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.

Sitting, thinking, gazing out....I lay my head back and my hand stretches out to touch the window. Softly flowing through the window my fingers graze the bench. Warm and rough and plastic wood. A thousand McLunches melted into my hand and out. The weeping branches of the next door shrub prickle inside my veins. The sadly smiling leaves clean the capillaries and soak the poison dust of life. The hot air sun surface of the ground pulls me through and down. Worm kings vie for lunch at my passing and out into the dawn. I burst free concrete and asphalt hair and denim cloth my seared clean soul. I can feel it build to a radiant pulse, quark, muons, gluons and gamma force me to disintegrate. And now..."Sir, the clerk will see you now. Have a nice Day!" Thanks, I whisper, the touch of the sun still on my fingers.

One question.
One singularly infinite question. Or is it an infinitely singular question. Or maybe the shear repetitiveness of the questions shows up its inane nature. That one question...What is the point?

I don't think I know the answer anymore, if I ever did.

I suppose you could respond with, "Of what?" And I would have to volley the ball back to your court with, "of anything." You name it, what is the point? Kids, life, jobs, trying to feel happy, writing this, anything. What's the point. To fulfill some biologic imperative to roll the DNA dice so that "life" can go on?? To achieve immortality through your children in the form of memory and chemical messengers?? To get some thrill out of a squirt of dopamine or some other neurotransmitter?? What's the point of it all?

The days become a blur, and I grow weary. I didn't think that my week long getaway would turn into this, and if I ever get home I won't be using a cheap travel agent again. The days have few changes - there is the free food and shelter, the nightly terrors, and the sacrifices. With each one my chest hurts more and more; my heart burns in empathy.
I found some ancient writings. They are difficult to understand and I have to puzzle through them. Whenever I think I have made some progress, I only come to realize the depth of my ignorance. The writings seem to point to some way out, to a different temple full of wonder and peace. I wish I knew who left this and why. I wish I knew who or what was making the sacrifices. I was only glad that they had yet to find me.
I don't know how long it's been. I don't know how long I can last here. Too afraid to leave, tired of being in this Temple Clearing, I don't know what to do any more. I have finally learned who is making the sacrifices. And that knowledge scares me even more...

As I sat alone in the metaphoric darkness of the temple grounds, I wanted to end it all. I desperately wanted to end my life, while knowing I would not. I had been searching the temple, my home, for some clues about its existence and purpose. At last, I'd found some writings on the alter, in a script that took me months to begin to decipher. I puzzled over the writings each day, with the pain of each days sacrifice burning next to me. These were harder to understand than the ancient text I'd earlier discover, and they consumed me.

Give to me your heart, Innocence in blood and spirit, Give to me your heart with each day you breathe, Renew in each dawning, That which you give, Give to me your heart and I will be yours, Give to me freely and I will be your reward, Pleasure and bliss, Joy without measure, Give to me your heart, And mine I will give to you.

I stared at what I had deciphered, not knowing what to think. That was when it hit me. The world, it seems is full of bitter surprises. Funny thing, in a not-so-funny way, is that the surprises are never really surprises. They are the kind of surprise you get when you order something, forget about it, then see that the postman has left it on the doorstep. You always knew about it, but for the briefest of moments, you are surprised to see it. That is how it hit me, like the postman bringing the tax summons that I always knew was coming. I pulled open my shirt and saw the proof. Scars. Dozens, hundreds of scars across the left side of my chest. The screams in the night were my own. The sound of bones splitting and flesh ripping were of my doing. It was my heart I was sacrificing, nightly, upon this alter to a false god.
There was no pleasure, bliss or joy without measure. I was sacrificing in impotence, getting nothing in return. This temple's god was deaf, didn't care, or was too busy rewarding others. And I felt, without much surprise, empty.
And I still sit there now, wondering what to do - how to escape. I have done some minor cleaning of one of the other temples, just to see what it held. I have stopped going to sleep in my dark temple room; there is no need. Nightly, I sacrifice my heart as I seem powerless to stop myself. The ancient text is all but forgotten, though I still have some hope that what it contains is the truth. Forget me now for there is nothing you can do. Only heed my example, and don't sacrifice yourself in impotence and in vain.

