STAY THE FIGHT! STRENGTH, EFFORT, AND DISCIPLINE. THESE ARE THE WATCH WORDS OF A WARRIOR -- Kevin Michael Vance
Title - Kevin Michael Vance - writer/musician/purveyor of raw materials
STAY THE FIGHT! STRENGTH, EFFORT, AND DISCIPLINE. THESE ARE THE WATCH WORDS OF A WARRIOR -- Kevin Michael Vance
STAY THE FIGHT! STRENGTH, EFFORT, AND DISCIPLINE. THESE ARE THE WATCH WORDS OF A WARRIOR -- Kevin Michael Vance

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Kevin Michael Vance
Writer - Portland, Oregon


July 17, 2011

The inarticulate musings of a forty-two year old (almost - soon, in fact, very, very soon -- literally minutes away).

I've been thinking about the past a lot (more so than usual it would seem). I'm not sure, maybe it is my impending birthday (forty two years of living, and I'm still here, still fighting). Maybe it has nothing to do with anything at all, just an over-extended sense of nostalgia. Maybe I'm remembering more and learning less.

I think a great deal about my dad; how much I miss him, how much I wished I had just one more day where he was healthy and mentally sound, and that we might argue, as we had so many times before about the goodness, or wickedness, of people. (Pop always trumpeting for the good, me, I know I tend to be a downer, bemoaning the evils of man.) How I miss my father. I can smell him. That might seem strange, but I can. It would be nice to live with the belief that he watches over me, watches over his reckless, stubborn son. However, I do not possess that particular shield, or crutch as the case may very well be, and I know, painfully so, that I will never again see or hear or smell him. And that is sad.

I have been thinking about my life as a married man, six years gone now, and still it hurts, the wounds still tender and bleeding if I prod them too much. That was a death of sorts, everything I had come to cherish and trust and take pride in torn from me, as surely as if Melissa had died. Even now, the wounds she inflicted still taint my present life; allowing me to wonder if I can ever truly trust, truly let go again, as I had with her. I don't know. I just don't know.

I try to be a good man. I truly do. But something is lacking, an emptiness dug into my heart and mind, chiseled out first by the death of my marriage, and then the real death of my dear, dear father. Hope. That one word. Hope. It feels -- dead to me, now. I want to feel hope again. I want to feel hope for the future, my future, but I don't. I can't explain why. It just feels as if too many dreams have died, too many lives lost and hopes crushed. I trudge forward, ever pressing, shouldering through life with a dumb, determined strength, but there's no passion, no fight. I want that back. I need to get that back. I have always felt the passion inside me, burning hot, burning bright, but it's flame has dimmed, and I don't yet know how to re-ignite the spark. I try and I search and I strive, and I will do so until the day I die; hoping that my fire, my passion is rekindled; hotter and brighter than ever before.


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