The Land of NeverWas

Where all the "Might Have Beens" live

Archive for the category “the meaning of life”


I am desiring to take myself on a journey. But it is not one in which I would like to travel over dirt and rock and go from one town to the next, or country to country. And while it’s not a territory unknown to man, it is a territory unknown to me and one I very much want to discover for myself. And it is not one I would undertake by car, train, boat or even by walking.


The means of exploration would be by the touch of my hand and the kiss of my lips. For, you see, the territory I want to discover is your body. I want to learn the geography of you down to the most intimate detail until I could find any spot I like in the darkest of nights. I want to know where the secret places of your pleasure hide so that I can visit them often to both of our delights. I want to soak in the pools of your eyes and stare at your beauty as if it were the night sky. I want to bask in the warmth of your arms and lay my head on your chest and listen to the ebb and flow of your breathing, soaking up the sunshine of your love. I want to taste you and savor the sweetness and the saltiness of the various parts of you as if I were sampling all the finest flavors of the world. I want to drink of your lips and grow intoxicated by your scent.

Yes, there. There would I like to travel.


A dream full of passion

I am an animal made of fire. Deep inside I burn. Deep inside I yearn. The coals of my heart are cold, but I want them to be stoked up to that roaring flame we all desire. I need it, I crave it. I want my lips to meet hers and I want to nibble on them and pull them with my teeth. I want to get to that place where my mind is no longer in control and my hands and lips become creatures with minds of their own and all they want is to devour their quarry. Her body. But I also want to be devoured. Devoured by the scent of her, her touch, her eyes. Become entrapped hopelessly in her hair and feel her breath hot upon my skin. I want to pull her head back by her hair, put my lips close to her ear and whisper “I fucking love you.” And I want her to smile an evil little smile and say “I know.” And in that moment, I want to know that without saying a word she loves me too. Without doubt, without worry and that nothing will ever separate us.

I wake up and the dream fades, but that animal made of fire is still there, waiting.


All it would have taken was a kiss.
I know this.
A long, deep look into my eyes.
Yours full of nervous anticipation.
Mine full of desire and disbelief
that I finally had you in my arms.
My hands in your hair.
Your head tilted back and your eyes closed.
Just a gentle touch of the lips,
softly, tasting, caressing.
At first.
Tiny nibbles on your lips.
My hand caresses the side of your face
traces down your neck.
Then the storm of passion ignites
and we are lost on the tossing
waves of the sea of passion
as our lips
press together
more intensely
and our tongues
dance together
then separate
and we become more
than human we become two souls
interlocking, interweaving,
spinning into love
sweet sweet emotion
that opens our hearts
for they have been closed
so long
but now the doors fly open
and the sun shines in
and I feel a tear
well up in my eye
and that tear leads me back
to reality.

For this never happened
we never fell
we never loved
and all it would have taken was a

perfect sin

lips meet and tongues dance. fingers trace. teeth bite. eyes close in rapturous abandon. shaking hands tear at clothing then find what lies beneath. breath catches at the first tingling feelings and then comes in gasps as sensation rushes all over. the scents intoxicate and lead to further abandon. sweat forms as two become one. bodies tangle and weave, rise and fall. all the while touching, ever touching. it seems as if no place can be left untouched. no skin left not kissed. and then in a final rush there is nothing left but a trembling mass of flesh and whispers.

it wasn’t love, but it was a perfect sin.


I didn’t find love where I thought it lay but I can assure you that I will find it some day, some year. And then, finally, I will wrap myself around someone, strong, brave, and beautiful and the tears that fall from my face will be those of happiness instead of sadness. And every night spent alone and wondering will be long lost in the mists of time, and I will only regret that it took me so long to find her and that our time together won’t be as long as it could have been. But any minute, any second, with her will be precious and nothing will tear her from me until the moment I breathe my last with her name on my lips.

I will let the water of her love wash over me and I will feel renewal.


