SaM HaiNe (@S_HaiNe82
Misadventures of a Disillusioned Thief is a series of narrative nonfiction by writer Sam HaiNe for the Cult Classic Good News blog. Read the previous segment #007 here
There is a little boy inside my heart and every night I tuck him into bed so he can dream about better things, even when he doesn’t believe in them.
- Where do you keep your inner child safe?
No one appreciates coveted things as much as a thief. The thief often times has nothing to covet. The thief (a true thief) will watch the homes and lives of other people; people the thief feels have more than enough. The thief often times without knowing will imagine what life would be like if he or she had the square life, the sensations of being lucky, in love, in life and optimism. To simply have the things you really want and for it to matter. The things that the thief doesn’t think the thief deserves but, is willing, to risk something just for a few seconds memory of it.
"Know what I'm gonna tell God when I see him? I'm gonna tell him I was framed.” - Way of the Gun
Some people were just born lucky. And some of us were just born. I must’ve missed that lesson in the womb, as the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck during my introduction to this world. A few less breathes and I would’ve never made it…But I did. And I just keep on surviving somehow. For some reason or another continuing to go on with no destination marked on any map.
Things teased and somewhat learned over the years and all the laughter pointed at me. Things earned and turned to nothing; the vacant kisses under mistletoe. The things ripped from my grip; the overtures & serenades and the nights of isolation with the silence of morning. The early suburban cul-de-sac childhood that never blossomed yet only exists in my southern view-master memory. The friends who dressed rehearsed the part and the good friends lost. Every time it’s a gamble and every time the pony never finishes first.
Sometimes the kid inside gets lost. He holds up inside his tree house and plays with might-have-beens and no one to play with.
- "I'm alone, I am not lonely." - Heat (1995)
Then there are the two wolves, Canis Rufus and his shadow. They hunt together and compete against each other. They filter and react to the world that constantly encroaches around me. They are accustomed to being around people which is its own danger. Their unpredictability and the fact that you cannot generalize their behavior is what makes it difficult assimilating within the social hierarchy; often times ostracized or just simply left behind and passed over.
Both wolves survive with both independent thinking and a synchronized harmony. Those combined with the wolf’s desire for dominance and the predatory behaviors that are innate are usually taken for granted by fair-weather-friends.
- “I'm sick of being ashamed. I don't mind being dejected and rejected, but I'm not going to be ashamed about it. At least pain is real. I mean, you look around and you see nothing is real, but at least the pain is real.” – Pump Up the Volume
The middle passage of what a fortune teller would call a strange life. Too many close calls with miracles that were later debunked. The wanderlust pulls me away with a muted hiraeth.
Better places. Better places and empty hotel rooms. Sometimes occupied with single-serving play partners only there for the self-gratitude and gone.
There I go waking up on my own again. Putting on my clothes, my face and sauntering through the day. Look at me: The discomfort in my movements, the avoiding glances, and the passenger in my own head space.
You make your minor compromises and shake hands with individuals on their way or not at all. They look like pungent scarecrows and smell like loose fitting clothes, two days past due. Expensive basketball sneakers covering their toe-tags; small talk spitting from their faces like loose change; this isn’t just episodic, it’s every time you step outside. It’s a periodic life in this neighborhood that I have no emotional attachment to. Just slivers of flashbacks and regrets stuffed into the cracks of the sidewalk and stuck to the trees and brownstones like chewy gum. There was a little boy once. He didn’t belong.
You sit inside metal carriages and watch others from your fleshy cell. You sneer at the parts that make you cringe and hate the ways of most. But, you shy away from the intimate examples of lovers. It’s uncomfortable. It’s like reading Spanish with English eyes. You’ve been there before and it wells up in you. Because as much as you remember how it began you remember how it ends. You’ve tried to be like them; you really did; a regular. The pieces just won’t fit and there’s nowhere to put the decent things you want to give. You try anyway and you try again yet the one always waiting alone at the station is always you.
They take your heart away and give it back to you. They hack into your security and play with what’s inside. Pushed aside and passed over. They need you and then rescind you; apologies and preambles sown into the corners of a letdown letter, every time. And every time you cut a piece of yourself away little by little till it doesn’t hurt anymore. You keep going on and on and little by little you feel like you’re losing more.
- Don't feel bad for me/ I want you to know” – Asleep
Its solitary confinement with a windows view of the world… it is what it is. But, that’s okay.
You just have to go forward; somehow and in some way go on with no destination and no map and endure the things that you lose, little by little. The things you thought felt real were just in your head even if you really wanted them to be real. The good things and all the ways you felt were for a moment all you needed to get here in the present. They’re still there inside, tucked away and folded, like blankets. You can keep them with you as long as you want. And when it gets cold outside I’ll remember to tuck you into bed so you can dream about better things even when you think you don’t deserve it.