The Long Walk

“Mi shebeirach avoteinu

M’kor hab’racha l’imoteinu
May the source of strength,
Who blessed the ones before us,
Help us find the courage to make our lives a blessing,
and let us say, Amen.

Mi shebeirach imoteinu
M’kor habrachah l’avoteinu

Bless those in need of healing with r’fuah sh’leimah,
The renewal of body, the renewal of spirit,
And let us say, Amen”

Here I am, hands clasped in front of my quieted mouth, starting my night with a prayer as I find out that my grandma is in the hospital. I say this prayer and then I say to G-d, “If you’re going to let her go, do it quick and painless.” I’m scared. Terrified. Sad. 

Shabbat ends and I say goodbye to both good people and rude people alike as I leave the controversial space. Uber is called and I’m driving home feeling tired but optimistic for the events to come shall be fun. Then, I receive a call that says I failed at the task of bridging peace between two peoples – mine and their’s. Fuck! 

The night begins again with a social event between a group of fun men and a group of fun women. Everyone is laughing. I am too but I’m not making the jokes. Balloons pop along with the corks of bottles and next thing I knew, I drink an over poured cup of cherry poison – certainly a few of the most horrible gulps. I’m feeling the buzz and then I’m dumbly making decisions to play another drinking game but after chugging the liquid bread I feel bloated and disgusting. I hate this feeling. It resonates and sits in me like a brick. 

At this point my highlight is being able to rap the full lyrics of a song but beyond that it is time to go home. I’m walking home and suddenly I’m Rorschach – the lone wolf hero of The Watchmen. 

Volk’s Thoughts – November 21st, 2015:

My first thoughts, “How bad can being alone with my thoughts be?” My second thoughts, “Tonight wasn’t too bad… good things happened.” Last thought, “I didn’t accomplish anything significant today.” 

That wasn’t where my thoughts ended though. Walking home slower than ever, the thunder to my physical stature faded as these thoughts crept in from every direction only to haunt me  with plays and scenarios. The night shouldn’t be too hard to finish. Just get home and sleep off your emotions. But no, I have to write this blog. Otherwise, I really didn’t accomplish anything tonight.

As I write this, my eyelids rebel and move with gravity to shut them closed. But I can’t close them now. I’m eyes wide open with blood shot sadness dwelling from the depths within. But fuck it, I’m tipsy and this is what I need to do.  

Walking home, I started a with my emotions as a little less than neutral due to me telling myself that I left the social early because of my stomach. But now I was alone with my thoughts, hating every moment of the unforgiving fate of my Grandmother’s imminent death. The truth was there and there was no way of looking at it straight in the eyes. A part of me says, “Why be so sad about it? She lived a good life and did so many great things with you.” So why so sad? The answer: the unbearable fate of accepting death has always been a fear of mine. I can’t say I’m scared to die, myself, but I am terrified of those around me passing away. My thoughts race but my feet do not. Scenarios. Fears. Motifs. Plans. Milestone moments. They all fly right into my face as if they were bats that acted rashly in a cave led to nowhere. Fuck these thoughts. I wish you could turn them on and off. On and off. On. Off. On. Off. It’s insanity. 

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different solution. Albert Einstein said that and later it became the official definition. No my thoughts go on and off, hoping for different solution but no one in reality is really in control. Meanwhile, two raccoons grounded on a random house’s porch stare at me in defense. I stare right back at them to show them they are not a threat. Then, my defenses go down and it is then I realize they are just as scared of me. You see, now I’m the raccoon and they are the human. The human- a representation of death for their kind. How many raccoon hats do you see hunters cary with them as they hunt for more potential hats. I am just one of them. I’ve become death to a pair of furry robbers. 

I’m sorry. This isn’t me. I can’t write anymore. I feel better. 

And yes. I made it home. I was safe. I feel natural again. Really, I do. Goodnight. 


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