REPORT A PROBLEM
Dusk had set in as she lay on a grassy knoll with her head rested in the crook of her secret lovers' damp armpit. The show they were witnessing had brought them to silence leaving them afraid to blink. The sun was setting and God was painting himself silly filling the sky with a canopy of lustrous silk brilliance. Perfect transitions of color mesmerized the lovers as if it were made just for them. To not be spellbound was to not me human, they had agreed on that. It was he enabling her to slow enough to notice these moments.
"Do you think that the collective design is more than the sum of the individual hues?" He had broken the silence but she had no response. He found enough forms of that question that it now seemed rhetorical to her. She pushed herself up and onto her side leaning in kissing the boys cheek before getting back to the show. Her favorite part was coming up, the grand finale. It is the point where you watch as the sun disappears in a matter of a few short minutes. It slinks away escaping the world for its and our own, rest.
I do not write often of my loneliness. I suppose I try to convince myself that it is non-existent, that I am one hundred percent comfortable with my current state of affairs. But it does not matter who you are, we are all human and all humans are social creatures. We strive for it; thrive from it. I fool some, I'm sure, never do I fool myself. I do desire interaction, and love, and all the other things I say I can do without. I want someone to wonder where I am or what I'm doing. Please, someone, be aware.
Catharsis: A release of emotional tension, as after an overwhelming experience, that restores or refreshes the spirit. I have never felt such relief. I will try anything if there's a chance that my message may reach him. I believe he knows already, but, as I will never ever know for sure I will continue with my efforts, however futile they may seem to anyone else. If heaven exists above us, well, the letters would need to be big to be seen from so far. The shoreline was the perfect canvas, I never felt so alive and inspired. I miss him.
"Aggression is human destiny. Aggression is instinct. Freud says we have an innate desire towards our own death. Something about reverting that inward aggression onto an outside source." He was drifting in and out of note taking. He gazed into the rooms design noticing the overhead projector in the left corner beside a pencil sharpener with its silver cylinder attached to a black base bolted to the concrete wall to the immediate left of the chalkboard. The instrument used to turn the spiral blade mechanisms inside is missing its handle. There was nothing to comfortably grasp to operate said contraption.
I worry that I'll lose it, not the story but the will to write it. Spewing out crap gets tiring after awhile despite knowing the subjectivity of it all. I can finally utilize the art of editing and I won't take it for granted. I need to believe myself when I say that it's okay to feel like I'm only writing an outline of it, a shadow of the story. I realize it's pitfalls and I feel confident about fixing it all later on. I need to allow myself to write whatever it is I feel the need to write.
Silence protrudes, emanating from the ceiling down to the floorboards bouncing back and forth, side to side, off the paneled four walls. She sat closed in and shut off. Her bedroom was never more concave than when trying to force herself to write. Writers write, she tried to keep telling herself. The best part of writing is always the feeling of having written. Of course, in order to get there writing needs to be done. This was the curse, burden and struggle of wanting to be a writer. Backdrops of silence brings one no closer to the brink of inspiration.
He melted when she walked through the doors threshold. He had turned to see the clock but only saw her instead. Their eyes met almost immediately and a smile effortlessly formed on his face. He could feel his eyes get small and squinty. She left his gaze and took a turn to walk down the middle row of desks. He turned in his seat and fidgeted with the spiral of his notebook. He sensed her presence looming, growing closer. Her gentle feet made no sound making their way to the front of the room, with the grace of an angel.
Throughout life, he observed that it was skinny people making the most noise, carelessly stomping around when walking. It was as if fatter people were aware of their weight creating heavy steps and in turn changed their stride to accommodate less audible walking habits. With a graceful gait, she passed his desk. The boy leaned to that side and breathed in the intoxicating perfume left in her wake. He thought of his loneliness, and of crying in her arms smelling what he smelt now. Purely innocent intentions, he tried reassuring himself, nothing more then finding a comforting quality in her.
He opened his bottom dresser drawer taking out his favorite jeans. Shredded on the bottom, two belt loops hung free, with a hole beneath the back pocket revealing his boxers, and a tear across the knee. Comfort like that is rare. He stepped out of his current black jeans and put on his favorites, what he called Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœold blue tried and true.' He would kill for more perfect fitting jeans. Dumping the six pairs of pants in the basket, he reached back into the dresser for another pair of khakis. He shook them unfolded and threw them in the basket.
