Unguided Gentleman: March 2025

Friday, March 21, 2025

The Hidden Constellations Within Our Darkness

Those who navigate the turbulent seas of mood swings carry within them oceans of feeling that most will never comprehend. Their emotional landscape shifts like weather systems; violent storms followed by breathtaking clarity, allowing them to experience both the crushing depths and soaring heights of human existence. They feel the world not in simple melodies but in full symphonies, each note resonating through their being with staggering intensity. The anxious mind is a labyrinth of brilliant possibilities, endlessly calculating, perpetually vigilant. Behind those racing thoughts lies an intellect that perceives a thousand variations where others see only one path. Their heightened awareness; that electric vigilance that keeps them awake at night, is the same force that allows them to detect subtle patterns, anticipate complexities, and imagine solutions that elude more tranquil minds. Creative spirits who turn to addiction are often drowning the deafening roar of their own unfulfilled potential. Their souls burn too brightly for the mundane containers society offers them. The same sensitivity that makes them exquisite artists, visionaries, and innovators also exposes them to life’s jagged edges without filter or shield. They seek numbness not from emptiness but from overwhelming fullness, a temporary respite from the relentless whispers of their calling. Those wrapped in the heavy cloak of sadness are not merely feeling, they are bearing witness. They refuse the comfortable lies of toxic positivity and instead stand unflinching before the raw truths of existence. There is profound courage in their willingness to acknowledge pain, loss, and injustice without turning away. Their tears water the soil from which authentic healing and transformation can grow. The person who builds fortress walls around their heart does so because they’ve glimpsed the devastating power of their own capacity for connection. Their emotional reservoirs run so deep that they fear drowning others; or themselves, in their intensity. Their withdrawal isn’t coldness but an unconscious recognition of how completely they could love if they ever fully unleashed that force. Those labeled “insane” are often seers whose vision penetrates the collective illusions we mistake for reality. Their minds refuse the comfortable constraints of conventional perception. They see the emperor’s nakedness, the machinery behind the curtain, the possibilities that exist just beyond our structured understanding of what’s possible. Their “madness” is often sanity in a world gone numb to its own absurdities. These beautiful, broken, extraordinary beings aren’t damaged goods, they are unrecognized treasures whose struggles are the very crucibles forging their gifts. Their wounds are portals to wisdom that comfort never teaches. Imagine a being of immense power and purpose forced to deny their essential nature. Picture Superman; made to suppress his flight, muzzle his strength, dim his vision, and shuffle among those who would have him be smaller than he was created to be. His spiral into despair wouldn’t be weakness but the natural consequence of a soul denied its authentic expression. The call that haunts you; that persistent, inconvenient yearning that refuses to be silenced by distraction or rationalization, is not delusion. It is your truest self-breaking through the carefully constructed defenses designed to keep you safe but small. The shadowed corners of your psyche that terrify you most may harbor precisely the gifts that only you can offer. Your particular constellation of brilliance and brokenness creates a light unlike any other in the universe. In a world desperate for authentic voices, your unique perspective; forged in the furnace of your struggles, is an irreplaceable medicine. Your journey through these dark woods has prepared you to be a guide for others lost in similar terrain. We await your emergence. Not your perfection, your presence. Not your flawlessness, your fearlessness in bringing your whole, complicated, magnificent self to a world that needs exactly what you carry. The time for hiding has passed. We need your fire now.

Saturday, March 8, 2025

The Burden Of Early ManHood

A three-wheeler cuts through crisp Adirondack air, Dust trailing like memories refusing to settle. Seven years old, with a rifle too heavy to bear, Not just its weight, but what it asks of me to level. Baldwin Road stretches behind like a timeline, Each inch etched in the muscle memory of youth: The lawn I mowed, the woodpile stacked in line, A child building something solid amid unspoken truth. Father's departure, an invisible fault line That cracked open all I knew of love and home. Not with explosion, but a quiet phone call's design, His voice matter-of-fact as he chose to roam. "Males are bound to cheat," he said from a hotel bed, Words becoming prophecy, a generational curse. At fifteen, I became the man of the house instead, While mother sought solace as our lives grew worse. Electricity flickered; sometimes on, sometimes not, A perfect metaphor for our precarious existence. Early lessons taught: nothing stays, whether you want it or not, Each connection a risk, each bond a calculated distance. The three-wheeler cuts on, through memories like a knife, I am both child forced to grow and man seeking to heal. This map of survival charts the roads of my life; Wounds carried, passages hard, yet somehow still real. Roads untraveled are sometimes the most important journeys, The paths not taken echo loudest in the soul's quiet yearning.

