Ashes: The Story of a Young Man

Our story begins in 2010, when a little boy saw his first loved one leave for her afterlife. He was sad and he realized his life had changed forever. 

In November of that year he started a blog and it's going good. People appreciate his writing, which his teachers had nurtured in him. Although primarily he composes poems, he does dabble in prose sometimes. This is a spiritual sequel to an article he wrote about his experience in 2010 and how 10 years later, some things have not changed. To fully appreciate this post, the boy who is now a man requests the reader to click here and read the first post.

The man in this post wants to be 18 till he dies. Unfortunately, as Rise Against said, life isn't like that. The boy is behind the man and the man's sisters have not been exactly free either. So the old days of sitting on his grandmother's lap, eating pancakes and doing mathematics from a red book are behind him. 

He is now an engineer, just as his father before him. He has made some friends, and probably will grow up alone. Adversity has shown its face a few times but he's still alive. In short, although this seems cynical, the boy is hopeful. 

Someday he's going to the great gig in the sky to sing along with John Lennon. The boy feels under the weather sometimes but his friends help him. He has found that some people trust him. He has also found an avenue through his blog to connect with like minded people. 

However at his core, the boy who is now a man, wishes he could be a boy again. He wishes he could talk to his grandmother just one more time. He would pay anything to roll the dice one more time. Sometimes he misses them so much, it leaves him hollow. 

But as long as the man lives, he won't forget them and they will watch over him. Estranged as he might be from some, others will walk this world with him. Alone as he feels sometimes, art speaks to him. 

This is the boy, who is a man, but who is also a boy saying that he won't forget the good days. Sometimes that's all that's needed to silence the other voices in his head- voices that tell him it's not worth it, cannot take away the feeling of joy that courses through him when he hears his favorite songs.

The boy who is a man but also a boy is on a journey to a place. He doesn't know where he's going, but he's on his way.

The Bilge Master

The Music Has Stopped

When I need a hug

Or comfort in other ways 

I play a song 

Over the course of time 

I've heard many 

Then I heard the music 

In your laugh

And the orchestra in your eyes 

I knew I would love to dance with you

As the world around us burned 

For a while it seemed 

I could come out of my shell

That the bridge over troubled water 

Had arrived 

But we never got that far

Because one day you were there

And the next day you weren't 

I see the ghosts of what could have been

Your face hidden behind a mask

Our friends talk of Michelangelo

While we discuss Van Gogh

I thought I'd finally be able 

To leave the darkness behind 

But of late 

The darkness has come 

The drugs don't work

The self harm is just scars 

And the music has stopped 

The Bilge Master 

Follow the Sun

She told me 

The sun must set to rise 

And I believed her 

I searched for her in every sunset

But I was so lost in my search 

That I didn't realize 

That the light on her porch was 

Slowly and steadily growing dim

Until one day it went out 

And I was alone again

I cannot look at sunsets anymore 

Now that I'm back to being nomadic 

I follow the sun

For tomorrow it could rain

Maybe she was the one 

Lennon was singing about 

Maybe I should've known better 

But although the sun has set now 

Tomorrow it'll rise again

Tomorrow I'll get up

Dust myself off 

And continue

For both of us this time 

It's what she would want 

The Bilge Master

A Monster Problem

I hear you have a monster problem

And that the bastard lurks 

In your head 

Under your bed 

In your dreams 

And controls your life too

I hear you have a monster problem 

That's messing you up

Stealing your joy

Making you numb

Uncomfortably

I hear you went to the roof one day

Intending to let the monster win

But it didn't and that

Is what matters the most

I hear you have a monster problem mister 

But tell me this

Is it really gonna win?

Is it?

Is it?

Is it?

The Bilge Master 

Whorls of Worlds

Harry Potter opened a door 

That Tolkien held the key to

Growing up in Middle Earth was special

Growing into an adult with Harry was phenomenal

And then I discovered Dream and Despair 

Destiny and Death

And of course Door

When Shadow crossed my path

I was already a grown man

Familiar with Asimov's Foundation

And yet I found a home in speculative fiction

By the time I'd read Farenheit 451

I knew it was the temperature at which paper burns 

But seeing them not put out fires 

Was a novelty to me

I sought mystery and found baffling ones 

I returned to Tolkien, no longer 10 but not yet 50

In between I fell for Annabeth Chase and for Leo

And I've enjoyed discovering the world of Miamas as well

Fantastic beasts and kind ogres await you

On this journey that you make 

Gods will forsake you, humans will surprise you

An elven city in the woods awaits you

With nymphs to serenade you

So although you're an adult now 

Fantasy will always be a part of you

Butterflies and Hurricanes

The title is an amazing song by the progressive rock band Muse and it happened to be playing right now on my phone.

It brought back memories of playing the reboot of Need For Speed Most Wanted and driving an Aston Martin into the evening sunset!

This is going to be about buses. Yellow ones you got on to go to school, blue ones you got on to go to college. AC ones that took you to the airport and the ones that arrive out of nowhere and offer you a ride when you're getting soaked in the rain. 

The conductor screams the stops out. The driver coaxes a shift out of the inevitably noisy gearbox and honks twenty five to the dozen because he can.

Buses are hardcore. Sometimes they remind you of ballads by Passenger or Elton John. Other times they can be as death metal as Cradle of Filth. 

Buses are always varied and they simulate a lot of senses. You have to use your eyes well to keep a lookout on the road, you have to keep an ear open for the conductor calling out your stop. So much to do on a bus.

I miss the crowded buses though. One hand on your wallet pocket, one hand to maintain balance and two fingers holding the fare. Will we ever travel like that again? 

A bus is a paradox. It isn't comfortable but sometimes it's both comfortable and uncomfortable. 

Did Schrodinger come up with his cat on a bus?

The Bilge Master

Mother Do You Think They'll Drop the Bomb?

This is basically a monologue. I want to remember this so I'm putting it here.

It's an early morning. Yesterday, your mom and you had yet another fight. You really went at each other. Hammer and nails. Abuses were hurled, promised broken and ultimately your dad threw you bodily from the room. Whose fault was it? Was it yours for not understanding or was it hers for provoking? 

You open your eyes. Reach for your glasses. Sigh.

And suddenly you see the bookshelf. JRR Tolkien. Neil Gaiman. Colin Dexter. Hemingway. You remember the book club on Facebook and the oh so special friend you made there. You remember her obsession with Backman and how you yourself nearly wanted to punch Kevin hard for what he did to Maya. 

You remember The Old Man and the Sea. You remember learning so many words, of visiting so many worlds. The conversations you wish you could have had with authors. The one time Jeffery Archer said your writing had potential.

And suddenly, you're two or three years old and you've got your first pair of glasses. Your mother gives you a book. You fall in love.

And so when your mother wakes up, you give her a cup of tea. 

Your entire house is your mother. She hides in every nook and cranny. She lives in pages, in ebooks. 

Which mother do you want to remember? And why do you fight her? Doesn't it seem shallow to you? Remember not to let your anger at some illness cloud the memory of a woman giving her child the key to a world where he has found peace. 

Remember. Please remember. 

The Bilge Master