Are you awake?

I'm watching her die.

I'm watching her die, aren't I.

A pattern.  But it's not meant...


I can't watch this movie play out.

It's just pain and suffering again.  Love, love spent on something fading away.

Maybe it's why I don't want to believe in love anymore.

Because it is too real.  Because I feel it.  Because I'm watching it die.  I'm holding it in my fingers, trying to support it, trying to be there for it, trying to be what I could not when she was suffering...

Be mine, not because it will be February.

Be mine because I wanted to be yours.

Be here with me as you always were.

Please do not fade away.

Please do not leave me.

Do not mistake my inability to cry anymore for indifference.

You'll always be her to me.  You're always you to me.  You always were.


We'll fight again, we'll hug again, we'll cry again.


What is existence, anyway?


It is the absence that makes it feel like this is something.  But it feels like nothing.

I don't know what I'm saying, and I never know what I'm thinking.


What if they are gone, too?
What if he leaves, too?

Where will you all be?



Maybe nothing is the end and the beginning.
Maybe, soon, there will be peace.


I'll love you forever, whatever that means.  Take a part of me away.  I want you to have it.

When the quarters are the mids, and the mids crave the end.

You know that sound a teapot makes when it's pushing steam out at full force?

That is the noise that I am making inside, viewing myself as someone that is sitting on the couch, pulling hair from the head, that awful screeching at maximum blast.  It's like being a teenager, the angst and anger spewing this way and that, so pent up, so alarming, so...ARGH!

I hate this life.  I hate it.  I hate it.  Woe is me, woe is me.  My life is at a standstill, I am going nowhere, this is nothing, he is ...  They are...  The screeching continues, piercing my own ear canals.  I imagine the blood trickling out of them, staining my shirt and the couch.  NOWHERE.  STUCK.

Woe, woe, woe, dear child.  Where is the comfort, where is the feeling that things will be okay, the assurance of a mother's touch, her hug, her guiding words...

Woe, woe, poor child, poor baby.  Screech, screech.  The downward spiral is about to take hold, about to pull me under, when I realize:

I am an adult.

Damn it.  Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT.

And where do we go from there?  The child adult sits on the couch, eyes absorbing the tears that were going to spill, unclenching the fists of rage, seemingly relaxing.  Ah, relaxing...adults don't do that.  The tension has turned to something else: it has turned to some sort of sadness, embarrassment, ignominy.

Body slumped, deadness taking over.  I am an adult.

And, with that, there goes my hope.  My world.  My sense of being.

This...is ...?

I don't believe in God.

He's not always present.

A lot of the time, he is.

It's lovely, yet, it can be painful.

He'll tell you the truth, whatever that may be.  Whatever he needs.  And you'll respect it.  It will pain you both.

You'll want to tear your heart out.  He'll make you cry, even if it isn't really his fault, because it is yours.

Forward, you'll say to yourself.  You wanted his presence.  But you knew it wasn't right.  And nothing you did seemed right.

He could be a martyr.  You are the sinner.  Baptism has nothing on this shit.

Nothing is really "wrong", is it?  But you'll tear yourself apart anyway, believing what you were taught, what he feels, is everything that makes you that sinner.  May you burn in Hell.  This is your forever Limbo, and you're scratching and pawing at everything.  Tread on your skin, bring upon the raw flesh to feel some substance of what is this life, but only for a brief moment.  Because the pain doesn't last, and the stinging doesn't last, either.

Go numb.

Jesus, Christ

Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?

Repetition as a human.  You'd think we'd learn.  We do, yet we repeat our situations in our lives over and over again.  Broken records.

And we try to stop, but...  Alas, it will happen.

And this is fine, for the happy, content person.  Praise to them.  But to those masochists...  Well, is it praise to them, too, because they are achieving their masochism?  Burn yourselves.  Again.

And, so, there she is, again.  Silent, silent, silence.  Happy to the outside, blindsided a little, but feeling demeaned and confused as to why she feels bad about herself, sometimes.  Are the words spoken to her manipulative?  How can one know if not meaning to manipulate?  Ah, but the manipulation isn't always meant to be cruel.  But, most times, it comes out as such, and they will suffer.  She will suffer.

