Madison Square Park Meltdown

A little angst

Holding hands on a new-love walk she said “You don't seem like you'd be afraid of much.” I could make anything better then. Whatever I said rang true. People listened. Her haunting words linger.

That feeling never recaptured, nearly extinguished.

A dreary, cold drizzly New York City night, walking to my battleground apartment where make-up sex surrendered long ago. Trudge across Madison Square Park from work -- the kind of job you have because you accept the rung-by-rung approach.

Not so fearless now. Mediocrity uncomfortably settling in.

At 11, I knew I was just one of billions, not on-in-a-million. I denied the long odds that I'd matter.

I got lost in fantasies, elaborate worlds of magical creatures. I saw new worlds and took space adventures. Families, neighborhood dramas, small cities sprouted on my parent's living room floor.

My body brimmed with imaginary athletic skill. In my backyard stadium, incredible catches between defenders. Dodging, spinning, stumbling and fighting for another yard to glory. I chopped March ice and swept it aside to star in the big dance, scoring all the game-winners.

Imagination doesn’t mean brilliance. Obsession doesn’t mean greatness. Wish I’d never dreamed at all.

The story I'd spun came undone. The scales that protected me from reality chipped off by reality’s cold arrows shot from better athletes and students, classrooms, and tests and reports that freeze creativity’s fire.

The fiery dragon's flare now a belly full of embers fueled by alcoholic grief. Smokey hot air, exposed to piercing arrows of insecurity, paranoia and emotion.

Truth revealed a skinny boy dancing to rock and roll stations in a small town surrounded by people and spaces and factories in a corn field sea, dwarfed by big cities and all the people there, in America, the world, and the vast universe.

I pasted on new armor -- college degrees, sex, booze, pills and powders -- and talked myself out of making every pointless dream come true, choosing the security of papers, reports, email, and meetings instead.

Just periodic riffs now, without a band or a song. Fighting survival for years.

The weight of my insignificance and addictions crashed down. Tears mixed with cold drizzle running down my cheeks, dripping on the Fun City pavement to the stream of insignificance, the sewer of lost dreams, to be reclaimed by the ocean of humanity.