me, followed by orange and yellow. Greens fade into blues and I am left with violet. The mid level blues surround me as I sink deeper. The veneer of coral gaiety is replaced by the growing mass of the fish. Small becomes large and many grow fewer. The choices in the middle are bigger than when I was in the shallows, but they are less diverse. Sharks and predators glide by; barracuda above, hiding in the last glare of the sun. The gabbing eels, running their mouths, hide in their homes.

There is a sense of peace as I move on. Free floating and sinking, almost blind. Strange creatures, caricatures of earlier beings flash across my view. They are more specialized, they are the survivors. They can handle the dark, chilly depths of life. But they are grotesque and menacing. The crush of the sea is unbearable, and yet the sense remains that I am going where I am supposed to go. Am I wrong in this assessment? Have I simply chosen to spread my arms wide and accept the downward crush of life and its medium, the sea?

Bottom. And life reverts to its simplest forms. Infantile appearing worms and tubular creatures. Is this what is meant by the circle of life? Not really a circle, but a return to infancy the deeper we go? Choices and diversity are scarce. Life here is cold, barren, crushed. As I lay in the dust, remembering where I've been, I thought of just your face.