Stand strong, miss.  You've got a heart in there, and you can beat this.  Don't let them tread you down.  You've got this.  Strength, miss.  Strength and love.

Whales.

Fuck.

These aren't revelations, they are ruminations.  Abominations.

Again, and again,
and again.

Ask her once,
Ask her twice.

Again, and again,
and again.

Stuck.

Eventually, she'll catch up.

To us?


We'll call to her
Through the smog

Cigarettes, here
and there
and there

.Not making sense.
But, alas,
here she is.

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.

Cyclomania

Sometimes, it is difficult to remember what one was thinking just a few moments ago.

Sometimes, this happens often.

There is difficulty present.

Trappings in a body, but not really trapped.  Floating, wandering, brooding, existing.

Insanity?  Unstable?



I seriously cannot remember what I wanted to write.  I do not remember what I was thinking.  I do not understand.  I do not know what is going on.

Blinking

Don't blink.

You don't want to miss anything.

"Go with the flow."

"Roll with the punches."

"Follow passion, but be careful."

The griddle isn't hot enough

Her hands are shaking, but this is nothing.  She has become accustomed to the feeling; she does not notice it.

Youth fades in the eyes.  Hers hold a tainted innocence that's been worn away by what others may consider "growing up too quickly".

Walking along the street, she stares out in front of her, unaware.  In her mind, she is breezing by the shops and cars like a milkweed puff in the wind.  The dog that barks from across the street is nothing but muffled sound.  She is in a muted television.

Autumn air is crisp.  It bites the cheeks pink and raises collars to keep the neck warm.

Those who know nothing of her smile as she walks past, seeing nothing more than a pretty girl in stride down the street.  Those who have courted her see a skeleton, a body, that carries beauty and pain as if it were a trifling matter.  A mess of sorts, they pity her; they want to save her.



A sea rocks the small boat at sea.  Waves splash and tease, caressing and thrashing, licking and bruising.  Uncertainty in life, mixings like pancake batter.

Connecting the dots

My knuckles aren't as bruised as her heart.  I rub them, feeling the freshly ripped skin burn as the top layer comes off under the pressure of my thumb.

I was raised well, in a "good" family.  God taught me what was right and wrong, my father taught me how to be a man, and my mother taught me how to treat a lady with proper respect.  Yet, here I am.  The way fate has twisted its crooked fingers around me is beyond my comprehension.

I don't know how to walk away without feeling bad.  But I know how to recover well and find my next victim.

Brent once told me that women are like fish.

"Wet, slippery little bitches, man.  But there are so many, and we can take whatever we want and toss 'em back."  He took a drag on his cigarette, eyes closed, tilting his head back as the nicotine rushed through his veins.  He passed me the cigarette and I took a puff.

"Yeah, s'pose so."

"And you got so many, man, that it doesn't matter what you do with them.  Another one will pop up, pussy wet, ready to suck your dick, and-"

"Yeah, yeah, man.  I get it."  Sometimes I hated when Brent was so crude.

I suppose that's just it, then.  I'm a hunter, and I must be merciless with my prey.  I do what I want, I make them believe I'm worth keeping around...and then it's over.

I can't blame anyone but myself.  Sure, Christina went and fucked someone else when we were sixteen and we were in love.  Marissa only made out with me when she was drunk and didn't tell me she had a boyfriend.  Justine was a mess, a total mess...  But, no.  I still, somehow, broke them all.  And, though I felt bad at the time, I no longer feel remorse.  They're fish.  They're pawns.  They're my entertainment, my toys, my play things.

So, cheers, my ladies.  I'll drink to you.

This existence is but a fact and nothing more

The elation fades when realization makes its appearance, melting away what once existed, despite its adulterated existence.

She'll turn to the pages, hoping for something that could have been said.  But there is not comfort between the lines.  The black and white only makes gray.

Washing up like a sea tide, rinsing and leaving foamy residue.

She cannot turn away.

She wishes to run away.

REcovery

Sometimes, we dig down.  I like to think of it as digging upwards.



There's a pain in my shoulder.  I wonder if the pain of that is equal, greater than, or less than that of the pain in my mind caused by my past relationships.

So much is written over such a topic.  Love.  Relationships.  Romance.  The heart.

