I dropped about 600 Dollars on a last minute pair of tickets to the Police concert this evening. Amazing. Sting is incredible.

The drive into the city, which is now disgustingly long, took a few hours, in the rain, in rush hour traffic, but in spite of my less than thrilling transportation experience, I had a blast. I haven’t been to a rock concert in …ages.

If you get the chance…

I’m still pissed about missing the Eagles.

It’s raining outside. The sort of rain that soaks you to the core in seconds and leaves you without a trace of warmth in 90 degree weather. I watch gray clouds sink over the lake, the surface alive with movement. Man and beast huddle beneath makeshift huts and branches.

I chose this place because here, there are no noises of the city, and stars stretch on for an eternity until they meet the tree-lined horizon. No access codes, no gates, no fences, just land that bleeds seamlessly into each other, unmarred by territorial markings. It’s the quiet I yearn for - where only nature punctuates my evening.

And I think. About N. My sadism. About my decisions. My career. Family. About this blog which has stretched on for three years of my life. About N, again.

I started this for her. In turmoil, in anger, in love, in grief, happiness and in desperate need for an outlet, I’ve turned to it. I don’t - can’t, rather, express myself as easily in person as I do here. I am a person of few words and many thoughts. This - place, was the bridge between my head and mouth.

A place I could speak and not have to wait for a bended, trusted ear. Trust, you’ll find, is very rarely forthcoming from me. Less and less as I cut losses and re-evaluate with my head. A weakness, you’ll say. I’ve heard it before.

The fact is that sometimes I am weak.

I wrote her. I owe her that admission here, not you, silent readers. I wrote her to tell her that I miss her, that I look for her in a crowd. I wrote her to hurt her, remind her that she pulled away from someone who would have given her everything I could give her. I wrote her to tell her I loved her.

I curse at my stupidity.

This isn’t a blog about a relationship. You think me a fool for letting her go? I think her a fool for going. Find fault that I don’t chase her. Find fault in my coldness, or my rage, or my ability to speak here so clearly when I falter in person when confronted with someone who isn’t fooled by my guards.

I faltered with her. I made myself stronger, my guards stronger - until finally she believed my silence masked nothing more than fond regard. I look out over this lake in the coming darkness, watch the ghostly clouds skim the water, and curse her for believing the lie.

And then I curse myself for telling it.

Protecting her? She knew my beasts. I was keeping myself from feeling them.

That hurts.

As time passes a subtle thaw begins to melt the snow. And so begins a process that subtly shifts back and forth from winter to spring until it finally decides and yields into something more…certain. Glacial caverns of ice peel away to show the harder core of stone, red grass blooms.

At some point, the fragrance in the air dies until all that can be smelled is its absence, a hollow thing, marked by nothing more than by what it should contain. Should. Should. A hollow concept as empty as the air.

One hunter lifts his head and regards another. A glance is shared. As the other trots off into the sloping hills to look for prey, the first watches until the finer details can’t be made out, simply the shape and shadows. Wind skates down through the valley and stirs him from his silent stare.

Clouds roll across the sky and block the setting sun, casting everything into shadows. His pupils dilate. Long moments later, he, too, sets out into the hills. Into the blackness with its empty air.

Forgive the short absence, I took a break from my usual routine to go and see my father. My mother, who loved him as any man would want to be loved, prays for me to be less like him. In some ways I am very different, but not enough to matter.

Feliz di­a del padre