Brush With the Complex

As a kid, I read. I read and read. I planned on living my life according to the wisdom of those old and dying, those with truly placed priorities. I know many gurus of literature and life in the Old Country, many with true grit. I have never met a wiser man than moyo deda, my father's father. I planned to have no regrets. And I didn't, for years, not many, but still, years. Age twelve hit hard, too hard. I chased what I thought was my dream, only to find that I was running faster than my capabilities could support, and crashed like a twelve year old boy who is running all too fast down a very steep hill. The point is I lost touch, as we all seem to. The trick is realization and realignment. In the frenzy to claim what I thought I should, I missed the point. I wanted results, and none could come too quickly. Much agony this hastiness has caused in the last five years, many memories I never had, and good times never shared. Like Freud, who could never master his cigars, I remain a slave to my complex. Zach says it is more the idea than the meat, which is an intensely probable brainwave. However, some days, nothing matters but the meat, and even after the release, the meat lingers. This give me more trouble than anything- because as any guy will tell you, afterwards, sexual appeal is gone, locked away until meiosis has taken place for a good few hours. Yet not this one. No, this one I want to stay, and this one remains alone there. And for this reason, I know Zach holds water, but how much, I cannot be sure, because I also hold water. I have always known the brevity of life. I was never meant to have regrets. VITA BREVIS, CARPE DIEM! Life is about love, to give and to receive, nothing is more important. These things, I understand.