Another leaf I'm supposed to let float away...

 There is a pain being the one that survives.

When the character of your dreams, a fiction, in book or film form bows away

when the hero of your dark corner of the room takes their life.

When chosen family passes. 

 

    I often get hit with waves of what I can only describe as pain from the thought of outliving the people and things around me. "How dare I" is the tongue-in-cheek way I mask the actual wince of sincerity. 

    The thought, however, is completely genuine.  

     I'm supposed to acknowledge that it's a selfish thought; and that people would not only notice but be upset about some space I was once inhabiting; but I gotta say something from the hip- I really don't care all that much. 

     I'm supposed to talk about it being a cowardly thing, wanting to escape pain and obligation, but I keep coming back to the idea of peace. 

     There are a couple of things that set this off, (this time) and one is nothing short of silly.  

     I was getting tattooed yesterday,  the start to a 'black out' sleeve and, it occurred to me as it sometimes does while getting tattooed, that I was being forced into a sort of peace. No... it's not a whips and chains thing... its more having to do with the idea that I was in a great deal of physical pain and I was UTTERLY in the moment, no time to wander off into the normal alleyways of my depression or... well, obsess over my obsessive compulsive thoughts. I don't allow that sort of thing, if that's the right way to put that... or rather I don't feel like I can NOT think about several thoughts at once.

     In any given moment I'm thinking about outliving my father, failing at my career, disappointing myself or others, gaining weight, losing weight, if there will ever be a Rocketeer remake or WHY SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHY I'M NEVER GOING TO MEET ANTHONY BOURDAIN. (a sample plate)

    The other memento more I was smacked with was watching Vampire Diaries yet again in my life, (to be fair it's any bit of fiction that takes a little hand hold on me) but this one- it's a teenage show of love and loss... and curses and reanimation and revenge and then more love and loss... and bourbon. That's all besides the point, the point is that regardless of the fiction, if the character leaves or is otherwise done, like, done done... eg: no more Damon Salvatore... I lose my shit. 

     "Here's another thing that I'm outliving" ...that I have no business doing so. 

     It's an actual pain. Tear-wrenching pain. Pain pain. 

     I don't want to ride this anymore, but I don't know how to get off without causing more and more pain. 
 

 

Real and Imagined.

 

Better to break bones than to endure the loss of perceived love. 

Better to bleed internally to keep warm than to seek out comfort in another at the risk of feeling too vulnerable.

Better to die quickly than endure the memory of lost things.

What a way to live, to feel as though you should be gone already. 

Why am I taking up this space, rather than...

Why am I here when they are not?

Why was his voice, a voice of calm, clarity, vision, love, and compassion gone

and I'm still here. 

Why was his voice, one of crazed humor and fearless wit, gone from this world 

and I'm still here. 

Why will my family be taken from me slowly, in front of my eyes

and I will still be here to endure it ("if I'm lucky," they say...)

It's hard to be grateful for a time yet to be spent when all I can think of is the pain of future lashes.

I want to be grateful and present and standing in a glass pool with no ripples, 

but my mind is always far away and I am standing in the middle of an angry sea.

Mirror

Progress doesn’t always show 

Because were too close.

We’re the last ones to see the belly gone

Or the anger dealt with

Or a child’s gaze, in the 

back of our minds 

A little less on fire. 

I wish I didn’t have to ask.

I wish you were a mirror

For the good and the bad

But all I hear

Is wanting for more. 

And maybe that’s what you need. 

And that’s okay

That’s incredible

But stop hurting me to get it. 

I see progress in me.

I see the beginning of who I want to be.

Please don’t stifle that. 

Anon

I don’t believe it.

I don’t believe in happiness. 

I want to-

I never said I didn’t want to 

but I just don’t see it.

Not for me.

The idea of its purity seems like a sick joke, a ruse to bring you in, but leave you in a self-made prison wanting something else but just making do with what you have. Silent suffering.

I’m not quite there. I’m not quite here either. 

I’m not quite, but always looking for something 

that I can’t describe in words. 

Something that feels like bathwater without the razor... something that feels like the pain was never there. Something that feels like privilege and comfort and softness of hands and hearts. 