Bob was leaving now, with his green duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Another followed the bell sounding from Bobs exit as the man on rollerblades came in. He carried a backpack on his back and was always seen in a suit and tie. He would take off his rollerblades before anything else and proceed to walk the dirty floors in his gray socks. But the most intriguing thing about this man: he was never seen washing any part of any suit, and also he was only ever seen wearing that one suit. Plaid tweed with elbow patches, year round.
I can hardly stand it. I have been deceived by grief. This will never fade. It's haunting me. No one expected me to recover so quickly or soundly, I am sure. But I showed them all. I showed myself too. I am a lot stronger than I ever willingly give myself credit for. Being unjustifiably depressed came easy for me. It is the sadness from reason that nearly killed me. And I find it funny how one bad day can set the whole mourning process cascading back toward the beginning of it all. Have I not come far enough already?
Why am I so naively convinced that if I focus my eyes just so then I shall be able to finally see his spirit, his essence, that Thing that makes me know he is in the room. It can't be wrong if it feels this right. He wants me to see him. My innocent eyes don't know how and I fear that it frustrates him as much as it does me. There is Something out there because I know that it can't be nothing. I'm breaking myself down again. I'm losing what I worked fucking hard for. Nobody sees me.
Don't you see? The past and the future are equally irrelevant. I see it, and I try not to dwell. The past is gone and the future is highly unstable. You can learn from the past and plan for the future, but neither acts are solid. The very foundation on which we stand marks the reality of all that does not matter. Maybe the only sure truth from death is that it is destined to happen repeatedly with little to no reprieve. We are all time bombs set to go off when God sees fit. Well, fuck that, and hard.
It comes in swells and boils. The world sees nothing and hears even less. Nihility lends itself to emptiness. Suddenly you crave the intangible. What else is there? Blackness fills where permanent voids reside. You move forward and beyond. There is no rhyme or reason. Around every corner lurks more. How much can one person take on alone? Sanity mocks, laughing at your plight. Heaviness lingers, always. You push it away for a little while and you succeed. It matters none. They care not at all. You go it solo, cutting through the muck hoping for respite at the end.
Walking into the hallway toward large and revealing windows displaying an ugly scene of hateful rain over the parking lot, I thought about death. The trees shook violently spreading further sprays of rain free in a crazed torrent. Chaos was unfolding before my eyes, my detached glazed over eyes. I walk downstairs, tripped but caught myself, rounded the corner and eyed the two old men sitting separately in front of the entryway. Solemn. I felt emotionless, yet bursting. I pushed the door open and walked into the soaking, biting rain uncaring that I had a hood I could easily utilize.
Can you imagine what it would be like if tomorrow actually proceeded to happen just as the rest of our days have come to pass. Lucky for us, it won't be coming. God wouldn't do this to me, I just know it. It'll be a snow day or something. I will wake up to the news of the weatherman saying, "Don't worry folks, 12 feet of snow has canceled Fathers Day! It is a freak happenstance from someone clearly wishing hard enough for the day to pass without notice." We will all stay inside and lament all we have lost.
The sky flames up illuminating ugly faces standing over your shallow grave. They grieve not for what I've lost but for their own sense of selfishness. If they cared, they would regret more than I do. For they haven't the slightest idea of all they lost when they lost my hero. While me, I am painfully aware, as if to carry the extra burden of which they lack. My laments fall onto blind ears and deaf eyes. I break through the glass wall of bereavement. Shards fall to the people. Yet it is I, I am the only one injured.
It's silence that makes teeth chatter and hair stand on its end. Reverberating through your skull and into your heart. It's not the desired stillness like when you're trying to think of what to write. Instead, the silence makes words cease to exist. I am my own worse enemy. ClichÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â© but true. Quitting is not an option. I will finish, but at what cost? How dejected can one make themselves feel? Do I have a breaking point? My muse whispers in that silence that makes no noise. I beg of her to repeat it, but she doesn't hear me either.
There is a hole in the sky above my head. It represents this void. It is an emptiness that follows me worse than a shadow. Shadows are elusive and inconsistent. You don't see a shadow at night. I see my empty hole in the darkest and lightest of times. A shadow can provide coverage and keep things hidden, like him, but my empty void shields nothing. Instead, it illuminates, highlighting for all my flaws. Magnifying my faults. Leaving me with all these peering eyes scrutinizing me. I admit nothing; I know nothing. This is not the life I called for.
