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Have you ever googled various lines you have written? I do it once in a while, mostly to ensure I had not read it somewhere allowing it to seep into my subconscious leading me to believe the line as my own. Today I googled
dead means gone.
There were results and they were all fiction writings. To me it is not fiction, it is as real as it gets. I feel like the only person to know what it
means. I know of its true depth that most see not of.
I fear he died so I can write.
I want to walk, knuckles interlocked, feeling him swing our hands to and fro. We would walk to class together; he would give a kiss before passing the threshold. We would talk before class and during break, staring wildly into each others eyes as if the rest of the class were non-existent. Oblivious to the outside world, we would leave class, hand in hand, down six flights of stairs, down the long ramp and to our cars, parting with a kiss. It could all be so heavenly. There could even be jealous eyes, burning into the back of our heads.
There exists a plethora of things to write about in 100 words. Always I find it easiest to speak of what I know best. Death. Grief. Sadness. How much more could I possibly have left to say? I find a new explanation of my feelings every single day. Not a day has passed in which I failed to find a new way to express my mourning. I do not want to know how many days. More than 270. Oh, how I wish to make known the many ways his demise has hurt me so. It is all so damn unfathomable.
Frustration eats at me as loneliness takes root in my soul. Emptiness overwhelms the senses leading to deprivation. All that was gained will never compensate for what was lost. In the shadow you hide, as intangible as ever. Every sign is a clue to be uncovered. You vanished, stolen, buried. I lose focus and strength. Tired and wanting to rest with you. Nothing makes sense as everything is blurred. My will to survive dissipates. I coo like a bird, sending along my message of mourning. The world shuts their eyes, looking away from anything that seems inconsistent. Nobody really wins.
I could be the crazy postal worker of bereavement. I would open fire on the unsuspecting, spitting to them my fears of this never ending period of grieving.
Take it from me. Take it all away. Rescue me from me.
I could be the crazy neighbor who stares into the sun all day long and sings only a chorus of loss.
May I be the tar on the roof? Scraped away one Saturday morning after years of dedicated service.
My mourning has served its purposes. Allow me free. Take from me my chains and shackles of restriction.
Watch me fly.
The lasting sounds of death echo resoundingly through the long corridor of ending hopes. Bleak and long-standing, the outlook shines no brighter. She used up the final candle, watched the conclusive flame flicker away. Burning embers soon fade leaving ashes of remembrance. Ask not what you can offer to death, but what death can offer you. When the last speck of strength dissipates the world caves and swallows your weary soul. Wave goodbye to the masses for whom you never cared. All you could ever wish for is found within the eternal darkness. So, dig your grave with a bang.
My Muse, she travels in the still of night, undetected and returning only when she is good and ready. Her stand-in takes her place, the same place stolen by the current Muse. She writes poems. She is fragmented. New Muse is balanced, slightly more coherent, and capable of long strings of comprehendible words and sentences. I miss them both when they go away, New Muse the most, as she is crisp. You would not understand. I stopped understanding. Maybe I'm tired of the same story, I need a break. Almost three months I was going at it with minimal delays.
Sometimes I question the validity of my therapist. Yes, she has saved me numerous times, but it has been me alone making the changes seen. And the thing of it is, I've been doing all this despite my mood disorders being prominent yet overlooked by her. I can only begin to imagine what life would be like without anxiety, but, have I ever been on anxiety medication? No. And, what about these manic moments where I am uncontainable in odd unprecedented excitement? I do not keep things from her, but she does not see all I offer up of myself.
Every once in a while a vein will open and an outpouring of my words will fall onto unsuspecting ears. Today I wish I knew how to sew so I could put it all back nice and neat and close the slit from which it started.
I don't talk enough, I write too much. I do not speak clearly, yet written down my words can be quite elegant. I am the same person in either case, but my mind seems to spew forth from two different worlds. Inner and outer. Inner michele has been nurtured, outer michele is always stifled.
It was an unprecedented sense of freedom. I was brought to my immediate heaven; they warmed me up with a delicious set of stairs I gladly chose over the elevator. The steps held almost a rubbery feel and captivated the eye with a charming shade of blue. Its peaceful tone added a serene atmosphere. The flight ends at the entrance to my fortress of solitude. I broke free the chains of living and serving bigger purposes, dropping to a plateau of understanding. I found my element. The immediate sight of the sign saying, "fiction starts here" grabbed me, taking hold.
I could have been lost forever. I see rows upon rows of book. Non-fiction. I think to myself,
It was my main goal, yet was the last thing reached. Oh, I got lost many times. Lost in thought, lost in books, lost in realizations, lost in-between aisles, lost within the Dewey decimal system. Letters and numbers and authors and titles! It was surreal. I was awe-stricken; taken aback. My book. My book laughed with me! my muse danced through the aisles with me. I found myself depicted in books on writing. They wrote my plight for me to read.
