Time Step

Whoever said life is a dance is just trying to sell you something.

Dancing requires ordinance; coordination, a pattern and plan. Life? There's no standard pattern to it. No plastic footprints to follow. Dancing is the same thing over and over in most cases.

I would slit my wrists if life were like a dance.

Jarrett? He wishes life were a dance right now. Just spend a little time with him; he doesn't know what up is, and the difference between light and dark. The world looks like an unfamiliar haze.

I was there. I've been him, before.

Anyone who's ever woken up in the closet one morning and decided, hey, maybe I'm not totally straight has been there. At least I don't have an ex-wife to keep satisfied. And two kids to explain things to.

That I know of.

Putting that aside, I know he has a long memory. It can't be longer than mine, but I know he remembers a past in which is family owned this territory. Owned the whole South. Can picture in an instant the old Mid South Coliseum, packed to the gills and awaiting the next Lawler match.

Bad business is just bad business. Dead legacies do more damage; they rob the innocent of what was theirs at birth.

Especially to milk-skinned, blue-eyed southern gentlemen who were told that the world would fall to heel for them someday.

He will not talk about how he feels, though I wish he would. My reasons are fairly selfish, for I feel a pull toward his form, like a tide drawing me inward.

And I don't really know why.

Somehow, sometime, we should talk. But how do you open up your soul to a man who doesn't let a single person into his world, dancing away in the night of his mind?

I want to dance. But there are no steps to life.

The sooner to teach him that, the better.



Go On