part of a story I'm writing

“The man who has seen the rising moon break out of the clouds at midnight has been present like an archangel at the creation of light and of the world.”
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m not sure why I have always been a night owl. Staying up passed three every morning, just because I could.

Maybe I just loved the feeling of being so alive when every one else was asleep. Maybe I just wanted to do whatever I wanted to do, no matter how early I needed to be up.

Plus, this book I am reading has been a real page-turner. It is a political biography. “Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln” by Doris Kearns Goodwin.

I know most people wouldn’t find it as engrossing as I do, but I have a great respect for the written word, and Goodwin knows how to tell a story. It doesn’t matter that it took place more than a hundred years ago, it is just as alive and interesting, if not more, as the current headlines. Who cares about Jon and Kate when you can read about how Lincoln put together what is possibly the boldest cabinet in Presidential history, at least to that point.

Even my friends make fun of my love of history.

“You’d rather live in the past than live today,” Van told me once. He’s probably right, but it wasn’t always that way.

There was a time I looked forward to every new day. Every day was a new adventure always waiting for me; every day there was always something new to learn.

Not anymore. Now every morning I wake up, I fight with myself to even open my eyes. Because on the other side of my eyelids is just the same bullshit corporatist world.

And if I don’t open my eyes then I’m not really awake, and if I’m not really awake, I don’t have to deal with all the shit in my life. I don’t have to deal with my alarm, which is going off. I don’t have to deal with Eve, Adam, or any of the dozen paintings I haven’t finished. And I don’t have to think about work.

But everyday, without fail, I open my eyes. It’s just another day. I hope everyone has this feeling. Because if they don’t, and I’m the only one, that makes me really weird.

Mark Cameron. That’s my name. It’s what people call me; but I don’t know if the name fits the soul. I’ve always thought I was more of a Ted. I don’t know why, but doesn’t Ted Cameron sound better?

Oh well, blame my mother. I’m stuck with Mark.