the well of sadness runs deep

dreaming is a waste of time.



it's a practice best left for children to dwell in, not adults. dreaming leads inevitably to disappointment, which comes either from the crushing of hope into pieces of despair from the failure of the unattainable, or proving a stale achievement like so many grocery lists, like kissing the girl you've always fancied only to find her lips are coarse, her breath sour and her technique poor. i could easily dream about my future in all its many facets: what my house will look like, my wife, how many kids I'll have, their names, etc. but i continue to wonder, what good is this type of dreaming?

some may say i'm being negative, and maybe i am. but tell me what good there is in dreaming when you open yourself up to so much disappointment? tell me, does this gamble ever yield a worthwhile dividend?

i had the audacity to imagine a day when Ben Wallace's #3 would rise up to the palace rafters, and the ultimate display of affection between the athlete and his fans would be complete, his legacy frozen into something physical, an object for all of us to keep selfishly to ourselves. he was ours and we would have cherished him forever. all it needed to survive was monogamous devotion.

my dream, now, is dead.

i imagined a day when i would take my kids to see the pistons and i'd point to that #3 in the rafters and tell them, "these banners represent all the greatest players we've ever had in detroit. but that one with the number three, that one was truly special. he was like batman. unlike superman who was born with all the powers of the universe, batman fought evil only with grit, determination, an iron will, anger, and his heart. he had no superpowers to speak of, making his triumphs all the more dazzling." and my kids would smile and imagine what he must've been like. the object would then become ours to share, young and old, something that could only be inherited.



i must be naive for allowing myself to dream like that, for assuming the best-case would come to pass. i will not make that mistake again. i will be grateful for the good things that come my way, but i will not try to anticipate them anymore. whatever happens, happens. and of all the things Big Ben has taught me during the last six years, this might be the most important lesson.

nonetheless, his absence has left a gap of empty space inside of me, a hollowness and an unhealthy unwillingness to swallow reality.



i will conclude with this poem i wrote:

O Mighty Gladiator
May your splendor continue to shine
And take up your shield one more time
Exhibit your majesty unto the unbelievers
until their eyes explode

O Noble Warrior
I wish for you the best
Although you've left me cold and defenseless
My bulwark nevermore to be
I will continue to fight
Although my fight must now come against thee

O, why would the sun refuse to shine?
Why would it let the land turn so cold?
Why would it delight in the breaking of my heart?
Exploding in my chest like so many eyes.

His hands were too small to palm a ball
Yet they were big enough to hold us all
Now he's thrown us all away
Like Christmas trash on garbage day

O folly,
O mystifying despair
Now he must dance in Satan's lair
To play on profane ground
Alongside the ghost of the King of Air

I know somewhere lies goodness in him
Far below the corrupted fibers of his soul
And below the deep wells of sadness in mine
There still lurks a great hero

But now at night silence stands
Where at city's square the bell once tolled
Now it sits cold in dust
Content to hang heavy and quiet
Like Judas dangling from a tree.