The travel brochure was not the most accurate. It had details, or rather generalities masquerading as details, about the woods. Once I'd decided to go, there was nothing to do but go. Admittedly, I tried to back out a couple of times, but in the end, it was off on my journey. The thing about travel brochures, it's not what they say that is important. It's what they don't say. Like how they tell you that you will have a local tour guide, but fail to tell you that he'll whack you on the head at his earliest convenience and leave you for dead. In a place you didn't want to be. Without any hope. I guess you get what you pay for, and life is a free admission (for the one entering life), but the pay as you go aspect of life, that can get expensive. I am getting ahead of myself.
I'd wanted to see the scenery, the sights, the vistas of the world. The great conifer and broad leaf forests, the ancient ruins and temples to pagan gods. I wanted to see the castles of old and imagine their heroes. Oh, I got all of that, but not in the way I'd expected. Another beautiful quality of life really - expect one thing and get another. Like the tour guide I guess. What I got was not serene and pastoral; what I got was Mordor on a bad day, on a vengefully bad day.
I woke in the middle of the forest with a splitting head ache and a matching split head. This forest, lets call it the forest of stark reality, was grim. The light was blocked by the canopy from Toldyaso's and the Neverknewthat's. The sickly perfumes of the Siren Flowers and the budding Betraya Trees clogged the air and twisted my stomach. The delicate Forget-me-nots were being choked by the vines of the Forgotchas. The path was blocked at every turn by the thorny Phkya, tearing and ripping my legs and body as I walked. It was with some relief then, that I found the clearing.
Relief is a funny thing. Totally relative to your situation, it is. (Great, now I'm talking like Yoda) Say for instance, you are standing in a furnace. It is certainly a relief to step out of the furnace, even if you step into a cloudless 130 degree day. Relative. The clearing was a relief in that relative sort of way. The clearing held a couple small temples and a larger central one. It was obvious that no one prayed at the smaller temples, as they were overgrown and weedy. This will sound strange, since I just described the smaller temples as unused, but they had a clean feel to them. I can't describe it any better than that and you'll just have to trust me on this. The larger temple, that did not feel clean. You could tell it was well tended and in use. By who, I wasn't sure when I first saw it.
In a wood as gloomy as this, night is a difficult thing to judge. Degrees of grey turning to black is your first clue. Screeches, moans, howls and the cries of the night are the last clues you'll get. Seeing nowhere else, I sought refuge in the largest of the three...

I found a room. It was cold, dark and not particularly comfortable. But at least it was out of the elements and provided a relative safety from the night predators. The room is windowless and door-less. The winding passage into the interior of the temple and to my room was sufficiently twisted enough to eliminate the possibility of light. It was here that I was to make my home.

Whispers in the night, calling. "Follow me," "Come this way," "Leave this temple and you will find another." On and on they called, whispered, begged and cajoled. I slept in fits, afraid of what might happen. I heard scratches in the night, like a saw on bone. Screams and pleading voices resonated through the walls until day.
I don't really know how I knew it was day, except for the silence. I felt my way back through the passage until I was outside again. Oddly enough, there was food on the ground. I had ceased to be surprised by what ever happened here, and I guess I just took it for granted when I walked out into the far from blinding light and found ready to eat food. It was tasty and filling. I had the impression that there was more of it about than I was able to find, but I don't know why.
The temple, my safe haven in this wood, was beautiful. All the temples were, but this one was well cared for. The stone was polished and shone, reflecting my image in granite pools of color. The temple was large, as I've said, and there was a central stairway to the alter. Something like a Mayan ruin, I suppose. And at the top, my morning fell into despair.
There was blood on the alter, fresh blood. And remains. The remains of a burnt offering, of what looked like a human heart. Just looking at it made my heart hurt, my chest ache. Who could do such a thing? Who could take a life and destroy it, just to pray to some sort of false god? And why didn't they find me, hidden in their temple?

The corridor was dark and I felt as if I was blind. Of course, you don't have to be blind to be unable to see where you are going. I can look back, in my minds eye, and see how I'd arrived here. And yet, I had no idea how I'd come to be in this place. I could eventually make out some features of the corridor, and all I could see where doors. Not wanting to stand still in my darkness, I tried the first door. I will tell you, all the rooms looked like they were built on the same model - square. No fancy furnishings, no decorations, just small square rooms with single occupants.