I want to feel, for once, that I wasn’t hardened by a trial of childhood. I want to feel worth your time... anyone’s time... I want to feel like I was a priority. Not a lost cause. Not a lost and found teddy bear. 

I don’t want to be the last kid waiting outside for a parent that forgot he existed- too busy watching TV with a third bottle of wine to bother with him.

I want to feel fake thoughts of myself as a young boy. Memories of giggling and running and scrapes from park swings and backyard hide and go seek...Not the real and imagined scars of the actual reality of that young boy. Relied on for everything, for love and support and a whipping post for when things seemed out of control. I was silent and dutiful 

I don’t want to hurt anymore thinking about a past that's still mostly blank. I want to talk to myself, hold his hand, my hand, and tell him that it’s going to be alright; tell him that someday people would see him as useful... but that child would roll his eyes. 

That child was tougher than me. He was living every day. Fighting to stay safe. Taking scraps. Learning to survive. He made the best of it. 

He never hoped for too much. He knew disappointment and hollowness and fear, but still, he got to school on his own- maybe late, but there, red-eyed from no sleep and hungry and distracted and alone in another way but he was there. 

I don’t want all that. I’m tired of being “one of those” stories. I want normalcy. I’m so damn tired of being a story of partial resilience, a 

I want my reality to be blissfully unaware. 

Confident.

Loved. 

But I’m destined for pain, forged in fire. Self-doubt, self-hatred, and self-destruction folded into the steel of my soul. A smile without a soul. Bullshit up to my eyeballs. 

Pete Townsend’s most famous line. Knawing. 

Meat Grinder

Does normalcy exist in the way you assumed it did?
what was it like?
what is the thing you want to return to?
is it a state of carefree?
a place where crime is low and people aren't in the streets?
a time where viruses and disease weren't rampant
was there food for everyone?
was there shelter for all?
and people didn't judge one another based on
skin
and gender
and sexuality
and education
and wealth?

Where was I?
Was this place available to me?

I don't believe you,
I believe if you looked hard enough that you would see
that the world was already on fire
but you didn't care.

You were wandering through,
BELIEVING
that you would make it to the next day because
you were too important
for issues to affect you,
ASSUMED that
you were immune to the disease

you had enough,
        certainly more than some people
you weren't racist
        you just didn't agree with some things they did
you didn't care that she was gay.
        you just didn't want to see it in a restaurant while you were trying to eat
you thought 'it's just fine if those people wanted to work those jobs'...
       but it's just too bad that they don't want to make more of themselves...
and it's so great that she wants to get her job back after kids
       it's just too bad that the kids won't be raised properly

But that was you existing
and not living.

That was you enjoying being part of a very old machine
a rusty, trusty meat grinder
and it's grinding to a halt.

Handy

There used to be more joy I think

In the fixing of things. 

Pride giving. 

A dangerous thing, pride, when en mass 

but

A “job well done”

Would be more than enough. 

“Look how it works, much better now”

Would send me over the moon. 

A helping hand would make me swoon. 

It all comes easily. After the years... A quick look, an “ah that must go there” a warmth when on the right track and the parts are coming together.

Better than new. That’s the goal.

Though going back and fixing mistakes...

That’s education too.

I don’t want to be this way. 

I want help. 

I want love. 

“I appreciate you”

I can’t fix that. I can’t make words happen or feelings occur. I can just hope in silence that the effort

...That I myself...

Will be noticed 

and maybe loved.

Then and Now

Feverdreams of childhood homes

Worst nightmares of EVERYTHING falling apart

And no one caring. 

Holes in the roof, no intent on patching

 and people sitting around a table 

happy to let the rain in. 

Mold taking root, insects chewing

Sun robbing of any youth in lumber, turning it all  to dust. 

Just before the rain comes back

And washes it all away

The driveway is always full of belongings. 

Things I’ll never see again but am always haunted by.

My childhood was in there. 

I think I had one. 

I remember so much good

But so much more 

isn’t there.

Thinking of that place more. 

Childhood home, something wants to be

Remembered,

Explanations not asked for

The universe is swinging around.

