Urban Cowboy?

There’s an old saying that says something to the effect of, “If you fall off of a horse, then you get right back on.” I’ve never been much of a person to put much stock into old saying and aphorisms, and I generally find that they are often empty platitudes that people mouth to sound smarter than they actually are. There’s something about this particular saying, though, that resonates with me a bit.

I’ve always been a coward. I don’t enjoy admitting that fact, and I’m not a big fan of saying it outloud (or putting it down into black and white for anyone in the world to read). When times get tough, I frequently cut and run. I’d like to be the kind of guy who stands his ground, but I’m the first to break for cover when things are looking grim.

True to form, I’ve run away from my writing. When I first started this journal of my thoughts, I intended it to be almost a sort of therapeutic enterprise, where I could muse on things that occupied my days, and within some fairly narrow limits, explore certain aspects of myself in order to better control the things inside me that I’d rather not let out.

With my uncle’s passing, many of those demons demanded some time to breathe the fresh air, and in the spirit of being somewhat healthy in my catharsis, I allowed them to do their work, and I grieved. I told myself that I ought to be stronger than this… that death was simply a natural process that comes as an inevitable eventuality on account of living in the first place. I believed that, but still I grieved.

I fled from my grief. I fled from my friends. I fled from my virtual pen and the solace I sometimes find in its exercise. I’m sorry for the first because it means that I will have another small demon buried inside, clamoring for his freedom, and I’ll have to find some way to slowly release him so as not to allow him to overtake me. I’m sorry for the second because there are people out there (3 friends: 1 real-life and two virtual) who seem to legitimately worry about me, who appear to care for me, and I denied their help when it was freely offered even though I needed it. I’m sorry for the last because I have neglected to tend to something that I find important to me - telling a story… my story – to someone who lived it but who never took the time to actually comprehend the things that happened around him. I like to think that by using this canvas to paint the things inside my head, that I have grown some in my understanding of how I work, what might be wrong with me, and how to make me a little better than I am right now.

Fleeing from thought of any variety is a dangerous path for me to take, because while I find it very easy to go down certain paths, I also find it extraordinarily hard for me to reverse direction and walk back up those same paths. An apology may not seem like much from many people, and it may look as if I give them out like candy, but admitting that I am wrong is like reversing myself back up one of those paths, and it takes a lot of mental stamina for me to do. I need to start writing again.

After all, that horse isn’t going to wait around forever.