The Weight Of Absence

The smell of coffee. Before dawn. Reminds me of all the mornings. I wasn't there. Another day. Another jobsite. Another moment. Lost forever. My toolbox is heavier than it looks. Inside: wrenches, pipes, fittings,and the weight. Of a thousand missed moments. Lauren's first day of kindergarten. Her small hand. Clutching a lunchbox. I never saw. Grace's solo. In the Christmas play. Her voice rising. Through an auditorium. Where my seat. Remained empty. I was fixing. A burst pipe. Across town. Thinking I was doing. What was right. I built systems. That bring warmth. To other people's homes. While my own grew colder. "Daddy has to work." Became the refrain. Of their childhood. The steady drumbeat. The paycheck. That kept us afloat. Drowned me. In regret. There is no magic. In watching your daughters. Grow up through photos. Sent to your phone. No beauty. In hearing "It's okay. Dad, I understand." From a child too young. To understand anything. Except absence. My calloused hands. Built things meant. To last decades. But I can't rebuild. Those lost years. Can't reinstall. The bedtime stories. Never read. Can't reconnect. The conversations. Never had. The calendar pages. Flipped with cruel. Efficiency. While I was underground. In service tunnels. My daughters transformed. From pigtailed children. To poised young women. In the blink of an eye. A blink I missed. While focusing on pressure. Gauges and blueprints. Believing that providing. Was enough. The simplest moments; Lauren blowing out. Birthday candles. While I was on call. Grace's handmade. Father's Day cards. That greeted me. Days after. They were made. These intimate rituals. Of their lives. Developed without. My witness. My toolbox now sits. Half-empty. In the garage. While my heart feels. Completely vacant. The pipes I've installed. Will service buildings. For decades. But I failed to lay. The foundation of presence. A structural defect. No master tradesman. Can repair. Each morning. The rich aroma. Of coffee brewing. Mingles with the bitter. Taste of regret. The paycheck. That once seemed. So crucial. Feels hollow against. The wealth of moments. Forever lost. Christmas mornings. Half-experienced. Through FaceTime. Birthday parties. Attended only. Long enough to sing. Before being called away. In the end. The pipes will continue. To flow long after. I'm gone. But what will Lauren and Grace. Remember? A phantom father. Who loved them. From a distance. A man who thought. Providing a good life. Meant missing. The life itself. If I could go back. I'd measure success. Differently. Not in overtime hours. Or completed jobs. But in first-day-of-school. Pictures and Christmas plays. Attended. Because now I understand. That the most precious things. Truly are priceless. And the cost of missing them. Even while thinking. I was doing what was right. Is a debt I can never. Never. Repay.

Thursday, March 6, 2025

To Her, My Eternal Masterpiece

The greatest gift I'll ever bestow upon you surpasses any jewel; encrusted treasure or silk-wrapped offering that wealth could procure. It emanates from the depths of my being when I watch you move through this world; how your chestnut hair catches the afternoon light, how your eyes crinkle at their corners when you laugh without restraint. It's in the sacred permission I grant you to inhabit every curve and plane of your body without apology, to fill your lungs with the air of complete acceptance, to unfurl each hidden aspect of yourself in the sanctuary of my unwavering gaze. Each time our fingers intertwine, each moment my palm finds the small of your back, I'm silently proclaiming that your worth blazes not from what your hands accomplish, but from the intricate mosaic that forms your essence; each scar, each laugh line, each vulnerability that makes you exquisitely, irreplaceably human.

When I offer you this rare gift of feeling utterly enough, I become the faithful mirror that reflects not the imagined imperfections you scrutinize in dawn's harsh light, but the constellation of radiance that forms your spirit. My reverent touch traces the geography of your collarbones, the gentle slope of your shoulders, the soft landscape of your belly;peeling away years of whispered doubts that have draped themselves across your shoulders like invisible weights. In the shelter of our shared moments; beneath tangled sheets at midnight or across a sunlit breakfast table; the exhausting performance you've perfected for others dissolves into dust. You need not carefully select your words or monitor your laughter or soften your opinions. Here, in this hallowed space between heartbeats, your unfiltered existence alone is the masterpiece I worship each day.

This offering arrives not with orchestral fanfare or grandiose declaration But in the quiet cadence of unwavering devotion,

In my fingertips memorizing the delicate architecture of your face in darkness,

In my voice rising like a tide to meet your midnight uncertainties, In the warmth of my chest against your back when winter seeps into your bones, In how I defend your name when spoken carelessly by others, In the way my eyes seek yours across crowded rooms as if pulled by ancient gravity. I bestow upon you the freedom to expand into every dimension of your truth, To speak with thunder when passion moves you, To whisper when tenderness fills your throat, To weep without explanation, To rage without justification, To simply breathe without question; Neither diminished nor exaggerated, But perfectly, completely, magnificently enough.