Fever dreams of childhood homes waking me up

To a realty where the roof is open

The rain is coming in

And no on seems to care. 

Panic

Hey, look, a new form of panic attack.

But the old ones were so enjoyable!?

What to expect when the world starts to offer you love?

That’s what it feels like. Like the world is prodding with a little kindness and you need to sneak off to a bathroom so as to not disturb your current life with

...being happy?

What do you do when you feel your feet slipping

Like you’re standing too close to the edge of a great cliff but

your legs are jello, and your brain is spinning as though you’re already falling.

Vertigo? Jimmy Stewart? Rear Window without Grace Kelly. 

Imposter syndrome, thanks Gaiman

thanks for bringing that ole’ chestnut back into view.

(I still love you) 

What do you do when half of you wants to thrive. To become who you want to be, but the other half. tells you to stay put and lean into the frustration  because that’s what you deserve... 

I’m writing again. Something about home. Something about starting to feel fresh again. 

But maybe that’s fresh like the cigarettes used to be. Exciting. Then smoked. Then crushed. 

Light Through Clouds. Home.

Home is ethereal
a place that doesn't seem right, even when you're supposedly there
but you're desperate to return to when you find yourself far away.
Sometimes it's a person,
a thing,
hell- sometimes it's a dog
or a type of food.

Is it supposed to remind you of childhood?
Friends... friendship?
Love? Family?

Are you supposed to wrap yourself up in the comfort of the blanket of 'home'?

Or jump through the closest window, hoping for a not-too wrenching fall
when you hit the ground
of a reality that leaves in an open desert of the wide world,
a naked figure in a monsoon storm.

The physical place, the house that I remember-


...what little I'm allowed to remember... 


that place doesn't remind me of anything I care to carry forward.

Or maybe the reality of the thing, home, is that it's never there, it's constantly re-imagined
a hallucination
a dream
something to strive for when you're low.

I'm home, for now... and I don't know how,
or why I was allowed back in
but it feels
warm? fresh? like I've been brought back in time but with the knowledge of my older self...
and I want to DO WORK

I want to tackle the world again.

Another Hand Through a Wall.

What are you supposed to do in moments of anguish
but to emote
to say SOMETHING brilliant
anything.

The thing is,
that's not how it works.

My heart is in the middle of my throat.
My heart.
Though I'm uncertain of it for the first time in years.
Is it there? Is it as unhealthy as I fear?
I've smoked the first cigarette in a long time.

...and it all makes me feel old.

How do you progress?
How do you become the best person that you can be?
another person lives inside?

No, not that I've seen in a long time.

I've always wanted to die first.
Not some morose, momentary lapse;
but a decision. After all,
who am I compared to them?
Let me be that selfish.
It's my skin.
My bone.

...but I care about the outcome.

Who am I compared to the same self that was there, living free,
living in my home and acting like the mother-fucker that I wanted to be?
I was something else, a force, a breath in the wild,
I was the wild, at least in the right crowd.

Now I'm screaming over middle-aged things.
I'm crying over things I'm not sad about.
I'm giving in not to feel uncomfortable.
I'm sharing the things that make up my soul but not getting the return.

Who am I?
Who am I after all of these years, with less hair and jealousy in my heart?
Why do I ache at night?
Why do I feel so much more than I want?
Why am I not in control of love and loss and money and passion and

Life.

We all secretly don't want to care-
but
some of us feel it all for the rest of us
whether we like it or not.

What a curse it is to care.

Untitled

Happiness is not a warm gun
though in a moment one can sympathize.

Happiness is shared experience
moving though the world seeing it through new eyes
finding joy, in day to day
that has been day to day
for year and years.

I never saw that sign before
until I saw it through your smile
I never heard that song before
until I heard it through your heartbeat.

Speed can be a great assurance or proof
when a heart is to be trusted ahead of a head
though hidden pain is often swept under a puppy love rug.

Paranoia. Blah.

Let love combat doubt
let doubt fade into uncontrollable smiles and
a heart fluttering
like the tatters of the flag of a once sunken ship
in a soft early morning breeze
in a paradise bay.

let yourself feel love.

Rounding the Bases

Rain and thunder outside of a small room

a brief tour of San Francisco comes to mind

you didn't know me then
though,

I was just as bad at making decisions.

I'm better now...

still not perfect.

My book pile is swelling again, 

driven by flight of fancy or the insistence of new friends

though-

mostly-

just good titles

and flashy covers.

A trip to Tennessee with

someone new

rainy roads

familiar corners

and still:

My hands ache 

and bleed-

one new hobby 

a tentpole in my chest;

punches driven by

a heart full of 

Small

I cant seem to decide if I'm wandering enough 

or too much.

If dinner out with friends will lead to seeing pain pull up just outside of the restaurant.

It would be hell on earth to see that smile, knowing that I would be the one to take it away.

I haven't slept for more than a few hours in more than four days,

anemic, exhausted.

I don't want to wander.

I want to go the airport and sit,

let the world wader by.

You don't see people you know in airports.

I'm getting smaller too, watches and shirts hanging on bone joints,

I don't see the point in eating when I can just cook. 

From all fast food, to some bread

and some water

tomorrow.

Letters Not Sent

I'm sorry for letting you down,

I know you can really be depressed at times
I'm really trying to understand.

You thought that there was something better out there
I get that, really
I've seen some of the sights and had a taste of
certain lives too.

But it never lasts does it?

I get that certain looks can make you forget that you have a home sometimes
that when people look at you, and you don't look back because you're afraid, or you know that it was wrong to look back

but

the fact that it was wrong made it exciting.

I'm going to let you in on something I've learned-
Rob told me this once, you know Rob, from the record shop?

He said that all those times you look back, well, those are just fantasies because
all you imagine is the good stuff, you never imagine the fights and the tears and the stress over bills and where to live-

but in the end, the fights and the stress,
that's still a team sport
and you need that person around or you're going to fall apart

quickly.

Take a second and think back to all the bad...
Now think about all the good.

One outweighs the other, right?

"Well, that's a matter of perspective" -I can hear you saying that.

I was there most of the time, there with you when you were fighting with her,
and she was right a ton of the time, you were wrong sometimes too.

...but you loved each other. The fights would always subside.

Those fantasies would only last a few days too, a couple of weeks maybe if you didn't try and shake it immediately.

You should've had the fantasies about her.
You should've danced more.
Flowers don't hurt.

Now, I'm really writing you this letter because I got yours, and I know you're hurting, that after five years of back and forth and trying and fighting, but loving too- that after all that time it only took her a few weeks to find someone to make her forget about you.

Yup, I get that, it really stings, especially when you found the clarity you talked about on the phone, in the middle of the night. You said your brain snapped in two when you saw them together; but it's too late.

It's too late.

Live now. Sleep, laugh, keep crying (maybe cry just a little less, it's getting excessive.) Maybe you'll have another chance someday, but until then you're old news. Let her go.

Harsh?

Yeah.

Reality.

Families split and never get back together.

You screwed up.

But

you can love yourself again. Forgive yourself.

I love you.

Sleepless

There is no sleep left-
chest heaving, empty;
tears
and cold feet.

I am alone here,

my family is gone.

I have been called "a cancer"
twice.

I have driven dark roads,
the only direction I knew,
screaming.

I have reached out
and been told to move on, but also
to learn,
to grow,
to pursue
to pray
to hope, and
to wait.

My chest is empty,
there are still tears,
and cold feet.

Now there are new arms around her, and

I am alone

and Sleepless

again.


Years ago there was a boy that lost a girl
now there is a man that lost a woman.

I'm not sure what to tell him
to console him when he is at his worst

he made the decision
he did what he thought was best

it was wonderful while it was there
dog
house
support
feet rubbing feet when sleep was seconds away

he thought of other women,
torn apart on the inside
fantasies, never materializing
all the good
no reality
none of the bad

she said she thought he would propose
he thought he would propose
her friends thought he would too

but doubt was there

then
one drunken evening
she said she would never start a family
she laughed at the idea
and he's the only witness

then, a few months later,

she said that his ex was right:
that he was a cancer.

