Wraith

“Men in general are incapable of philosophy, and are therefore at enmity with the philosopher; but their misunderstanding of him is unavoidable: for they have never seen him as he truly is in his own image; they are only acquainted with artificial systems possessing no native force of truth– words which admit of many applications.” —Plato, The Republic

I've been battling hopelessness and loneliness recently, and I'll attribute my distance from writing to that ghastly thing. It's a strange condition, something between feeling like one has never been born, and something trained folks scribble down as "clinical depression."

You may have seen me recently, or maybe you haven't, but it doesn't make any difference what I looked like, how I seemed, or what I may have posted on social media. The reality is that something is missing from my life. I know what it is—that's not the issue. It's acquiring said thing that is the problem. In short, I'm looking for a specific type of adventure. It isn't traveling, a grand career change, and it isn’t a venture that requires a million dollars to get started.

The adventure I'm looking for comes from detachment. I know that seems odd, maybe even counterintuitive since I just mentioned feeling lonely, but the certain type of pain I'm looking for is cut from a masochistic cloth; one that I used to wear every single day.

See, there was a time when I didn't care about anything—the place I lived, the job I had. Those were almost disposable to me. If I was asked to leave an apartment or happened to be fired from a job, it didn't matter because a guy with no debts and even less cares is a tough thing to stamp out. My only function back then was sticking my face into the world (typically in bars), to drink, make conversation with strangers or bartenders, and piling up a good and fat tab. I try to always tip well, so I was happily welcomed back to those places I'd frequent. That put a smile on my face—that people knew me. These bars were typically darkened rooms, complimented by incandescent lighting, which was comforting, never intrusive. There was just enough of it to cast favorable shadows on people’s faces, and into the corners of the places where families sat in booths. Their chatter couldn’t be deciphered, it was always a soft rumble.

Couples came in and out as the hours passed, often sauntering up next to me. They’d eat, make their own conversation, and then leave without ever really noticing I was there. And it was in those solitary moments deep in my own head that I was brimming. All of those people surrounding; how structured they were, how doomed, and how so unlike me they seemed. I was free to watch a baseball or a rugby match, free to order beer, booze—maybe never eat a single thing. The night was mine, and mine alone, and I was a believer in the fates. What would the next place be? What did the night have in store? Who might I meet?

I'd step out of the bar following almost every single beer to smoke cigarettes, watching other people coming and going, over and over. Parents, children, and elderly folks were out for a quick bite before the sun went down. Teens passed occasionally with their skateboards and backpacks, as oblivious to me as they were their poor fashion choices. They'd come to regret those someday (we all do).

And speaking of fashion, these were the times when I would don my black coat that I'm so fond of mentioning, along with a black v-neck t-shirt, dark colored jeans and black boots. I'd spend the hour before the bar opened at my house getting ready (there was excitement in that as well). Showering, trimming the beard, and pasting up my hair was paramount. All of those days, the hair on my chin was graying (too slow for me to notice), and the wrinkles were forming around my eyes. I was getting older, losing time, and enjoying that god damned adventure—the one I failed to realize was slipping through my fingers with every tick of the clock.

And it did go, into someone else's hands, I'm sure of it.

Nowadays, I make my home elsewhere, no longer downtown. I do love where I live, but there's not a ton going on. However, ther is far more time for examination of gray hair and ridicule of the crow's feet I’m unable to stop. I don't put paste in my hair anymore on Saturday morning. Oh, the bar still opens at eleven, but I'm not going to make it this time. I'm too busy smearing colloidal oat cream on my face and plucking hair from my ears.

This blog always seems to become a dumping ground for the days gone by, and maybe I am obsessed with the past. I suppose I could learn to move on and live my life in the present, if I knew how. Except I don't. The only thing I seem to be able to cling to is the idea that there might be a way back to adventure. And if I was delusional before, it seems certain that I’d be able to find a way back—telling myself things that aren't based in reality. For instance, as I write this, the sun is falling behind the fence in my backyard. The den, where I'm sitting, is almost completely dark, and out the window and over the hill is a blended sky of blue, white, and a saturated orange. Nightfall is coming, and somewhere, there's a bunch of people that don't have to work tomorrow. Sure, it's Wednesday, but they're out there.

I could go find them. My black coat is only upstairs. Funny, that old wool is falling apart these days as well. I lost a button in Vermont months ago, and there is a phantom lint that seems to find my shoulders only minutes after I’ve removed the coat from its plastic dry-cleaning bag. There’s a metaphor somewhere in here. Something about the frailty of life, the breakdown of fibers, and the long string of cobwebs dangling in the closet like the pillars of creation, in miniature.

I could go out. The pub-crawlers wouldn't know who I was, and I swear there is thrill in that. I can be whoever I want to be, tell stories of both fiction and non, all while blurring the lines of both. There’s a good buzz to be had in all of that, and when I’ve had enough, my smartphone makes it easy to request an Uber.

I don't want to be old, more-so, I don't want to be irrelevant. It scares the shit out of me. I've always adored having people interested in what I was doing, even if that interest was disingenuous. I was always happy handing over the co-pay to my therapist—knowing there was an entire hour to go on and on about my life which, at that time, felt chaotic and terrifying. These days, I'm uncertain about whether or not I prefer chaos over complacency, but I am not confused about which one I've set up for myself here in New Hampshire.

I am a normal, forgotten man living in a normal, forgotten life. Lauren cares for me and I love my dog, but I do fear that the nights I played the wraith are over.