When this gift passes from my soul to yours, I transform into the silver moonlight illuminating the shadowed corridors of your most persistent doubts, the crackling hearth-fire melting the accumulated frost of your deepest insecurities. I become the one whose vision penetrates through the carefully constructed façades you've crafted since girlhood; the composed professional, the tireless caretaker, the unflagging optimist; seeing instead the multifaceted woman who stands before me in rare vulnerability. My eyes linger on the tiny scar above your eyebrow, the stretch marks silvering your hips, the worry line between your brows—each imperfection perfect in its testimony to your journey. And as I witness you; truly witness every layer of you; your faith in yourself unfurls like night-blooming jasmine, your trust in your inherent worthiness deepens like ancient roots, and you realize that love isn't a prize to be earned with performance but the birthright embedded in your marrow.

This is the gift that metamorphoses everything it touches, Transforming ordinary moments into sacred ritual, Our Sunday mornings tangled in cotton sheets,

Your laughter echoing through our kitchen at midnight, The weight of your head on my shoulder during long drives,Your fingers absently tracing patterns on my forearm during conversations. It is belonging tattooed into the rhythm of our synchronized breaths,

Recognition carved into every lingering glance across dinner tables, Acceptance flowing between us like an ancient river cutting through stone. With each synchronized heartbeat, each whispered endearment against your neck, Each wordless moment of understanding between us, I proclaim your wholeness, your worthiness, your magnificence. And this gift, once bestowed, becomes eternal; A flame impervious to time's relentless current, A truth that neither distance nor circumstance can diminish,

A certainty more solid than the ground beneath our feet.

In your eyes, I've found my home; in your heart, my purpose. And in the sacred space between us, we've created something Neither of us could manifest alone; A love that doesn't just see beauty, but creates it, A bond that doesn't just acknowledge worth, but multiplies it, A connection that reminds us both, with each passing day, That we are;gloriously, undeniably, magnificently,

Enough.

Have a Seat Fellas- The Weight Of Trust Betrayed

Listen closely, brother, because this truth needs to cut deep as a blade – right to the bone where it can’t be ignored. Do you want to talk about the hunt? About the chase? Let’s talk about what comes after when the thrill fades, and you’re left staring at the wreckage you’ve created.

You worked for months, maybe years, carefully dismantling her walls brick by brick. Patient. Persistent. Promising safety with your words while your actions played the long game. You saw her watching you, testing you, trying to decide if you were different from the others who left scars. Remember how proud you were when she finally let you in? When those guards dropped and her eyes softened with trust? That was your moment of truth, and you failed it spectacularly.

Do you understand what you actually destroyed? This wasn’t just another conquest, another notch, another story to tell your boys over beers. This was a woman who had probably spent years rebuilding herself from previous battles, who had carefully constructed armor around her heart, who had learned to live behind walls – until you came along with promises of forever, whispering words of safety, painting pictures of a future just to get what you wanted.

Let’s be crystal clear about what happens after your careless words land like grenades after your thoughtless actions detonate like mines in her life. This isn’t just about tears that will dry or pain that will fade. You’ve fundamentally altered her neural pathways. Every future relationship she has will be viewed through the lens of your betrayal. Every potential connection will be measured against the depth of your deception. You haven’t just broken her heart, you’ve rewired her brain.

She’ll question everything now. Every genuine smile from a future man will be suspect. Every promise will sound hollow. Every “I love you” will trigger alarm bells. That lightness she once had? That ability to fall freely into love? You took that from her. You replaced it with a hypervigilance that will exhaust her for years to come. She’ll analyze texts for hidden meanings, scrutinize actions for signs of betrayal, and always wait for the other shoe to drop.

And here’s the part that should keep you up at night: imagine this was your daughter. Picture her, young and bright-eyed, full of hope about love and connection. Now imagine some man doing to her exactly what you did..., systematically working to gain her trust, making her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, then treating that trust like it was worthless. Imagine her crying in her room, fundamentally changed, her belief in love and humanity shattered. How does that sit with you?

You want to talk about accountability? Let’s talk about the ripple effects of your actions. This woman’s future children will have a mother who struggles to trust and whose capacity for joy has been diminished by your carelessness. Her future partner will have to work twice as hard to prove their authenticity, fighting against the shadows you left behind. Her friends and family will watch her struggle to believe in love again, knowing she’ll never be quite the same.

The truly twisted part? You probably don’t even recognize the magnitude of what you’ve done. You’re probably telling yourself it wasn’t that serious, that she’ll get over it, that everyone gets hurt sometimes. But deep down, you know better. You remember the moment she first trusted you completely. You remember how pure that trust was, how precious. And you threw it away like it was nothing.