What is it, though?  Is it truly something that is a figment created by our own minds?  Is the true love really found within; do we need others to cultivate it, to help us nurture it?

Of course, it differs, person to person.  Of course.



Recover, recovery...  From these drugs.  The dependence, the addiction.  Are we really ever free?  Addicted to food and shelter, to water, to life itself.

It this not just another symptom of living, of life?

What makes certain things better or worse than others?



There's a picture painted.  Many pictures, in actuality.  The fools we are, we forget that most pictures are just a split second of time.  Without context, without the actual moments, we know nothing of what the picture is about, what went on the second before and after, or the emotions tangled within the bodies in the photograph.

I see a smile, but I really see a soul that has not evolved.  Part of me wishes to aid that soul again, and part of me wishes to be rid of it, for its toxic grab poisons my own spirit.

We must let go.

We must be free.



When she left (did she really leave?), did she take a part of sense with her?  Were things going to turmoil, only to be "made better" by the mask of sickness?  Should she not have been taken, would life have been going to the trash?  Have we been made stronger, or have we been made to rebuild ourselves differently to make up for what has been lost?



The books on my floor are not the same as they would have been with her presence.  I feel like they might not even exist.  Every moment, every happening, is altered, but meant purposefully.



And my heart?  It is really my mind.  Chemicals, I suppose, nerve endings, muscles and things that I do not understand working together to formulate thought and what I feel is emotion and feeling.  Subjective.  Objective.  Fighting.  Obsolete.



Feel.  Be.



Chad once wrote on my drawing wall about living with passion, but being careful.

P.E.G.

Ed wouldn't be happy, but he'd understand.  Or have empathy.  Or guidance.

peg.

Everyone else drinks lemonade

I can hear the ice against the glass.

Clink, clink.

Small beads of condensation form and roll down their vertical slip-and-slide, an iced tea that has yet to be touched.

A small piece of hair slides across her face as she leans to place her book and glasses down.  She doesn't brush it away, for she is not bothered by its presence.  Meredith is like that:  unfazed by little annoyances, always a pleasant aura around her.  Her hair is the color of a fawn in the sunlight, an innocent light brown.  Her skin is creamy and smooth like silk; it glows like a peach when she blushes.  Lips the shade of skin stained by raspberries, a mouth that breaks into a heartbreaking smile whenever someone tells a funny joke.

I first met Meredith when I was fourteen, young, and impressionable.  She was sixteen, and, oh, how I looked up to her.  She drove an old, beat-up Volkswagen Rabbit and smoked cigarettes at the time, a habit that her mother begged and pleaded for her to stop.  "I just can't seem to do it," she had said to me once.  "I try, but they always seem to end back in my hand.  It's like twisted fate."

"How did you start?"

"Oh, a party, you know..."  She looked off into the distance and took a drag.  "I went to my friend Chase's New Year's Eve party.  Two years ago.  I was stressed out; my parents had been fighting, my grades were slipping.  Chase had started the year before and offered me one.  I figured, heck, he doesn't seem too bad.  I had heard that smoking made you age faster and ruined your vocal chords.  But Chase still looked seventeen - he was seventeen then, three years older than me - and had a sexy voice.  So I took a chance and tried it.  And, dang, it felt great.  Like cinderblocks were lifted off of my shoulders."

I studied her face, watching as she pondered over her memory.  A melancholic smile formed at the side of her mouth and her eyes glistened slightly.

"I'll stop," she said, looking at me.  "I'll stop for you."

She touched my chin lightly, eyes locked with mine.



Sweat is starting to creep onto my forehead.  I brush it away with the back of my hand and shake it onto the grass.

Clink, clink, clink.

Meredith is taking a sip of her iced tea.  The delicate muscles in her neck ripple as she swallows the icy drink.  She finishes off the glass and catches my eye.

"Let's go lay in the hammock."

We rise from our seats in the sun and walk through the grass to the shady area in her backyard.  A big, majestic red maple tree stands there, its trunk thick with age and wisdom.  It's known Meredith her whole life.

I steady the hammock; Meredith climbs in.  I follow, sliding in next to her, our shoulders touching.