Many people, when they think they need to act tough or invulnerable, picture themselves as rock or steel.

I say Be Water.

Why water? Because water flows. It flows with the course set for it, goes in, around, through and over the obstacles in its path: sometimes in such torrents that it overwhelms all obstacles in its path. Tsunamis are one of the most devastating forces in the world as recent events have shown. With time and patience water can break down rock and rust steel. If you freeze it, it merely becomes ice and if you boil it, it becomes steam. I think it is the perfect analogy to think of yourself as when dealing with life’s vicissitudes. Sometimes you need to stop fighting and let yourself flow around the problem, sometimes you need to freeze up and grow cold to things, other times you need to let yourself boil and steam and in some instances you need to become a raging wall of water that overwhelms all in your path. Whichever you choose, in the end let the water leave you clean, refreshed and calm. Let the rings from the pebbles of worry fade until you are once more a placid beautiful mirror. Go fishing in your soul and see what you catch.

The human body itself is as much as 78% water (with variations according to body size). There is no rock or steel in you other than what you are imagining is there. And rock shatters and steel bends when enough force is applied. Water merely splashes and, if deep enough, whatever is flung at it is drowned beneath the waves without any evidence it was ever there to begin with.

Water is life, so in your life; Be water.

*This has been another episode of Half-Baked Philosophy brought to you by What the Fuck is He Talking About?? now new and improved. Even more confusing than our old formula! Buy today and get two for the price of one!!

blue sky

Blue sky shines above my head as I lay on the ground. The juxtaposition of the green leaves twitching in the cool breeze against that blue give a splash of color to the otherwise featureless expanse. I hear the other people around me. Their self-important conversations floating in to my ear and creating a dissonance between the peaceful vision and the agitation of sound. Suddenly, I am transported beyond the blue sky into the cold of space and I look back at the earth. And even as my body is laying there grounded and I feel large and significant, I realize i am small and insignificant. The earth i exist on is merely a tiny ball in a tiny solar system rotating around a tiny star that itself exists in only one galaxy in a universe of galaxies. This does not sadden me, however. It frees me. i realize that many of the things we fret over are even more insignificant than we are. They are a subset of insignificance, a parenthetical grouping of insignificant things impacting an insignificant being. Yet, the paradox exists that i am significant, if only to other insignificant beings. For my children, my family, I am of supreme significance. And that balance puts the world right again and then I am back in my body staring at blue sky.

the book

the book smelled of her. the scent of her perfume arose from it and intoxicated my mind until it formed an almost physical presence of her in the room. i could see her standing there next to me, watching me, watching my face as i studied her gift. her mouth was formed into a crooked half-smile as she studied me, as if completely confident that i would love it. and i did. at that point it didn’t even matter what the book was about, all that mattered was that it was from her. i stroked the cover as if it were her face.

i didn’t read it immediately. i flipped through the pages quickly and let them fan the scent of her perfume into my face. and then i dove in. the story was beautiful and painful and sweet and happy and sad and all the other things many stories are. but i was attached to this story in a way i hadn’t been before, not even with my own writing, because i was trying to see it through two pairs of eyes: hers and mine. but even the author’s words didn’t grip me the way her notations did. they were short, cryptic to me, but i knew for her they had pages of meaning. i wanted so badly to unravel that meaning, but, unlike the book i held in my hands, i couldn’t crack them open to get to the inner content, i could only stare at the hard outer covering.

i closed the book and held it up to my face to take in the scent one more time. and as i did i fell in love with her a little bit more.

the box

i stumbled across a box once. it was just sitting there in the middle of nowhere. it was metal. it had a keyhole. lying on the ground next to it was a key. i took up the key and opened the box but it was empty. i picked up the box and turned it this way and that, examining it. on the bottom someone had written “i have a gift for you”. i doubted that meant me, but i did wonder who it was meant for. and perhaps that gift was already taken long ago and the box would remain empty. i had no way of knowing, but i determined to check the box every day. and so i did. and every day i opened it with a mixture of dread and excitement. and every day i was disappointed for the box remained empty. after a time i realized that the gift must have been taken long ago and that was why the box had been discarded there in the middle of nowhere. it must have made whoever found it very happy. i wondered what it was. i knew i would never find out, but curiosity had gripped me by then and would not let go. i assumed that i had just been too late because i would hate to think that the box had lied to me. perhaps it did, i thought, and i determined to throw the box away and let it torture someone else, but i could never bring myself to do it. and so i still check the box and i still feel the disappointment at finding it empty.

