A white, blank Page...

It's amazing how songs can haunt you. Prophetic tones being strummed from the strings, nestling in the back of your mind, bedding down at the base of your spine. Maybe that's what draws us to certain songs, ones we never thought of why we loved them, except for when events come to pass.

I've been haunted, terrorized, shadowed by these songs for the past year. I remember as soon as I cut my hair, I stepped into my car, and found "This Year" playing on my iPod. My resolve grew stronger. Big changes ahead.

I remember hearing "White Blank Page" after Herr Bendickson graced me with the knowledge of the band. It seemed so tragic, so beautifully mysterious, as to how someone could feel so strongly, be burned so thoroughly, to write such a song.

"Love, Love, Love," dedicated to the fools and the miracle workers. The sacrifices for fame and self. How apt it was, that someone found beauty in a bullet, and penned a gut wrenching song from its (pun) impact.

"Liebe ist für alle da," ach, nicht für mich, aber ich sah es klar. Es war warm, aber mein Herz ist kalt bekommen.

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All strike true.

All well before their time.

I remember the drives, either by myself or with company, and these songs kept striking a chord with my veins, driving my blood through them rampantly.

But it's all with clarity that I now stand here next to the twisted, fiery heap. The flames lick up towards a dark, moonless sky. There may be no smoke, but there is indeed a fire. It crept up on me during the cold, cold winter, keeping me warm with its eerie glow and crackling fuel. I watched it slowly scoot along the ground, inching its way up to me. It's sad how you can never run fast enough in horror films. And unfortunately, I wasn't the protagonist, yet again.

But my heap of trash sits alongside a long block of sandstone, perfectly cut and shaped and raised off of the ground. It sits empty, except for dust, or maybe that's just the appearance of the surface yet to be weathered.

Yet to be weathered.

And I set a candle on it, small, beautiful, green as summer grass. I take a step back and light up, inhaling the acrid smoke which has been my comfort through all such rituals. But it's different this time. The anger of my youth has given way to the wisdom of my experience. What one generation tolerates, the next accepts. I suppose I've lived many generations in my life. Too many for some, not enough for others, but just the right amount for me, so far anyways.

Three years ago I would be a wreck. Five years ago I would do something destructive. Ten years ago my life would be over.

But now I'm just patient. Inquisitive, discerning, patient.

And old. Fuck if I can't escape that stigma.

So I sit here smoking, gray plumes curling up into my nose and jumbled clouds pouring from my lips, as I look to that fiery wreckage, and back to my little candle, alone on the sandstone.

And suddenly the burning pile of shit is in the distance. Receding. Still in view, but the oppressive stench of the thing is past the reach of my nose. And I give my lighter a few test strikes, debating over if I want to light this small, green wonder. If I want to save it for another day, or if I want to let it shine, and maybe illuminate this dark desolated valley of my decision making mind.

I brush the flame against the wick for a moment, letting the wind carry the soft smell to my brain.

Hairs tickling my nose as I wake up, burying my face into a pillow of familiar smells, chlorine mixed with river water, fresh cut grass, grilled chicken, cigarettes, fizzles from soda jumping into my nose, puppy breath...

Small soft undercurrents to a fresh scent, but something bitter strikes the wrong note and the song is gone. I wrinkle my nose and pinch the flame down. Maybe just a little at a time. To remind myself that there are some decent people out there. To remember that it's not always just to destroy me that people do what they do. Something inspiring. Maybe something happy. The bitterness in my nose gets to agitating and my sleeve can't seem to wipe away the irritation. A bit of youthful vigor springs up in me. But a deep breath, the taste of watermelon rising to my tongue, and I'm almost at peace with it all.

So I sit back with a cigarette, and see where I go from here. Not really watching where I step, but moving ahead anyways.

So, in short, no Dad, I don't ever do anything the easy way.

And I hope that at the end of the day, people are glad I don't.