Intro -- Myself AKA The Matador

 Journal Entry: January 1st, 2022

Tulsa is asleep under a blanket of January's chill, and here I am, Emeth Lee Bard, at the stroke of midnight, turning another page of the calendar, another year older, yet feeling no closer to the dream that dances at the edges of my soul. The city's quiet, its dreams locked behind the frosty windows of homes and the dimmed lights of downtown, mirrors my own quiet desperation.

The car wash hums its monotonous tune, a symphony of suds and sprays, a lucrative legacy from my family that's become both my prison and my sustenance. There's irony, I suppose, in the cleansing of others' journeys while mine remains muddied, stuck in the perpetual cycle of rinse and repeat.

In my heart, there's a tumultuous sea, waves of verse crashing against the shores of my reality, yearning for the vastness of the poetic unknown. "The Matador," they call me, or rather, I call myself in the dim light of anonymity. A name born from the desire to conquer, to fight, to emerge victorious in the arena of art and expression. Yet, here I stand, a matador without an arena, fighting shadows in the dusk.

This journal, a canvas for my thoughts, my dreams, my unseen battles, is perhaps the first step toward something different, something more. The Matador, a name etched in the cover, is my declaration of war against the mundane, the expected, the path laid before me by generations of well-meaning ancestors.

Yet, as I write this, the scent of soap and wax clings to my skin, a reminder of the day's labor, of the reality that grounds me. There's beauty, I'm told, in the mundane, in the everyday acts of living and surviving. But where does beauty find its place in the soul of a man who dreams of worlds beyond this one?

My pen hesitates, then continues its dance across the page. I write not of car washes and financial statements, but of distant lands, of loves lost and found, of battles fought both within and without. Through "The Matador," I live a thousand lives, each verse a step away from the car wash, a step closer to the man I yearn to become.

As I close this entry, the first of many, I wonder: Will the year ahead bring me closer to my dreams, or will I find beauty in the balance of both worlds? The answer eludes me, much like the elusive verse that dances just beyond my reach.

But tonight, I am Emeth Lee Bard, The Matador, poet at heart, if not yet in the eyes of the world. And that, for now, is enough.

  • E.L.B., "The Matador"

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