Damn, I Want That

Yeah. This post is going to be different. It’s just me, my thoughts and some beer. Should be interesting. Or not. I could be really boring right now as I let my emotions guide my fingers and just type whatever comes out. Ever read a stream of consciousness post? Yes, you have. Probably didn’t realize it though. Damn near every one of mine have been that way. Even the ones that seem to make sense, or are sort of poetic. It works like this for me: I get a feeling inside of me, it builds up pressure, and like any other sort of pressure it needs to be released before things explode. So I sit down and write it out. Writing is the turning of that valve so that I don’t go mad from whatever it is that is eating at me at that particular time. And the blog is as good a place as any. Maybe someone will stumble across this place and say to his or her self “Wow. I feel just like that.” and maybe knowing there is another person with the same things going on will help them out. I damn sure don’t write this thing for the glory. But I love this place even so. It’s a good listener.

As a man, I often feel like I have to keep everything locked up inside. Like if I let anything out I feel ashamed. At least the sad parts. I’m not supposed to whine. I’m not supposed to hurt. I’m not supposed to let anyone or anything affect me, and I am damn sure not supposed to cry. I am sure that this stems from my country upbringing and my redneck father who seemed to be made of stone and anger, but was probably suffering under the same delusions he passed on to me. He just didn’t have an outlet beyond punching and drinking and holding a gun to his head. Somehow, someway, I was born with a passionate yet creative disposition. Way more cerebral than dear old dad. He never understood me. He didn’t understand how I could spend so many hours in my room drawing, reading and just THINKING. He thought if I wasn’t actively doing something out doors then I wasn’t doing shit. He really wasn’t a very good father at all and once he and my mom divorced I hardly ever saw him. He once told my mom that he didn’t come around because it hurt too much to see us. I realized something when I heard that. My dad wasn’t a tough guy at all. He was a big fat pussy. I figured out at that moment that in order to stay manly and avoid having anyone see you crack, you had to avoid anything that would make you want to crack.

So I did for years. I kept it all bottled up. On occasion I would let things slip. Not very often. I fell in love – or what I thought might be love – a couple times. They ended badly. Funny thing though. I was married twice and neither one of those times correspond to the times I was in love. Could explain my divorce rate. 2 for 2 baby. Batting a thousand. After all of the crap, I was way more successful locking myself up. Of course it didn’t hurt that no woman made me even remotely interested in opening up either. They were so interchangeable that they all merged in to some gooey gunk with a vaguely feminine shape. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about a one of them.

And they loved the shit out of me.

But things change and so did I. I started hating that. I hated not caring. I hated that I was just fucking someone just to be fucking someone. Because I was horny. I hated the fact that the less I seemed to give a shit the more they chased me. It just seemed wrong. I looked around and I saw couples that seemed happy, and many that I knew were really happy, and I kept asking myself why the fuck I couldn’t find that. What self-destructive tendency did I possess that kept me from that? What was stopping me from caring about these women? What magic formula was needed to make me feel something goddammit? I had no clue and I still don’t. I just knew that until I felt something what I was looking for wasn’t going to happen.

And then I met her.

Fuck me, but it was love at first sight. I know, I know. It’s a load of crap. All kinds of rationalizations can fly around explaining that shit and I’ve heard them all – a lot of them from her. But I just knew. There is absolutely no way I can explain it in words. I was struck with a certainty I hadn’t felt before.

