I stopped asking myself how much more I can take awhile ago. It hit me like a ton of bricks. A very slow moving ton of bricks. Those fuckin’ bricks took eleven years to land. It seems like a long time ago some days and then other days the wounds are reopened, salt and lemon juice included. I never know where it’s going to hit. When the pain’s going to jump up and stab me right underneath the sternum. I’m fortunate to be scarred up enough that my heart isn’t easily penetrated but it still finds the mark even though it may take a few tries. I’m so familiar with it that I welcome it anymore. Like that old friend you had growing up that you didn’t really want to hang out with but they always seemed to show up and after the years pass you run into them and are still able to crack a smile and say “Hi, how’ve you been?”. Sometimes a song that gets put on the jukebox reminds me of those I’ve lost. Sometimes it’s just glancing at an old picture that I sub consciously took for granted. Hell, it can simply be the date on the calendar. But I wear the emotional scars with pride and I hold my head up high because I know those eyes that are on me from above don’t want me to suffer. When I actually take a moment to face myself in the mirror and look to see how weathered I’ve become or if the bags under my eyes have been upgraded from carry on to matching suit cases, I take that opportunity to say “Knuckle down motherfucker. Put that mask on and don’t let them see through to the inside.” It never works. Someone eventually spots the agony, sadness, despair whatever ugly word you want to use. Do I slip up on purpose? Is there some shred of some unknown deeply seeded want to be cared about and even cared for? I feel selfish at times when I’m in a crowded room because I feel alone. I got jumped again just the other night by a gang of feelings. They got in a few good shots and my eyes watered. But, they didn’t kill me, they didn’t even knock me out.