Conversations with myself – #3

What did you want to be as a kid? I ask you – myself – what did you want to be as a kid?

Did you want to be a slave to your obsessions? To your insecurities? Did you want to feel trapped inside your own mind? Did you pine to be, just simply long to be, an outsider, misunderstood by others, misunderstanding them in turn? Did you wish to lose yourself?

If not these noble dreams, then what?

Maybe you didn’t formulate it. Maybe you failed to think it through. Think of it at all.

Youth was great. We were the lucky ones. I was a lucky one.

Strength of spirit and endless optimism and boundless hope. Enjoying life as it came, sharing experiences with friends and family.


Hikes and canoe trips and watching TV on Mom’s bed.

Oh, the antics and joyful shit devised with friends!


Shooting hoops outside and swimming in freezing pools. We didn’t need vacation. I didn’t need vacation. It was all – all – right there.


not all.

No. Not all.

I remember like yesterday walking my street alone, or with a buddy, in the early morn, on the way home. Sometimes drunk, yet always completely sober. And dreaming of nothing, and of everything. This, this whole world was mine, and I loved it, and it loved me.

The stars were so bright on these nights. And when not, then only for the light of the full moon, lighting the gray road and loose stones of the shoulder.

Yellow dashed and solid lines. Black threads of tar filling cracks. Can you feel it? The roughness of the asphalt and the gummy tar and the smooth paint of the dividing line as you slowly jog barefoot down the middle of the road?

This was my road, illuminated by my stars, and the moon, the moon was my deepest friend, my….confidant. And I was so aware, so very aware, of myself, and my feet on the solid ground.


Unbridled hope.

The houses housed guests asleep in my world. I was content they were there. Live and let live. And they let me live.

As did my mother. She let me live. And my father. He let me live.  Hell, they encouraged it…life…and me, in whom they had faith. And my sister too. Perhaps she came to see I was a viciously free spirit, stubborn, passionate. Arrogant. Oh so arrogant! Not with aggression, nor malice, nor sickening self-pride.

But arrogance in my optimism and self-confidence. And why not? For me, I was the king of my world, this sleeping, trodden street.

On my road. On my road. Arrogant happiness and naivety. Walking on my road. Ask me anything. ‘What would I like to be?’ HAHA. What a silly question. Can’t you see, I am content right here?

What did you want to be as a kid?

In all honesty: nothing precise. Nothing defined. The wind perhaps. Yes, that’ll do.

I wanted but to remain in that blissful state, forever.

It was all right there.

And yet…

it wasn’t.

And now the roads are all foreign. The stars, well they don’t shine as bright. And my feet don’t trust the shifting ground.

I say live and let live, but I don’t understand the rules of life.

And I have a family, kids, a wife. I have a job, a car, responsibilities.



Report cards.

Football games and bush-craft.



And I wouldn’t trade it for a thing.

Well, maybe one thing: to have it all as I have it now, but to have me included. Yes. Me included.

But who am I? I am here, in this form, behind these walls, writing these words. But a part of me is back there. On that road. Where it all made sense.

A part of me walks that road every single night.

A part of me has never left.

Optimism. Unbridled hope.

What do I want to be?

My answer: nothing. But to have that peace again, in whole. To see those stars again, as bright. To be guided by that moon again, back home. To find me again, barefoot, on solid ground.

4 responses to “Conversations with myself – #3”

  1. Matt, you’ll love 71 if you make it to then. I’m here. Most of your Time is past, and if you haven’t killed someone or robbed someone, defiled someone, you can essentially forget any anxiety about all that. All’s under the bridge, down the rive, and every one has sinned. If the present you are then in becomes unbearable, well, hell, death is probably now not so far off. That’s a potent cure for what ails ‘e. That interminable sentence, LIFE, if such it’s been, now has a definite end. Yes, you’ll love 71. This prediction assumes you have reasonable health, no unbearable daily pain, assumes you still know who you are and which day it is, assumes you have enough security (money) you don’t have to grub just for a lunch or a bottle of booze or today’s required fix. Oh, ya, being fine at 71 so you can love it has a lot of assumptions needed to break your way. In fact you probably can already know you won’t enjoy 71 all that much because there will always be pieces missing, things that are shitty, and walking home in the moonlight will be an even more-distant treasured memory. At least you’ll have that if you can remember it. Or, fuck it all, take today and just love it. Just fucking LOVE it.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. This piece is a lament for passed youth, a time in life I know I will never recover. A letting go of a part of me desperate to hold on. A necessary letting go.
      Thanks for your comment. Your message is well taken.


  2. Totally relate to this lamentation! I do this so often! Knowing it is not worth while yet unable to control going down that rabbit hole!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Strange how every fully developed adult who has ever lived has survived this process….and yet I sometimes feel like I cannot. You know what I mean? Perhaps there are a lot of adults out there hiding children within.

      Liked by 1 person

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