It was exciting.

It was exhilarating.

It was heartbreaking.

It was terrifying.

It was mysterious.

It was life changing.

It made me strong.

It made me weak.

I say all of these things in the past tense but the truth of the matter is that it is still happening to me right now. I am somewhere in the story. I can’t tell you if it is the beginning, the middle or even the end. It could be anywhere along that path. Some days it feels like the beginning…like I am in a really fucking long foreword…other days it feels like I am on the last page and I am about to turn it and see The End. The only part I am sure of is that I intend to be the romantic lead and do all I can to win the heart of my lady love. I’m either going to fly to the highest heights or I am going to crash and burn. But if I do burn I am going to scorch the memory of me into her heart.

Thing is, she wants that too. She is uncertain of it, questioning, but I can’t answer that question for her. Only her heart can guide her to the point where the answers are. All I can do is shout and whistle “Hey! Over here!” and hope like hell she notices and turns in my direction. I’m probably trying too hard, but this is all new to me. She’s done things to me inside that I am not familiar with or comfortable with and so I am kind of flying blind. I try to retreat back into my tough guy persona, but there’s not much of it left. She’s cracked it all open like the shell of a hard boiled egg and left me exposed. So I go with it. I let her see what no one else has ever seen. A side of me that makes my friends say “Who the fuck are you?”. I hope she doesn’t feel guilty about that. Or pity. I want neither from her. If those are ultimately what motivates her then this whole exercise is useless. I want her to feel happy about it. Privileged. Impressed. And then I want her to fucking fall her ass in love with me. I want a happily ever after (filled with good times and bad times – I’m realistic). She struggles against herself. Resisting. First going one way, then another. This stems from her having pain of her own to deal with. A way more intense pain than anything I have had to deal with. She is not at fault for being wary. I understand it. I accept it and try to remain patient. I stand here and hold out my hand and offer her support and love. It’s all I can do at the moment and hopefully it will be enough in the end.

Nowadays it seems this sort of persistence makes one a fool. But wouldn’t it be more foolish to let something I have spent a lifetime searching for go too easily just because it’s difficult? I think so. I’m not going to be a pussy like my dad and avoid the risk of a heartbreak just to keep from being hurt. I am going to plow through and see this to the end, whether that end be bitter or sweet or some combination of the two. I’m not prepared to wait another 20 years to have someone pry my chest open like she did. I don’t have the time for that. I want this love that everyone else feels to be a part of my life while I am still young enough to enjoy it. I’m not sure what I am going to do should she decide not to reciprocate. Not a lot I can do really. Sink back into the oblivion of meaningless relationships, flounder around and hope like hell it doesn’t take another 20 years to fall madly in love with some dark eyed beauty.

So keep your fingers crossed for me. The road is under construction and it is going to be a bumpy ride but I am confident that a pretty smooth highway lies on just the other side. Then it will just be a red convertible, the wind in my hair and her pretty head on my shoulder. We’ll be driving down the road with laughter in our hearts and love on our mind. Watch us disappear into the sunset and become that couple that some other person looks at and thinks “Damn, I want that.”


that was close.


you almost had almost pulled me out into the light.i almost let you.luckily you let me know i was imagining things so that i could fall back into the place that is most comfortable.the black cold’s peaceful here.and i can concentrate without thoughts of you swirling around making me do stupid shit like smile and daydream.too distracting.i have work to do.things to take care of.i don’t want the turmoil of salvation.i don’t want the vulnerability.too much uncomfortable happiness.thank you for reminding me of this.thank you for making decisions for me.thank you for knowing what i wanted instead of letting me decide that for myself.thank you for not really being my salvation.


that was close.


Yet again. Here I am. Slouching in a darkened room staring out at the heartless black of night. Stars twinkle. Cold light from the moon falls through the window. I ponder the ridiculousness of where I find myself. Questions race through my head. Unanswerable questions. Or perhaps the answers are too horrible for me to acknowledge. So I pretend they are unanswerable to avoid looking them eye to eye. I take out my heart and hold it up in the light of the moon. Twist it, turn it. Admire the scars I have built up over the years. The scars that give truth to the idea that love hurts. Someone once said “You teach people how to treat you.” I understand. I’ve taught people to treat my heart as a target for claws and blades, slings and arrows. Whether intentional or not they’ve raked its tender skin so often it can barely be recognized through the scar tissue. Time may heal all wounds but the scars are a mother fucker. I know that I have put it out as a target and by doing so I have given permission to fire. You’d think it wouldn’t feel anymore. You’d think it would be numb from the constant chafing. And perhaps, hopefully, it will be after this last time.

I sit it on my desktop. Then I reach in to the gaping hole that is left and I pull out what I feel for her…I reach into my head and I pull out the memories, scraping around to be sure and get every last scrap. Nothing can be left. Nothing. It must all burn. I sit and stare at the pile of uselessness that sits before me. Every sweet word, every wasted gesture. I hold my hand to my mouth as I ask myself again and again and again why none of it mattered? Why does it always happen that I want to give it so badly and so freely but it is never taken in a like manner? Appreciated, yes. Remembered, yes. But never reciprocated. I am a brightly lit being, consumed with fire, a conflagration that will only take the fuel of her heart to turn from blue and cold to red and hot. Perhaps that is why she shied away. She feared being consumed by a wildfire she had no idea if she could control. I suppose I’ll never know. I can only wonder at the smoke I see from afar as she fans her own fire, attempting to coax the ragged embers and green wood into a roaring heat. In time, in time. Regardless, her back is turned away from me as she concentrates. I’m not even casting a shadow for her with my radiance.

I strike a match and hold it out towards my little pile, ready to say goodbye as I turn it all into ashes. Turn, turn, I send silently towards her with all my might, hoping desperately that she will stay my hand, because I know that I really want to keep it all inside of me. I don’t want it to burn, but the blue flame hurts too bad. I can’t go on being consumed by cold fire. I have nothing to hold on to. No burn of my lips from her hot kiss, no searing of my skin from the heat of her touch. One last breath.

She will not turn.

Suddenly, I laugh at myself. I realize once and for all I am the king of fools. No, the patron saint, even the God of fools. I deserve a place alongside the rest of Olympus. My own mythology. There Aphrodite will laugh at me for all eternity for daring to think that I could ever find the one I was meant to burn with. I am not blameless. I have turned away from others who did offer me a flame. I haughtily decided that they did not burn brightly enough. That will also be a part of my story. Forever searching, forever not seeing those who deserve for those who do not deserve. It will make fine theater but I wonder if those who come after will truly understand the misery of that existence. I hope they learn from it because I doubt that I shall.

I touch the match to the pile. It burns slowly, as if as reluctant to go as I am to say goodbye, but soon there is a pile of ashes. I scoop them up into the palms of my hand and carry them outside. I look up at the moon. She looks back at me, cold and uncaring, but I am used to that. She holds no pain for me. We have an understanding the moon and I. I hold up my palms and open them slowly. The breeze catches the ashes and takes them away. Not far enough I know. There will be ashes for me to tread on until time finally buries them under the dust of its passing.

I watch them fly and turn back inside. Already I can feel everything I took out of me growing back to haunt me yet again.

The Meaning of Life

At a very early age I was led to the toilet by my mother so that I could go from being a pet to being a child and thus hopefully becoming a human being one day. (My poor dear mother is still waiting for that latter to occur.) Over the many years of visiting the toilet, I have come to an amazing, some would say perhaps even an astounding conclusion. The meaning of life is shit. Everything we do revolves around it. We eat shit, we watch shit, we listen to shit, we talk shit, we buy shit. Some people even actually give a shit (or so I hear). And then when we can consume no more shit. We take a shit.

So there you have it. The Meaning of Life.

Glad to be of service.

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