It's the stark reality of losing a parent. It creates a void that is never to be filled until someone comes along whom you think can fill some part of the void. Come to find out they are just like the rest. No one cares of your emptiness. No one cares that the existence of half your DNA will never again be visibly explainable. It's the stark reality of real loss. It's the space between here and there with the area of a thousand moons. His world and mine, made from the same clothe but we now bear different substances.
It started as a mere crack in our foundation, but the gap spread inevitably leading to this great divide. You were my starting point, my base from which I jumped. Now you're gone, two worlds apart. I search for all I've lost, constructing a puzzle using an assortment of pieces picked from puzzles that didn't come with the chosen set. I match the colors as close as possible and then push them into place with a little force. Unfortunately, the pressure is sometimes too much. After trying, or not, to stay completing the picture, they eventually pop out of place.
It's a deep chasm I have been given. Dark twists and turns. Isn't it funny how they can detonate a portion of the Swiss Alps to preserve what runs within? It relates to my chasm when you think about it. When I
think about anything, any thing at all, I can make it about death. Give me any single word and I can make it relate to death in a number of ways. I swear. It is a hidden talent I have been given. The fan's air coats my skin the way your death engulfed my soul.
Am I going
, or is it nowhere? Are we up or are we down? Is death white or is it black? Opposite colors used to represent the same thing, although in different cultures. But we're all people experiencing the same thing. It's like the smoke from the end of my cigarette. It spills out encasing the room with a pungent stench. Yet, my tortured soul can't get enough, so I inhale. I breathe my grief in allowing it to consume. I blow it in your face and you move away from me. Where/who does death hurt? Everywhere and everyone.
I almost lost it. I mean, I
thought I lost it. I saw no conceivable way for it to remain in existence. I thought for sure my computer had screwed me, leaving Microsoft Word to kill that piece of me that keeps the blood flowing through my body. It was out of my control. I prayed, I begged, I pleaded.
Please Dad, please come through for me once again.
Trust and Believe, my Daddy loves me, as does God - so much so that I could just cry. Lately, I honestly feel a sense of divine intervention taking hold.
Swimming in a sea of lust, floating on a cloud of desire, how I wish to steal a taste staving off the longing for warmth.
With words, I shall sketch for all the state of my heart before the time, in which, I know it will be made to seem forever altered.
It happens every year, one in every twelve; the surprise comes in even rather than odd.
There is something about the loss, or potential loss of the paternal unit that draws people together, as if being controlled by magnets in the sky.
Death looms beyond the grave, menacingly.
My words derive from pain. A constant battering of clinical depression. Major depression says the diagnosis. Ten years now? It's gotta be about that. But I would say the cloud formed after the age 10. That is the last childhood birthday I can remember. I remember the shirt I wore. I remember being overly excited about having two digits in my age. I felt that
life can begin.
I will get somewhere. I was ten years old when I saw that life had nothing to offer me except more sadness. It's all downhill after the age of ten.
It has been eight months without him. Eight long months that seem to have flown by. I miss him deeply. It's strange to sit and realize that I will
see or speak to him again. This is nothing like losing touch with an old friend, forever. Nothing at all like that. This goes deeper than cutting off communication. This is a completely new world thrust at me with a fiery aching pain attached. I'm walking through loops of fire that slowly turn pieces of my soul to mush. Some things will never be normal again. I know this.
In the yard, the graves, they bellow
Humming laments to the shell of death
Singing shallowly over the beat of your tune
They hear not of the whispers I voice
But of the screams kept in silence
In the coffin, the bodies, they cry
Telling their lives tales of injustices
Highlighting souls of wrought torture
Seeing not beyond the moral of life
But of the irony of most deaths
In stasis, the mourners, they grieve
Sobbing free of bereavement owned
Hoping only for one moment of respite
Forgetting to breathe, you fake it
But in the end you lose it
Last day of the month. I made it another and plan to go it again. I'm anxious to see the fruits of my labor gathered collectively. I had some fairly profound moments in there. I like my writing a lot. It makes sense to me; it speaks to me.
Taking on the venture of writing a book has changed my life. My outlook is altered. TV isn't even the same, now it's dialogue, and in my head I'm adding in the narration. The dialogue is nothing more than dialogue. I'm stuck on how it got to be what it is.
The Tip Jar