Searching for Meanings

Nightflight - Aaron Pocock


As a child growing up I would look at everything around me and wish less than patiently to grow up and get away from it all. Adulthood meant freedom to me, doing what you want to do, for you, because you want to do it. Of course when I actually was faced with adulthood I realized that it is all one big same old and I wished again for the care free days as a child. When my biggest problem was which girl in the school yard thought I was too weird to talk to. Yes the problem of some girl in the school yard finding me too weird still exists literally, but now that aspect is laughable. I am too busy thinking about responsibilities, commitments, goals to worry about random people. In that way life is interesting, living behind my glass window, hardly ever looking lower than my 6' 4" eye line of sight people are so very easy to miss. However I find myself living still to please people I do consider dear to me, going to places I hate, nodding silent yeses when I want to scream, socializing when I'd be better entertained with a book. This is what defines adulthood for me something is wrong with a life like that. My problem now is the inescapable nature of life.

I'd like to leave.

At first the idea of leaving life would frighten me, I didn't understand it. Didn't understand my reasons. At fifteen sneaking to the roof of my high school and looking at the concrete below wondering if the drop will be enough was always daunting in after thought. The last thing I could afford would be more humiliation; a broken leg and then have to face my classmates. Then there are the ones who say suicide is for the cowardly, lol I think it might be my cowardice that has saved me so far. It takes an insurmountable bit of courage to even make the decision let alone execute it. Pushing past the point which your body defends itself. Willingly inflicting and bearing pain to face only unsurity about what happens next. I have not done anything else in this life that requires more courage than that. I am a runner, always have been. I'll probably be running very soon. These days it's gotten past the early childish reasons for running and suicide.

I'd like to stop.

Ever have those moments when the world seems to be screaming at you in cacophonies, when every child is crying, every vehicle blasting it's horn, every bird singing and the loudest, most invasive sound of all is the slow, heavy laden tick TOCK of the clock? Imagine feeling in your very being that you can't eat, you shouldn't sleep, the minutes are passing, marking every movement by time and the fact that it goes so fast without you in it. It can become the scariest thing in the world.

In my world I have no power, I seem to have no control over any factor that governs me and most frighteningly myself. I have control over my voice, and my words. It seems the only choice I have. Of course the two are interrelated so rendering me voiceless renders me choice-less and I have a problem with that. It is the one thing that breeds obsession in it's purest form. If there can really be anything described as pure obsession. I need to be heard. or at the very least given the chance to say what I need to say. This is why I write.

I know I have said a lot, my mother would faint if she sees this post but still, take a moment, forget the instinctive reactions, I need no sympathy, you do not understand, and I care less about your judgements take a moment and see what I mean when I say writing is my life. It is my life in the most literal of meanings. Without it, without the sense of freedom that it offers me this life caught constantly in a wicked changing past - for there is no present - is not worth living.

I have not lived up to my intentions of this blog since inviting readers. It is supposed to be my safe place to say as I please so that most importantly I can meet myself. So far I have written in betrayal of that promise, curbing words and sentences so as not to offend. I have suffered for this and so as of now I offer no apologies for anything I say or will say. This is me, there can be no substitute for my truth.

I am looking for my freedom.

....excerpt...

Entering a new phase is difficult. I am starting to lose faith again in this dream of mine.

I am tentatively working on a larger work that seems to be taking a few years, at this point I am on the verge of giving up. I thought posting this excerpt would do some small motivation to continue with my writing. I guess we'll see if that works at all.



His hands, the same that excited me in their individuality, moving together in the end like a choreographed chorus, reached right inside me, drawing out on their tips my voice stringing there, dangling there in his power. His eyes pierced mine again while I tried to cry, to explain, retching with regret.


There would be no understanding in this darkness, seeing only the white of his eyes cataract covered, white as his grin and always, always the darkness, within the darkness, the hole where his heart should be. I reached my hands to him cautiously, unsure of his reasoning, whether friend or foe. Still without the irises his eyes had not left mine. I was sure he could see well beyond this fleshy mask. Olabokun moved out of reach.


Forgetting my voicelessness then I tried to scream out to him, and was forced because of pain to grab at my middle. It was crippling, catching my breath in my throat, imploding in flames in my stomach, washing down my legs, into my feet, into my toes grabbing at the wooden floors as I doubled, if I could only take root. Olabokun laughed at this attempt, the hearty, heavy haunting laugh that seemed to flood into the room from all walls. I crouched to the floor, sat without choice feeling the tear roll slowly down my cheek.


Olabokun raised me up against him gently, his mouth found mine in the embrace and as they touched he blew his breath into me, his last effort of a rebirth. It was with the last of my faith that I hoped he would fail.