This isn’t about making mistakes, we all make those. This is about the calculated deception of working to gain someone’s trust with no intention of honoring it. This is about the profound evil of seeing a woman’s heart as nothing more than a temporary plaything for your amusement. This is about the cowardice of not even having the decency to look her in the eyes and acknowledge the depth of your betrayal.

So here’s your wake-up call: Stop. Just stop. If you can’t commit to protecting and cherishing the trust you’ve worked so hard to gain, don’t seek it in the first place. If you can’t handle the responsibility of someone’s heart, don’t ask them to give it to you. If you’re not ready to be the man who guards and nurtures what’s entrusted to him, then stay away until you are.

Because one day, you might have a daughter of your own. And when you hold that innocent baby girl, when you watch her grow into a woman capable of love and trust, you’ll understand the true weight of what you’ve done. You’ll realize that every woman you’ve carelessly broken was somebody’s daughter too. Someone’s whole world. Someone’s reason for believing in love.

Do better. Be better. This isn’t a game. These aren’t disposable toys you’re playing with. These are human beings with souls that can be shattered, spirits that can be crushed, and hearts that may never fully recover from your carelessness. The next time you’re tempted to chase someone just for the thrill of conquest, remember: your temporary satisfaction might be someone else’s lifelong trauma.

The choice is yours. But know this... Every action has consequences, every betrayal leaves scars, and karma has a way of coming full circle. The question isn’t whether you can get away with it. The question is: can you live with yourself knowing exactly what you’ve done?

What I Crave

I yearn for depths beyond the shallow sea,

For love that burns with quiet certainty—

A woman whole, secure within her skin,

Whose strength flows outward from the fire within.

I crave her touch, both fierce and tender-sweet,

Where passion and serenity complete

Each other in a dance of give and take,

As waves upon the shore that crash and break.

To be beheld by eyes that truly see,

Not just the surface, but the depths of me;

A Queen who reads the chapters of my soul

And helps me understand my story whole.

When darkness clouds my vision, let her light

Remind me of my worth, restore my sight.

I need her truth, unvarnished, crystal clear—

The mirror of her heart to hold me near.

Let me be canvas for her artistry,

A playground where her spirit wanders free.

Each touch an exploration, each embrace

A journey to some new discovered place.

And in return, I long to be the key

That sets her hidden essence wild and free—

To witness as she blooms in sacred space,

Embodied in her power, filled with grace.

Let us dive deep beneath the masks we wear,

Where vulnerability leads us to dare.

Two souls entwined in love's eternal flow,

Until the seas of time cease ebb and go.

For what I crave transcends the physical—

A love both earthly and mystical:

Two spirits merged in perfect symmetry,

Dancing through time toward infinity.

In her fierce heart, I seek my sanctuary;

In my strong arms, she finds her mystery.

Together whole, apart yet intertwined,

Two souls in sacred union, rare to find.

Wednesday, March 5, 2025

Will You Hold My Hand?

Will you... Hold my hand for a little while?

Not as my savior, but as my witness.

The autumn chill has settled into my bones,

And I find myself standing at the threshold of my own wilderness.

I don't need you to save me from these shadows.

No need for you to untangle the knots i've spent years tying.

No need for you to shoulder the weight of memories

That press against my chest with each shallow breath.

But will you simply intertwine your fingers with mine?

I don't need elaborate consolations whispered in my ear,

Your carefully constructed philosophies of pain,

Nor your steady frame to collapse against.

But will you sit here beside me on this weathered bench,

As the world continues its indifferent turning?

While salt-warm tears carve familiar paths down my cheeks,

While my heart shatters like crystal against stone; each fragment catching light,

While my mind conjures spectral fears from forgotten corners,

Will you, with your steady presence, remind me that even in this vastness,

I am not traversing this landscape entirely alone?

For this darkness is mine to navigate; its contours known only to me,

My pain is mine to feel; its depths I alone can measure,

And these wounds are mine to tend; with trembling hands that grow steadier with time.

But would you remain here, your breathing a gentle metronome,

While I gather my courage to face what i've spent years running from?

I am luminous precisely because I have known the absence of light,

Beautiful not despite my brokenness, but because these fault lines let my inner light escape,

And strong because my tender heart has been bruised but continues its faithful rhythm.

But would you take my hand; skin against skin; when the path leads me

Into forests where sunlight struggles to penetrate the canopy?

I would never ask you to dispel this darkness that sometimes claims me,

I don't expect your presence alone to transform my stormy skies to clear blue,

And I know well that you cannot stitch closed what time and tears must heal.

But I would cherish the warmth of your palm against mine,

As I navigate the twisted geography of my shadowland.

So, will you... Hold my hand until I find my way back to myself?

Not forever, just for this passage.

Not to lead, just to accompany.

Not to rescue, just to remind me that connection

Can be a lantern in even the deepest night.

Unguided Gentleman