Somewhere, here, and she's dead.

She'll come alive through the paint.

In a stroke.

But living isn't really living anymore, is it?

So, where is she?



Things were grand.  A roller coaster of emotions, she was, but she was happy.  She didn't know it.  But she was.

She had hope, back then.  I don't know where it is now.  She remembers sitting in class, nervous.  Waiting for a call that she didn't understand.  The truth was, she did understand.  But she didn't want to believe it.  So, telling herself that she didn't really know what it meant was a way for her to deny what was really going on.

The fluorescent lights outside of the classroom shed plain, pallid light in the hallway.  She snuck out there to listen to her father, his voice steady, confident.  Lies?  Or did he believe himself?  Regardless, she believed his words.  They felt safe.  They felt okay.  Her heart felt sad, but she had that hope.  Whatever the fuck that was.

"The operation went fine."

Fucking tell me what this means, I tell her.  But she's in the past, and I'm in the present.  So how the fuck will she hear me?  It doesn't matter anymore.  We're here.  She's there.  The future is dark.  Or, maybe, it is bright.

Let's practice dialectically.

I can't.  Neither can she.  She worries too much.  She was wondering if her mother would see her sister graduate.  She saw mine.  Or was that the disease?  No, no; it was her.  She saw it.


Sips, sips.  Let the liquid flow.

You know who you are, you do.  You're afraid, and I know it.  I feel it.  You're stuck.  You're so very stuck, like a small, scared animal stuck in tar.  Except time stops for you.  The world around you keeps going.  You never age.  Your body does.  People think you mature.  You do things adults do.  But, inside, you're still the same.  You're still that small, desperate child.  Well, fuck.  What do you do?  Don't be so damn afraid, child.  Even children in Neverland grow and learn.  You'll get out of this.

Let's practice.  Come alive through the paint.  This is your picture.  It's not always big.  But it's here.

Paint, bitch.  Paint.

Realizing your truths

All these dark places
We go

We're not drowning
But the liquids do douse our feathers
A lighting of a match
And the party starts
Down, down we go

We feel safe with labels.

It's a new year.  I suppose I am a little late on this.

So, we're not going to talk about resolutions.

I haven't written a bloody thing in what seems like ages.  My mind is mush, yet sparked with all sorts of raging daggers and shards of glass and things that glimmer (but not craft herpes - what you may know as "glitter".).  Artist's block?  Writer's block?  What shall we call it?  After all, we are human, and humans seem to need some sort of categorization and familiarity to function and care.  Ah, well, let's not name this, and not see what it makes you feel.

I had some dreams lately, but I cannot recall them well.  I miss having crazy dreams.  Remembering them, that is.

Let's talk about anger.

Rage.

That tickle inside you that makes you twitch and shake, feel the urge to explode your every negative emotion upon anything within a Mt St Helen's radius around you.  The fire burning in your eyes as you feel them shoot lasers into those people or things that have angered you.

He's chewing his food.  Everyone needs to chew food.  Okay, maybe not snakes.  But humans.  We need to do it.  But, gosh, does he have to do it so loudly?  Am I going crazy?  Why is this so loud to me?  WHY MUST YOU DO THIS TO ME?  Can I say something?  Should I say something?  Is that rude?  Why am I thinking so much on this?  Does everyone do this?  It didn't bother me yesterday.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAKE IT STOP.

I don't know where I'm going with this.  I don't even know where I am going.  Well, then.  End post.

Not a believer

It is still beyond me how things can be so easily taken from you.  Just like that; gone, gone forever.  It's not that sudden, because you knew it was happening, but you never believed that this would happen in your life.  You sound selfish, saying this, but it just doesn't make sense.  Gone forever, and it didn't seem like the right time.

What now?  You "move on".  Right.  Because that is so easy.  Just move on, write all that you thought would be out of your life.  Because that is so easy.

Be with me, talk with me, play with me, joke with me.  Sit with  me.  Cook with me.  Just be.

And there we have it.  Gone.

How is one supposed to "move on" when moving on had such emphasis on certain things.  You honestly cannot "move on".  You have to change things.  You need to change all of your plans.  And, even so...let's face it.  It's going to be second best.

Let's talk truth:
I'll never have what I want.
I'll never really be what I want.
Maybe I'll be what was wanted.
But, hey, I'm selfish.
And I just won't ever have what I want.

So...here's to life right now.
And here's to death later.
Maybe then will things be at peace.

Love, love always.
Always love, always love for you.
I love you, always.

Not the best

I'm sick of your haunting, sick of your face

I'm sick of your visits; get out of my space

Down the river we flow. The rapids try to overtake our capsule, but we manage to stay afloat. There is not much to say for the others, though. Their ferry ship is within sight. Excitement and worry fill my body; I jump on. Where is everyone? The ship is empty. The water starts to flood around my feet. I jump back to my small boat, avoiding the sharks. How would we save them all, anyhow, with such a small boat? The fear and worry is flooding me like the water is flooding the boat beside me. Soon, we'll both sink.

We're nearing the end of the canal. There, there they are. They are safe!

We're not at the end, though, and “they” are no longer in my mind. Actually, I am alone. Except for him. Are we even on a boat with a canal or a river?

We're discussing something about going somewhere. This is what couples do. Apparently we're still a couple; nothing had changed or happened to end it. We're...happy? I'm happy? With him? I suppose I am. We discuss and go places as everything morphs. We are here, we are there. And then I am awake, bothered by his presence, annoyed and hurt at the same time.

The Swing

Jump right in.

Where has this all come from?

I can't.

Never say you can't.

I know I can.  But I can't.

I...

So many thoughts.


Just get back.


It's so difficult.



It's almost existentialist, but the others would just call it "crazy".
The way thoughts float about,
Perplexing your own mind,
Fucking with your every emotion,
Telling you things,
Convincing you.
Fucking crazy, fucking crazy.
Is there really an answer?
Fuck.


I'm sorry, so sorry.

There's nothing to be sorry about.

There's everything.  I know you're right, but-


They just don't end, do they?
How far will it go?
Where will it lead?
Will you even understand this tomorrow?
Remember?
What?
I'm confused.  Yet it makes sense.  Yes, it makes sense.

I'm sad.  You're not making sense.
Sometimes, you do; sometimes, you don't.

What the Hell is real?  Real?  What is Real?
Damn, here goes the existentialism again.

We've traveled so far.

I know.

Shit, I'm sorry again.

No, wait, but it helped.

Fuck.

This was one Hell of a trip.  Again.

Repeat.


Repeat.


Fuck, when will it end?

Nothing out of something

What we do to ourselves

The pain we cause

The sense that we do not make

The life that you live

I am not inspired, just hurting.