Underdogs and Tidal Waves

Southside of Mellow
2011-10-30 12:29:42 (UTC)

The Beaten Path

And so without apology, I forged.
And in being wide-eyed, I hungrily ate what was mine and what others presumed not to be mine, but regardless, I still fed.
I wish I could say that I was sorry, but I'm not.
There is reason behind every minute, what brought me here in the first place.
I came here for answers that could not be found anywhere else.


This life, this path has brought out some of the dark qualities in me and I know now that it's a matter of siding them with my benevolent qualities, and understanding what is the correct chemistry.


I know now that I must conceal myself while not forgetting to maintain my life and what was pure about it before I came into this.

This was supposed to be a vacation. There was never any original thought to staying here. But living amongst the natives, I began to become comfortable with their idolatry, their mortgages, their SUV's, their jarring drunk-n-tumble commutes, their poison, their magic.
I soaked it all in like field work, like I was one of them.

But who was I kidding?
To live everyday with my blood money, some idealized non-conflicted plaything that I could furtively lean back and every once in awhile in the hopes of one day turning our anathema ardor into a fully legitimized suburban monogamy; maybe some decent shelter to hang my head under, while I lie awake night after night content because I'm powerful, I'm a prime political animal. and I also happen to be a raging asshole?

There was once a joke that it was like selling your soul.
I knew what I was getting into, staying here in this strange land, siberian-like in its scope and terrain, but completely overlooked in what kind of strange superstition and witches brew lay amongst the otherwise, mainly good-natured locals.

I think many of them were good to begin with. I saw that in them instantly and that's what drew me into staying here, wanting to be a part of them, wanting to understand their ways entirely, and drown myself in them. Perhaps many of them had changed. Some for the better as I had first observed, and some for the worst.

I can't spare myself as a casualty. The air became toxic. The livestock began dying. And soon, we began seeing signs.


There are lures of greener pastures, milk and honey, healthy vigorous jousting in valhalla without any of the mead, of course.
It's still within full grasp, but it still begs the question, are they as plagued as well?
Is this why a large number of their natives have defected?


But also, there are still lingering questions, such as can some of those people who I had exchanged kind and honest words with be eating from the very toxic soil, letting the rotten diet affect their seemingly genuine notions? Am I just being roped into this promise of settling here in a place I never had any serious longings of staying in?

Are their really wolves about in grandmother suits skulking around like the age-old legends say there are? Utterly ravishing, completely disarming, but when completely unwrapped, shown to be ruthless and rotting at the core?

Are these just refurbished lines fed to the tourists who stay a little too long, right before they become the natives?

Even eating, sleeping, thinking, and breathing as one of them, it still begs the question, who are these people & are they your friends?


I suppose this is my RUM DIARY.


I'm not sure yet, but regardless if i get out of this without the skin around my teeth still intact, there was no mistaking that I infiltrated their world. And whether I pack up my bag and travel elsewhere or stay rooted for the lure of non-stop sexy adventure in a tundra-like atmosphere, where the weather is always cold, but its intrigues never fail to make one's blood boil beyond reasonable Centigrade, that is until I'm thrown overboard or leave when the last ship decides to set sail for the season.

Regardless, I'm sure now that I know myself enough now to know not to drink their water again. Only drink bottled from this day forward.




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