22. The Human Cockroach

I was riding my bike down a small slope the other day and crashed.  I was standing on the left side pedal and went to drag one foot to reduce speed.  My foot caught on something and kicked back into the rear tire causing me to fall forward.  The bike was on top of me when the motion stopped, and my foot was wedged in a gap in the frame.

I untangled myself and examined the damage.  There was a scrape on my knee and a little soarness beneath but nothing else. That's a miracle at my age, with my thinning skin, my weakening bones. It's almost super natural.

Holy shit. 

It's clear as day to me now.  I'm either indestructible and made of titanium (which is highly unlikely) or I'm a frickin Super Hero. I knew it, I've always known it.  I mean, how could you not?  I'm more than just a mere and mortal man trying to find a purpose for my life on Earth.  I'm super human. A diety.  I'm a Human Cockroach, impossible to kill.  It's time I claim my place in the world.

A few hours after I crashed my knee swelled to the size of a small cantaloupe.  It grew stiff and painful so I spent the rest of the day lying down, too afraid to move.  The Human Cockroach isn't afraid of anything.  He ignores even the sharpest of pains.  He'd never spend an afternoon napping and hoping it will take the swelling down.  He sure as hell wouldn't blog about it.  What the fuck am I thinking?  

Thanks for asking. I'll tell you.

I'm thinking how hard it is to know wether you've lived an authentic or decent life unless you know, for sure, you've had an actual decent and genuine moment to reference by.  I'm thinking It's almost impossible to identify what you want most in life when you can't know until you've actually had it all.  I'm thinking the way I've approached my life guaranteed I got it wrong.  I'm not a guy in a giant cockroach costume and a cape and I don't aspire to be.  Not anymore.  Ever since I arrived at the place I never expected or intended to be, the place I live in now, I know the me I'm being is the one I was meant to be.  I got to the place I've been trying to go after being convinced it couldn't be found.  I got here because I stopped looking.

I followed the advice of others for the majority of my life.  I listened to what others said about what it meant, or what to do, to be happy.  I read books written by others claiming to have a sytem or a specific number of steps, that if followed, would result in an authentic life, one that was well lived.  I even claimed to know some of that shit myself.  I don't.  I never did.

What I didn't do was ask myself if the people advising me were actually happy themselves.  I didn't ask myself why authenticity mattered to me before I began to pursue it.  It's not like there's a universal reference chart providing evidence that an authentic life is more rewarding than a superficial one, or that a 'happy' life is more valued than a life lived in despair.  So why bother?  Seriously, who gives a fuck?

The truth is I pursued what most others pursued because I didn't want to be alone, not because those things mattered to me.  That's a stupid way to live. To be candid, I never expected or wanted to be happy all the time.  I don't think that's possible, or realistic.  I'm more democratic.  I believe in equal time for all emotions.  Even the dark ones. I want my time on Earth to be textured and diverse.  'Safety' never motivated me. Fear did, and when you're afraid you seek safety.  You become a slave to what you fear.

I followed the ways of others because it was easier than the alternative.  Every path I needed was a well worn scar you could see in the world.  The alternative meant turning inward where there was less light.  It meant descending into a place uncharted and clearing a path myself. Ironically, or perhaps serendipitously, doing so made me happy.  It taught me how to be real.

*Turns out I had a hemotoma (puddle of blood) from the top of my thigh to just below the knee. Could feel it slosh as I walked. Very painful.