The first room held a child, but one whose eyes were dark and full of malice. "You promised it wouldn't be this way!" "You promised things would work out differently!" The promise of youth facing the reality of the adult world and screaming impotently against all that had been promised. The eyes of my childhood saw so much promise in life, so much opportunity. Until they were darkened and clouded over by reality. I shut the door, aching with memory. How much had I hoped for; how much had I dreamed; how much had I thought possible? Fulfillment, white picket fences, happily ever after; rubbish now and filling those young eyes with disgust at ever having allowed himself to be deceived.

I opened the next door. A man stood still in the center of the room, looking a bit like Munch's Scream. Looking around, he seemed to be surrounded by hundreds of people, all laughing and joking. They were smiling, drinking and generally carrying on like most party goers. Until they walked right through the man. They seemed not to see or notice. He was nothing to them. He stayed quiet, and I could see in his eyes that he'd given up trying to make himself heard or seen. He was loneliness personified. In a room crowded with life, he was a nothing, a nobody to be ignored and walked through. He just looked at me, his face changing not a bit when I closed his door.

The next door held a skinny man at a feast. He ate and ate, never stopping to notice my arrival. He was small and barely visible behind the roast duck. No matter how I moved to get a better look, he'd unconsciously dodge behind some other pile of food - squash and fresh fruit, puddings and cakes, ham and cheeses, on and on. I caught one glimpse of his eyes and he was scared. Scared he'd be noticed, scared he'd be seem for who he really is, scared to enjoy what was right in front of him. I shut him back in his room, saddened.

The penultimate door held a chair, upon which rested a card. It was a tarot card, I think, and looked like the Lovers. I picked it up, but the image was indistinct and looked as if it was covered in dust. I foolishly blew the dust. It swelled up from the card and covered everything in the room, including me. I could taste it, smell it, and it changed the way I saw the world. I left, afraid of what I'd done. I had the sense that from now on, everything I saw, tasted, smelled, or touched would be tainted by this dust; that I could never get it out of my system. It had a strange addicting quality, at one time making you feel good and making you regret having it cover your life.

The last door, and I was out. But with no clearer of an understanding of where I was. A strange waking nightmare of an experience. I will journey on and follow my path, not knowing where it leads and having no clear direction. It seems obvious to me now, but I didn't realize it at the time. Perhaps feeling blinded by the dark I had failed to make the connection, but all the faces behind the doors, they were mine.

OK, I'd said I would give his idea a try. It sounded good, all those possibilities laying at my feet. I looked at him and wondered if he was pulling something over my eyes, but I reached down anyway. I straightened up and looked at what I'd grabbed. A sea urchin, and a dead one at that. The next thought that registered was the pain of one of its spines sticking out of my hand. I looked at him, pleading for him to do something as he reached up to remove the urchin. Don't forget, that although there are millions of possibilities laying there at your feet, there are also dangers. The world is not perfect, he reminded me. Nor should any metaphor. You have to be aware of where you are and what is at your feet and not blindly grab at the first thing you feel - you might get stung. The pebbles and possibilities are still there, but watch out for the traps and dangers laying around as well. Be choosy about what you are after and reduce your risk of injury. But don't be too afraid of hurting yourself, or else you'll never reach out in the first place and you miss even the most elemental of possibilities. Why, I wondered, couldn't he have told me to watch out before I got stuck. He seemed to know what I was thinking, but only smiled that enigmatic grin of his and walked on.

This Gordon Lightfoot song pretty much says how I feel much of the time. Never a big fan of Gordon Lightfoot, but he hit this one on the head.

Look at it this way, he said. Each pebble or stone on the beach is a potential, a possibility. You crush dozens under your feet every time you take a step. Some may cause you to stumble or twist your ankle. Others come large as boulders and can either block your way or can, once surmounted, provide a better view of the landscape. All these pebbles, they look different - different colors, shapes and textures. You never know which are gonna be good or bad until you lift 'em up and take a look at them. Some you toss some away and they go plunk in the water. Others skip across the water and you say to yourself that you wish you could find another like it 'cause it skipped so well and made you happy. But the point is, really, that all these possibilities are just lying at your feet, ready to be picked up. And they've been here waitin' for you. God put them here ages ago, knowing you were goin' to be walking by someday, and that you would need them.

Sometimes an errant phrase will just pop into my mind and will set up camp. I can't shake the thought or ignore it. I am not talking about all the navel gazingly negatives I have been dwelling on, but rather truly random thoughts or images put to words. I cannot ignore them; I often have just as much trouble growing them further.

