I am a lost boy. Neverland calls to me with a sonorous, whispering allure. Beckoned to forget my life from before, the child wandering in a concrete world of petrol and piss; where pirates reign both foul and faire, plundering my individuality with social electronic conformity and stealing my heart to sell for a bump of coke with a full fourth’s Xanax.
But I can’t fly anymore. I’m too old for the boys who fight pirates. And I never fit in, being part Indian myself. They eat Never-Food and swim with mermaids, sirens of promise that never tell you they won’t leave the water, even for love, only after you’ve been called by their song.
I walk South Tejon Street and listen to the music of the beggars and addicts. Shrunken forms with their own hollowed look, begging to blow me for pocket change.
I could fly once. I was a butterfly in the clouds, tempting the floating cumulus structures, with my kaleidoscope behind me looking on with faceted disdain. I didn’t aspire to touch the sun, but I dared the fates and, like Icarus, found despair.
I fell, wings wet and my heart mangled in roadkill stagnation; each breath labored to take in the cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes to remind me I was alive. There was oxygen there somewhere in the poison, there was nectar in the freshly chewed gum stuck to the pavement. These only worked to sustain an absent body I didn’t want anymore.
I withdrew everything but hope, hope that I would dream forever or enjoy the peace of darkness to love me and want me in its embrace, hope that I would fly again one day to that cloud and prosper. Where its turbulence would accept me, and its shadows compliment me.
The latter hope brought life to weary legs. Though maybe false, it pulsed blood into the meat of my limbs and made me want to confront the fading allure of sleep so that I might walk where I could no longer fly.
It drives me still to mimic a breath, and though it pains me to take a single step, I journey the endless miles toward the frightening unseen of living more than an existence as a former lost boy and butterfly flapping in the throes of loss.