The hammock sways, our bodies feel almost weightless in our cocoon.  Meredith lifts her hand to shade her face from some of the sun that breaks through the leaves and licks her face.  She keeps her fingers spread and plays with the light.

I remember the time, early on in our blossoming friendship, when Meredith invited me over to her house and we laid in this very hammock.  We had been reading George Orwell's 1984; she had to read it for assignment at school and I offered to read it with her that day.  I was reading to her about O'Brien when she grabbed my hand suddenly and said, "Wait."  I stopped reading and glanced over at her and, before I knew it, she was leaning over me, the hammock swaying, and a kiss was placed on my lips.  It was ever so brief, so quick, that I hadn't time to process what was going on.  For that split second, I had felt the warmth of her lips, so soft and velvety, pressed against mine.  Time stopped for me, a whirlwind of confusion and a fireworked sky.  And then it was over and she was back to laying next to me, the hammock swaying like a ship in the sea, mimicking the way my mind felt.



We're swaying.  Meredith has her leg off of the side of the hammock, moving it back and forth to give us a light pendulum movement.  It's calming, laying there with her.  She runs her fingers through my hair and speaks of the future.

"I imagine I'll be on the beach, wading in the waves, soaking up the sun.  Maybe I'll even learn to surf. Wouldn't that be cool?"  She doesn't wait for a reply and continues on.  "I mean, I have decent balance.  I just need to learn to conquer the ocean."

She pauses, going off into her daydream.  I turn to look at her, see her face as she's creating dreams in her mind.  Her eyes have that distant look; her face is glowing and smiling.  Her eyes catch mine.

"You can visit, you know.  There will be plenty of room, and I'll make sure there is a spot for you."

I smile and turn my head back to look up at the leaves.  "Yeah," I say, "that'd be cool."



Once, when I was twelve, I asked my mother what love was like.  I so desperately wanted to have it, but I didn't quite understand it.

I sat at the kitchen table, feet going back and forth, back and forth, impatiently waiting a reply.

"Oh, I don't know, honey," she said.  "It differs from person to person.  And there is all sorts of it.  Like how your father and I love you, how I love your father, how I love my friends like Lindy and JoAnn."

I wrinkled my nose, disappointed in that answer.  "But what's it like with you and Daddy?"



The sun has moved and is starting to change the sky's color.  It is still warm out, though I no longer feel sweat forming on my body.  I reach down and put my fingers into Meredith's hand and wrap them around hers.  I can feel hers squeeze mine.  We lean our heads against each other.  I have nothing to say; I am simply enjoying the moment.

Soup Door

There's a can of Campbell's that's been sitting on the kitchen counter for weeks now.  She brought it home after shopping for some groceries.

"Look, Sam!  I found this.  Reminds me of Billy."

She placed it on the counter, and there it sat.  Campbell's Minestrone, its red and white label staring at me.

Billy.

Billy loved that soup.  I remember him walking through the door many a day, dropping his bag, heading for the cabinet to grab the small can.  A pot would be already be on the stovetop, waiting for him.

"Time is money; money is time," he'd say.  "No point in putting it on the shelf when I'll be needing it, right?"  He'd grin, a cheerful, gripping grin, one that won every girl at the bar over.  How he did, I have no idea.  But he did.  Fuck, he even won me over.

"We'll have to invest in a gas range.  I've been saving up.  This thing's shit."

Slowly, the smell of savory vegetables and broth would fill the kitchen and our small apartment.  Billy'd whistle as he poured himself a bowl, taking care not to spill.  His hands moved with grace.



She didn't understand why he left, at first.  She thought he was away on a business trip.  Like the soup, she had brought other little things home that reminded her of him.  A stuffed lamb.  A book about coffee tables.  A pamphlet from the new Chinese Takeout place that just opened up on Broad Street.  All of these things just became clutter, sitting around the apartment.  He never came back to see them like she thought he would.

"Why can't you just sort it out?" she'd ask, her big eyes full of concern.  "You were so close...  I just don't understand..."



I can't stand the way the can looks.  The way the letters of 'Minestrone' are formed, their cheery, rounded edges, saying, "I'm friendly and tasty!  Pick me!" bothers the Hell out of me.  I keep staring at it, imagining the paper peeling off the ribbed metal like sunburn.