The leaf green trees bend in the wind

Where do these things come from? Sometimes they grab hold and refuse to let go, keeping me from thinking other things. Sometimes they sound good the first time, and the second time they stink. Sometimes the good ones come and go so fast I can barely remember them. I try to reconstruct them later, but usually without success.

Twisted toes and twinkling twilight makes me smile into the night

The tone varies from idiocy to depressive to barely literate middle school prose. You will have to be the judge, as I have lost perspective for most of this. I guess I will just have to keep listening for them and write them down, hoping for a gem. But like all gems, the quality ones will be very rare, and typically not on display is a piece of fluff.

Farnot and Eve point the way. Waving and saying goodbye.

I can understand why people drink, smoke pot, do crack - at least those that do it to forget or use it as a salve. I have never used - never. I know it is hard to believe, but I haven't used any drugs and I rarely drink alcohol. But it is an easy escape and I wish sometimes that I could take it. Culturally, everyone say it is OK. But I know it is not - I have seen the results. Still, I can understand the temptation.

I thought of making two lists. Things I deserve, and things I don't think I will have. The things I deserve include love, tenderness, romance, walks on the beach (yes, I have a very definite feminine side), laughing with someone special, flirty looks with someone I love, to hold the hand of someone special, hugs, kisses, companionship, cuddling (feminine side!), to be adored, support, forgiveness, a shoulder to cry on, someone to share my life with, someone to share my heart with who will appreciate it, hope, peace, someone to tell me I can make it, someone to remind me of my strengths, someone to remind me to work on my weaknesses, a smile in the morning, the guilty pleasure of watching the person you love laugh & sleep & breath & smile & eat & think, someone to argue with that will still love me when its over, someone.

The second list, the things I don't think I will have is, as it turns out, the same as the first list.

Warning:Mass Confusion Ahead

How can I express the anguish, panic, pain, frustration and fear I feel if I can't explain why I feel that way. I don't want to explain because of , what, pride or respect or I simply don't know. A part of me has been torn and for the first time I don't know if I can fix it. I don't know where to turn or what to say. I have gotten through so much and now to be confronted with something I had already known - NOW I'M THROWN FOR A LOOP????! How was I able to deal with the images, the betrayal, the loss of self image, the f ' ing situation before and not now? I just want this to be done and in the past. God, please take this from my mind and help me forgive! Help me get passed! Help me, PLEASE!

Take this burden and this pain of the spirit and so me how to forgive. Show me how to move forward toward YOU and your grace. Take these images from my head and purify my spirit. Protect me from this attack - I cannot do this....

God, I need your grace. I need the peace of Christ to wash over me. Forgive me for having these thoughts and doubts.

God, please..................................................................................................................................

Being confronted with something that you've "known" to be true can be devastating. While simply "knowing" it can provide grief and pain, the truth of it, when fully understood can wreck you. I have "known" some things for some time now, but those things were brought from my fevered imagination of "knowing" to the full light of day recently. And I regret ever having "known" - then or now.

On to a different, yet equally morbid, topic: nightmares. I have never been one to have many nightmares. In fact, I can still remember 2 of my worst. The first I define as a nightmare simply because it was boring. It was as a child and I had just watched a TV show that involved Chinese labor in railroads and mines. The whole nightmare consisted of row upon row of workers going back and forth with picks and loads of dirt. I can remember wishing I could get out of the dream. The second - which I have had on more than one occasion - involved my dorm in college. I was in my room when the radio changed channels on its own. As I walked over I began to be pulled down through the floor and into Hell. I have rarely felt so frightened.

Recently, I have had several dreams that I would consider nightmare and have woken from them scared, demoralized and depressed. They involved my wife.

The first was generally about her making me look like a bad parent in order to get the kids in court. I cannot stress enough that this was a dream - she HAS NOT made any effort to make me look bad in any context in regard to the kids. The second dream involved her trying to convince me that an affair was over while secretly going on with it behind my back. To the best of my knowledge, this too is just a dream and not a reality. Nightmares. Demoralizing and depressing and a reflection of my stress and worries. I hope to leave these in the realm of dreams and I will work to keep myself from dragging my fears into the waking world.

In honor of 43 years, here is a website I found: http://www.43things.com/

I just realized that life is a fan of Blondie. How else to explain life constantly singing:

One way or another I'm gonna find ya
I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha...