Floorboards of Change

I have seen the torments rise in front of my eyes, rows of crackling amber flames aligned perfectly in unison for my even charred purification. I peer back down the path and witness a young boy trying to outrun his life, sprint past his own childhood, intrepidly reaching for validation. People ask why I shun love and comfort. Confidants wonder why I know not the ever lasting feeling of happiness. Friends question my inability to receive love for love sake. Tired, exhausted from pain, grief and regret, they depart. Attrition is all it takes to wear down the bonds of their unconditional love. Fibers of cotton, not hardened steel is what I am presented. Inwardly, I know their fortitude is insufficient to support the weight of their lofty convictions. For they have not walked in my boots, know not of the horrors of my travels and the suffering I have endeared both as an innocent child and as a contracted asset. Their resolve quickly lost upon the challenging, the abused, the tormented, the one who bears such potential. Losing interest, capitulating to their own survival and well-being, they scatter and denounce my existence to more perfectly balance their own impotent guilt and bereavement. They always depart when I hold out just long enough for them to recognize that I may never allow myself to feel loved again.

I explain that I recognize only brief interludes of solace, separated by long intermissions of pain.
Casually this is accepted and the once stray dog that show so much promise is now just a memory.
Gather up the leash and chain, transport them in silence, arrive to the shelter, click-the door opens, clack-the door closes. Guilt is suppressed. You drive away and the world will never know of your misdeeds, promises nor the intentions squandered. Fading in the distance, your thoughts will be the only reminders of your past.

Loose hair fibers, scattered from the brief commonality of moments, litter the once pristine floorboard. Everything settles eventually to the floorboard. Change, Promise and Hope. It is all trampled upon, lost to those who don't value its existence and demands. Alas, people cannot see the floorboards as we pass through our days, they know not of where our shoes have taken us, only evidence doesn't masquerade the truth. Regardless of what we show the world, there are always reminders of how far we have ventured off course from what our masking facades would tolerate. Bits of dust, substrate and blood release their imprints.

I reach down to the floorboard and stretch to pick up the change. The metallic coins briefly send a chill through my fingers and a startling jolt through my soul. It is a warm and welcoming reminder from where I once started, and where I am now headed.

Change.

"Somebody once asked could I spare some change for gas, I need to get myself away from this place. I said yep, what a concept, I could use a little fuel myself and we could all use a little change......"