The Road to Damascus

Nothing should ever have gone this way, but it led to 10pm, Friday night. Every attempt I had made for distractions fell through. I was never one to believe in in divine plans, but I couldn't ignore the fatalism abound that night. By 10pm, Friday night, I succumbed to it's will.

I was alone, and I made it so.
By the time Truth, in all His glory, came to me like a bright light on the Road to Damascus, it was too late.

and my middle name is Paul.
Truth showed me my mistakes
and sorrow was made in His image.

When I looked up, alone in that room, I could see her coming through the door next to me. I could see her putting her arms over my shoulders. But I couldn't hear her, her words telling me that I was forgiven, that it was all ok.
When I wiped the tears away, she was gone. I lit up a cigarette, and when I wiped my nose there was blood. She was gone, but He was there. Waiting patiently for my sobbing to quiet. Truth, as He must always be told, was in the bloodied and wet napkin. I let the cigarette die out on it's own, and then Truth put His arms over my shoulders. A horrible touch, cold reaching its way to my heart. For Truth, like the ghost of lost love coming to save me, said nothing as well. Truth gave no comfort, letting silence be His word.

The search for distractions was a death march. Two months of cadence on a road that led me to Truth. Upon seeing him waiting for me, I revolted. No no, it can't be like this.
It can't be
It can't be
please don't let it be like this...
I charged violently, blindly, a slave to an exploding heart, at whatever or whoever was closest. When I awoke on the way side, He held me and pointed at her heart which I had torn and bitten into during the rage. His finger guided my vision to the one I had set out on a death march from. The ghost of lost love coming to save me, was in fact, nowhere near, pulling further away.

Truth let me lay there, offering no help, for He does not pity mistakes made by our own decisions. He only shows them, and we suffer from His clarity of our actions.
So I lay, so I suffer.

So many mistakes were made in such a short amount of time. It was unfathomable, and like a broken or severed limb, too much stimulus to handle at once.
"I pushed you away," I called out to her in the distance.
"To force the space apart. To force the will of space between us, and now that I miss your love, selfishly I'm lamenting my actions, you are withdrawing on your own momentum. You walk away because of how hard I pushed. But now I need you. Now Truth lifts my head from the ground to see you. But now I can't have you."
and in the distance I see another boy who makes her laugh and brings her pleasure. It's no longer me. it's no longer me, and I want to ruin everything for everyone because of the grief.
and Truth points to this as well.
and sorrow is made in his image
and my middle name is Paul
and the death march is on the road to Damascus.

I'm too scared I'll hurt her again. I'm too scared to move towards her because my suffering wants to beget more suffering, so images fill my head. Of her recoiling further away, of filling her loneliness with someone new, giving herself over to him. Who is this trespasser, this tourist traveling my sacred land? "She's mine!" I sob,
"she's mine."
"You can have me instead of him, don't you see?" My heart screams in agony, and Truth points His finger at them and I see that she's not mine. She's not, but I need her to be. I want her to be, but I am bound to the side, and must watch as she returns to the tourist again and again.
So I lay, so I suffer.
"There goes my friend," I say to Him.
"There goes my love," but He does not pity, He does not have mercy. Only clarity. So I lay by the side of the road and watch, paralized with the fear of never seeing her face again. Of never holding her again. Of never kissing her again, and having it be only us, Vonnegut's "Nation of Two". Of never telling her I love her before I leave in the morning. I see the boy I was five years ago by her side, and I want to be him again, professing my love.
"What do I need to do?" I cry out, but there is no answer. 10pm on a Friday night, and I am stranded on the road to Damascus. The company I keep, is Truth and paranoia, my head filled with images of someone new holding her hand while I lay helpless.
and my middle name is Paul.
and Truth is my God.
and sorrow was made in his image.

I will punish myself then," I say to Him.
"I will not sleep, I will not eat. I will poison myself with tar and alcohol. I will whither away until I've found the answer."
nothing should ever have gone this way. I can forgive and forget her mistakes, but I can't forgive myself. My heart will not let me forget.
"I need you to lift me up from the side of this road," I call to her.
"I'm too scared of pushing you away any more then you already are. My nourishment is not food or water. It is to be held by you again, to feel your love again. To replace my Truth with our Truth, and pick up the pieces. I will suffer until you lift me up, but I will wait. The scars on my body are from growing into you these past years. I have molded myself to your specifications, but I failed in the design somewhere. I failed you and us. I'm sorry, but I can't stop whipping myself. I can never forget a genocide of mistakes in only a few short months. The heart does not will it."

10pm on a friday night on the side of the road to Damascus, alone in a room, waiting for her to come and save me.
But she won't, as this must be fatalism. Hope is struck down by Truth, it's the way it must be. It must be until I pay for my mistakes through suffering.

and this is how it must be until my wrongs are deemed righted.
and Truth is my God and witness
and sorrow was made in His image
and the death march has been shown to me, by a brilliant light
and forgiveness is her love
and my middle name is Paul, who in his blindness needed to be led by hand to Damascus.