I've Tasted My Blood Milton Acorn

I see a moon above yonder mountainous horizon. I don't know what it symbolizes. It might be a compass. A reminder that beyond these hills lies something new. But I should not fall victim to the belief that beyond a horizon means something will be better. Novelty is not always better, even if the ecstasy of immediate initial experience is euphoric. But to get there requires me to traverse these sad bloody hills on the side of this mountain. There's green, but it's minimal. And the yellow sky I travel towards is not promising. It looks sick. Or it could be the golden rays of hope.
I have read Acorn, but what does it even mean without the context of my own life? I labour to reach these new horizons, and similar imagery makes me feel as though there is something I must search for to understand better the journey ahead of me.
Homesick. I am homesick. But not in the regular sense. There is some place inside of me--someone I once was--that I feel slipping away from me. But to what extent is this a valid sickness to feel? I have been in fights with myself and other people, and I have thus lost a sense of what I should love.
The past is replete with imperfections. But still there's a longing, in some way. Maybe not nostalgia tinged with illness, but, rather, some kind of missed opportunities to capture something tender before it was too late. Too late to love what we feel we were supposed to love.

Acorn's playmates are different. He knew only terror and the rolling heads of fallen soldiers. My playmates kicked rubber balls. But now the playmates don't feel so close anymore and the rubber balls are frozen in the past. Deaths of different kinds.

And where does this all lead to? I think the hills I am to traverse are necessary. Inevitable, maybe. No new ground is ever found until the toil and turbulence of passing time and bruises of broken relationships are experienced. It's terrible to say, but what is anything without toil. I wish it were otherwise, but even Acorn's meter had its substitutions. There's fracture. There's rhythm. Repetition. Blood spills and our necks hurt from a depressed crane. We don't know that love will be the same beyond our misfortune, but novelty is something to hope for. I haven't known hope myself, but something pushes me forward.

I'm sorry to say that I found the fevered waters of loneliness. And I shall taste my blood all the more when the fever takes hold of my body itself. I'm tumbling over. My hand is in the water. I can feel my skin absorbing the sickness like a sponge like icy water swallowed on a scorching day. But I keep my hand there. There is something about the falter that I enjoy. But it makes me sick. And all I can think about is the blood of yore that was spilled. It was all for this. My own last paddles like a sled across gravel.
I see flashes of my past now. I am reminded of the gazebo under which I first kissed Erica. The lights like flickering embers frozen in the night. The summer wind like a spring wind. She told me she didn't love me but couldn't hold back from at least allowing me a kiss before she left for school. But this didn't really happen, because I never told her I loved her. And I drank myself to blackout to forget my silences. The blood of missed opportunities.
My second home. My rendezvous. Expired. I left it when I felt alienated. I saw the blooddrops of former woes walking the sidewalks and I ran.
I see now the last shadows of my hometown. I went kayaking here. I sought to escape and found only sad seclusion. I left this place because I felt so distant. I didn't find love. Not within or around me. All past and present tainted. My moon ahead of me. My sickness taken with me.
It wasn't worth it for me, but I hope my tale of spilt blood encourages you to see that you don't spill blood in the same way.

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