And then it hits you in the face like a metal hammer.

Forget who reads, forget who knows

It comes back without haste.

Beauty.

The big secret.

It is like when you first typed those letters those years ago, a script of your life, a passage.

It weighs heavily on your heart as you feel yourself floating upward, giddy.

You've only found yourself wishing like this once before, and, for that, you still sometimes find yourself wishing, daydreaming.

It is as if that night was last night.  The dim lighting, the small room, the purple ink, the slender frame, the delicateness, the suspicion, the truth.  How you wish you could live it again...

And, then, there is last night; the thoughts in the mind, the reading, the pumping, the jumping, the curiosity, the fear, and the happiness.

How many years has it been?

Is it possible to take this to the grave, when part of you tells you to shout it from the rooftops?

The other part is shy, scared, frightened, and partially shamed and embarrassed.

Forget who knows.
Forget who reads.


Take it to the grave.


...or take my hand; please take my hand.

It's been a while.

The pool is dark and brooding like a cloud passing over cerulean stained glass.  Octopi slowly crawl out of the water onto lily pads and dark bunches of slimy green aquatic plant life.  Their eyes are dark, but the small bit of light around the pool reflects brightly in their eyes as they stare into the darkness.  It's chilling, the way their eyes seep into your soul and make you shiver.

A ray of light shines through the water, highlighting dust particles as it creeps through and lands on its subject.  Motionless and calm, she sleeps for the rest of her eternity.

"Sometimes, they dump the bodies..."

I do not expect this from my friend's mouth, but she says the words so matter-of-factly, without so much as batting an eyelash, that I do not question her.  I stare into the water.

Her hair is a soft dirty blonde, short and shoulder-length.  Young.  Maybe she is twenty-seven, twenty-eight.  I cannot see her face, for she lays on her side, back facing us.  She's clad gracefully in a white shirt and gray-blue jeans.  No signs of cuts or bruises are on her body, and I wonder how she died.  I feel nauseous.

I want to look away from the pool, look away from the sight of the lit water and dead body, but the image is burned into my memory.  The way she lays there, motionless, the way the water makes soft rippled shadows on the pool's soft sandy floor...  I cannot look away, and, when I do, it is as if I am still looking.

Panic and fear strike the body; waking is possibly worse than living the dream.  She forever rests on the bottom of the pool, and we will never know her story.

Good news on a bad night

She contacted me!!!

My eyes welled up with tears when I saw the name in my Inbox.  She got my letter, a bit late, but, well, it got to her.  And she sent me an e-mail.

Things may not have been going so well around here lately, but, this...this is one majorly good thing that has happened.  My worries have subsided quite a bit, and I can smile broadly about something.  She is alright.  She is alright, and she contacted me.

I wish her all the best, and, now, I can tell her that and know that she knows.

Some love has been brought back into my life, some light, and it is in the form of a long lost friend that, somehow, I have been blessed with knowing.

Procession

I don't have much to say.  I do, but I would like to get to bed to try and sleep.

I just needed to share.

I feel younger each day.  Younger and older.  More and more like a child, in a way, but also like an aging older person.

I hate the way it runs through my head, the conversation this evening.  It's not wicked painful, but it's just...there.

Granted, my mind is a tad fuzzy, and I didn't want to think about it, so I must "fill in the blanks" a tad.  But the general gist of the conversation is here from what I can remember.

Putting my plate together for a little dinner, our tiny kitchen table.  She's in the other room, two down, on the phone, out of ear shot.  I place my plate on the table, turn to the fridge to put the remainder of my things away...
"So...do you think we should have an intervention?"
I am silent, waiting for him to continue.
"To discuss things.  Like [the doctor] said, so everyone is on the same page."
I still remain silent, a little confused.  He presses on without hesitation.
"...[your brother] has lots of questions."
"Well, that's [him].  He's the biggest worrier of us all.  If he wants to ask questions, he can."
Apparently, I haven't quite grasped the conversation.  I don't know how it hits here, but the anchor drops as he bluntly puts what we're getting at.
"...funeral...but I don't want to ask because it looks like we are giving up, and we aren't."
Surprising myself, I discuss the topic matter-of-factly, not blinking an eye, no wetness of eyes, no breaking in voice.  We conclude that he shall ask, but we won't really bring it up.  I think.  I think that was what was concluded.