...he is not a cancer
he is not a fool
he was kind of a fool

but

he was fighting for clarity
he was fighting for what he thought was right
he was fighting for what his heart ached for

and now all he is fighting for
is the ability to breathe
the ability to keep the hole in his chest from sucking in the rest of his being

he is in pain
and theres nothing to do about it but walk forward
and into the clear.

Elephant Graveyard

When I was young, I learned that 

there is a place 

where elephants go to die.

As a boy 

I thought that this was sad;

but now, as welcome grey 

wanders around my ears,

I have realized-

I don't think that they went there

knowing 

that they would expire-

but more like that man 

who climbed a very high mountain-

he,

and they, 

went

to live.

Sometimes I forget why. 

Why I'm walking

stumbling,

clawing, and

dying for an idea that even I sometimes question.

I'm doing it to live

and that's enough for now.

--------------

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

A Chilly Morning

Complacency flowers into compassion.

The treadmill doesn't want you and

the microwave doesn't whine so much anymore.

These things aren't pure evils.

Don't forget how to come back home.

Don't forget how to be uncomfortable.

Don't forget how to scathe,

how to ignore flirtation

and how to scorn.

Yesterdays nerves are

todays cold showers-

are tomorrows grins.

Remember the good work,

do more of it.

Remember the good coffee

drink more of it-

enjoy the bitter

shirk the sugar.

Remember the poor work.

The endless lines about the color and 

clarity

of scotch.

Remember that whiskey will always be king.

but water will always be a steady queen.

Remember that the desires of the flesh are never wrong

but aren't always right.

Remember the first time.

Remember the best of friends resemble the most pernicious viruses

cropping up

in the darkest of places 

in the most inopportune times.

Never inoculate yourself to them.

Remember that bow ties are worth the effort.

Remember to breathe

Remember to love what you do

Remember to enjoy the fall, and be always wary of

the climb.

Journal: Entry 1.

It hurts more to see the past in lively motion, 
not just a photo 
or from passive memory- 
but from a flickering film;
life looks forward
through the frame 

and not regret,
but shame
clouds into my blood.

Feelings I've long since felt,
feelings I've done my best to compact and bury,


resurface

and, for a moment,

I feel terribly, blindingly
whole.

Afterthought

There is something irresistable

about loving an idea and only and idea.

We are captivated by the past 

and the paths that we never walked.

Sometimes, without knowing, head wins over heart

and we watch passively, as 

love fades 

and reality grows.

We will love as we are expected to 

we will think about the hard fought dreams

of our youth's persistence 

as if they were only the fanciful, 

flickering, frames 

of someone else's home movie.

We all sit in the dark sometimes,

contemplating the features within the shadow of a face 

not yet illuminated in our foyers mirror.

There,

below,

in a porcelain tray

are the keys to cars and 

houses, alongside

the invitations to relatives' weddings 

and birthday parties for neighbors' children-

a whole reality never once dreamt as a child,

an unwelcome truth,

a bitter pill tasting eerily similar to the taste in the back of our mouths

when the first step down the wrong avenue was taken

Staring back in every reflection is the dark outline 

of someone,

perhaps,

we should have been.

When did we lose ourselves 

to the other side of the mirror?

Seed

A far off storm

ripples through the moist

night.

Laying there,

eyes moving beneath taught lids,

my muscles tense as

a stiffness spreads like moist cobwebs

just beneath my skin.

Then, just as

an anesthetic failure on the operating table-

my eyes peel wide with silent panic,

a warm tear falls down my temple;

my tongue is cotton, and

I cannot cry out.

It's not a masked

killer, or an oily, 

tentacled monster that chases me-

but the rotten seed of a plant

sewn from love and left to the frost,

many years before.

We are all each other's

nagging feelings.

They say our ears turn red 

when thoughtful people remember; but

cold fright is more accurate

tale as

a shadow slithers 

across my grave.

Long hours I've spent with ghosts;

judging, questioning,

continuing ill-fated affairs and

imagining unwritten romance.

All the grudges held 

out of unfounded, misplaced pride

and embittered in the fires of 

childish haste;

fall back, turning around

and sour only myself.

All of these things are chasing me

and every moment I lay calm,

resigned to deep dreams-

she finds me,

she hugs me,

and I wake 

screaming.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.