I guess my point is that I didn't expect this talk.  I'm still in that "shock" state, I guess, or I simply have hardened myself to the point that I am taking things scientifically and not really putting myself into the situations, despite me actually being in them.  It's like when I sometimes remember my dreams...I see myself, I watch myself do things, but I am not really myself.  I am myself, but I am, rather, watching myself.  It's odd.  Sometimes I do the same with memories.  It is as if I am hovering in the air, watching invisibly as I see my memories and dreams happen below.  So strange.  Anyhow.

The words...they seem so foreign.  So out of place.

I only overhear things.  I do not ask much anymore.  I don't want to know.

Lymph nodes turning into...  Growing...  Chemo...Thursday...two week...  There are just little things that go in and out of my mind.  They filter through but get jumbled around in the process.  Or they are there, neatly in file folders, but I brush dust and dirt onto them so that it is as if they are not there, forgotten, pretend figments of the imagination.

I guess I did have quite a bit to say.  More so than I thought, at least.

I want to talk to people about my thoughts.  I want to tell them what's going on in my mind.  I want to talk to someone and tell them things so that I can realize them and cry about it.  Only yesterday did we get the news that things are worsening.  In a way, it's to be expected, but, well, no one wants that.  And, you know, people beat the odds all the time.  So that's what I was hoping for, I guess.

She sat on the couch this evening, hand on her temple.  I knew it hurt.  I asked.  "I have a headache."  To any other person, you'd offer some ibuprofen or something.  Not in this case.  I had no idea what could help.  And I could see the pain and suffering and sadness and fear in her.  It was as if she was saying, "It hurts so much.  I don't know what to do.  I just don't know what to do."  And all I could do was sit there.  I couldn't rub her temples to make it go away.  I couldn't give her some ibuprofen to make it hurt less.  And all I could think was what I thought she was thinking, and how I couldn't help.  I couldn't make her feel any better in any way.

And that's how I feel now.  I don't know what to do.  I'm at a loss.  The best I can do thus far is give her a hug and try to put all of myself into it so that she knows it is a real hug and feels love in it.  I can tell her that I love her and hope she feels it and it heals something inside, somehow.

Distractions only do so much.  Reality is always here.  I'm going to do random things throughout the day, then shove off to work at night.  I'll temporarily forget about things for a while until I come back.  I'll be tired.  And things will just pass my mind.  I'll go to bed.  And repeat the process.

I don't know what to say right now.

What can I do?  What am I doing?

How can I make this reality not seem so bad?  How can I take what scraps we have left and sew them up into something wonderful?  How can you put together life when it's slipping away?  It's like I'm trying to make clothing out of sand.  You can only do so much with glue.  It all falls apart anyhow.  That's not even a good simile.  I can't think of anything good enough right now.

When money is slim, when so many bills must be paid off, when you can't even hold yourself together...how can you make it better for someone else whose life is...

How?  What?  Please, just...say something.

Innocence

It's gotten to the point in which I do not know what to say or do anymore.  Perhaps I do know.  But it just doesn't seem like anything, or it doesn't seem like enough.

I feel guilty about missing the past two weeks' fears that I thought I would chase down.  If I went, would this news not be here today?  I doubt it...I cannot stop such things.  But I can hope, I can try.

I feel so selfish.  I think we all do, at times.  Is it selfish of me to focus on myself so much now?  Does my poor excuse of fear, of thinking about this all, does it hold something?  The idea of thinking about what I have been told, the idea of sitting there, bearing it, having it on my mind...  I don't want to face it.  I want to pretend it's not there.  I understand that it'll hurt me in the long run, but I am not ready for this pain right now.  I do not want it here, I do not want it in my face.

I held her frail body in a hug a little bit ago.  I fought back tears and didn't cry.  I refuse to cry.  It'll happen.  It'll probably happen soon.  But I don't want to cry right now.  Denial is the only thing that seems safe right now.  I should probably sit with her and be there and talk or listen or do whatever is needed.  But, right now, I cannot.  She is on the phone, so I am using that as an excuse to run to my bedroom and hide from the reality outside of my door.

I wonder if I take up smoking if it will kill me faster.

All of my thoughts seem so pointless, meaningless.  Selfish, stupid, nothings.  I'm trying to turn my heart to stone to make this bearable.  All the cliché things to make the pain temporarily not there, and the cliché knowing that it really is still here all along and it will bite me in the ass sooner or later.  How long?  If I cry now, what will it do?  If I cry later, isn't it all the same?  We're all just fucked.  So what does it matter.

I wonder if I'm writing to myself.  Does writing here make myself feel better, give me some sense of something?  Do I really believe someone is reading this, is it comforting?  Do they keep their mouths shut because, in a way, they are like me, afraid?  Afraid to say something, afraid of what is real.  I believe so.  I don't know if it's cowardice or what.  I'm sorry for being blunt.  But, at the same time, I am not.  It's alright.  I don't like to talk about things, anyhow.

I am a liar.

So back to watching Trainspotting.  Funny.  I thought about what it'd be like to try heroine.  Thought, heh, I wonder if it really is that powerful, that good.  I wonder, if I could only get my hands on it once, would it be worth it?  This was all before I got that knock on my door that said, "It's not good news."

As suspected, this week...

I'm just not going to have expectations anymore.  I'm going to try and not care about anyone else that much anymore.  Life is trivial.  So are people.  We're just statistics that elaborate our stories to be remembered.  All in all, though...what do we really matter, anyhow?  We're all going to die anyway.

What's this button do?

My body has hit the Self Destruct button.  No idea why.  It's committing suicide without my consent.  I never signed a DNR or anything.  So what the hell, body?

I have a cold or sinus infection or something.  Whatever the case, my body has decided to also decided that, hmm, maybe it should have an allergic reaction to something.  Not sure what at all.  I have an inkling it may be medicine?  But it doesn't make sense.  But it does.  So, who knows.  But it's the only thing that makes me feel slightly better...so, in order to fight the one, I'll endure the other.  Bring on the body eating itself out from the inside...  My throat itches, my insides itch...  Bring it, you m*therf*cker.



And, despite all this anger, there is still the lingering, looming sadness and depression of life.


We sit at the dinner table, eating creamy chicken and broccoli with rice.  I cannot hear well, due to my current state, but I can still hear the piercing sound of silverware on plates.  Every bit is a screech.  I cough, fearing that my current illness will worsen hers and kill her.  I cough into napkins and my own shirt, silently praying that no germs escape my area.  The thought of killing the one who is already sick, the one who, despite being so weak and frail, takes care of you.  In a way, you just want to be the one to die first.

"I really think you should take that medicine," she tells me after I finish eating and go to the bathroom to blow my nose and wash my hands.  If only it had poison in it, I think.

The clank of plates drives me insane, puncturing my eardrums.  I wince.

I cannot describe the air while we had dinner.  It was so quiet and sad.  I felt like we were all thinking the same things as we ate our food, not saying anything.  You think it's so much better once you move out and start your "own life".  But you forget what it's like for those back at home.  The light seems dim and murky.  The silence bites your souls and eats away at your mind.

"She said it was a routine mammogram, but she is still worried."

Discussing a family friend.

There is silence for a while after he comments on it, too.

I feel the silence...  It's this thing, this ominous cloud.  I feel like we're all thinking, she could be sick, too.

How many more must get sick before we can call this an epidemic or something?  Is this nature's way of taking down our overpopulation?  Take down all the women in our town?  The ones we grew up with, the ones that helped teach in our schools or put us on the bus.  The ones that nurtured us until we because "adults".  All being taken away.

Whatever the case, I can't say it's fair or isn't fair.  The balance of Earth is off.  I want to say, eh, this is life.  But, when it deals with your life, the way these strings are intertwined, the way you have grown to love one another, the way you have always thought you'd live a long life with those you love, to have your own children and extend this family, to see them smile when they find out they're grandparents...

We've all been living this lie.  This fantasy.  No one explained the hardships quite too well.  We all think things are to be fine and dandy.  Old people die.  But what about the ones that aren't so old?  Why weren't we prepared for things like this?  For all the funerals I've been to, for all the times this bastard thing has taken people from my life, from their lives...  Why, now, have I never been so underprepared in my life?

If only there was poison in it...