I have been sated. Five days short of three months of toils, my novel is complete. The English language has no comprehension of the way this feels. My tortured soul can begin piecing itself back together. Life, and my existence, it has taken on new meanings. I am lifted to a level that only a select few ever reach. This is my moment of enlightenment. This is my time to recharge. Now is when I see who, or what, I really am. I hold my future in my hand, in my pocket, latched to my keychain. Living makes sense again.
My Dad brought me to things. We scoped it all out, high and low. Literature. Emerson, Whitman and Longfellow. You can learn a lot at a library. I found it hard to believe, at one point, that I still hadn't found philosophy. I sat down and read a few other things. Cycling books. I immersed myself in picking up quick details on everything in the world. I could easily have spent days lost. I resisted urges to just take a seat on the floor in the aisles. I resorted to leaning, and shifting, and spinning, and one accidental near trip.
Then I found the gold I dug for. Bottom shelf of the most obscure row.
in eye-catching letters. Gasp! Kant, Locke, and the Reverence of Life with words about Goethe. It was my worldly haven. Still, I thought there had to be more! This was too limited. Aristotle, Hume and Plato. I needed more but would soon resign the idea. I went to find my cousin whom I had forgotten as I passed the doors threshold. To no avail. I returned to browsing. Then a yellow paper taped to the end of a row. Philosophy! Dewey decimal number! Tada!
There is a long road stretched out before me. It is a bumpy path I choose, always. I recommend writing a book; I recommend it because it seems impossible to put this whirlwind of emotions into comprehendible order. There is too much feeling involved. This is as complicated as bereavement. The tenderness cut as deep. It provides a great contrast. I see now exactly how mournful I am, and how it feels. The weight of it; the color of it. I feel things intensely and on a higher level. Writing
convinced me of being a writer. Writers write.
Hesitate. Falter. Disobey. Severance. Mourn. Shout. Silence. Water. Gone. Misunderstood. Elusive. Relief. Wait. Enter. Deceive. Wish. Cigarettes. Writing. Cycle. Abstinence. Diligent. Obscure. Filtered. Infiltrated. Lone. Medicinal. Reprieve. Gatorade. Fire. Skies. Notebook. Leash. Descartes. Slippery. Secrets. December. Heights. Purple. Grieve. Ignorance. Smoke. Muscles. Sabotage. Thoughtless. Void. Translucent. Academia. Isolationist. Coolant. Discontent. Doctor. Reform. Father. God. Screwed. Indulgence. Unclothed. Carpel. Breathe. Bereave. Contemplate. Anthology. Molehill. Highway. Teller. Pencil. Inadequate. Scentless. Racing. Minding. Telephone. Solo. Desperation? Aimless. Lament. Wisdom. Sedatives. Lastly. Analysis. Marijuana. Screamo. Slack. Pointless. Desire. Necessitate. Orchestrate. Futility. Scraping. Letters. Sleepless. Reborn. Concealed. Oceans. Blues. Rotten. Discovered. Beginnings. Endings. Goodbyes. Completion.
Accomplished. Concluded. Finished. Done. Over. Ended. Valediction. Spent. Consumed. Disappeared. Missing. Lacking. Without. Broken. Impure. Dirty. Secretive. Whispers. Unseen. Feelings. Senses. Tests. Disproves. Reasoning. Changing. Fading. Taken. Written. Depleted. Empty. Rundown. Disgusted. Exhausted. Exhilarated. Excited. Anxious. Expectant. Surprised. Downtrodden. Tired. Soul-weary. Wordless? Impatient. Resting. Replenishing. Maintaining. Tomorrow. Caving. Relenting. Alone. Content. Liberated. Existent. Tangible. Heaven. Sublime. Forgotten. Unreal. Mistaken. Deception. Fraudulent. Unknowing. Surreptitious. Perfection. Harmonious. Relentless. Capable. Corporeal. Perceptible. Substantial. Needed. Wanted. Accepted. Falling. Inspired. Devoted. Whole-hearted. Dirge. Permeate. Ambiguous. Obfuscate. Contuse. Separation. Lonesomeness. Despondent. Linger. Cease. Downhill. Negative. Refutation. Editing. Here. There. Everywhere. Nowhere. Nothing. Eternal. Forever. Erased. Mercy.
To me, it is beautiful. The harmony; symphony. It sings to me. My father, he misses me. He does all that he can and I will learn to be okay with this. In this. Death should be purple. I hate purple. It reeks of impurities and error. Why does dead mean gone, but gone does not mean dead? Can that be fair? Certain things are easier for me because I no longer know what it means to take something for granted. How could you be so thoughtless? So foolishly vain. This affects more than just me because people die everyday.
What now? Where do you go when you know there are no limitations and nothing is impossible? Feeling immortal isn't so bad when you realize the reality of mortality.
The patterns made with the refraction of light through a bottle of water are astonishing.
I have nothing to say anymore. I suppose my creativity is still rejuvenating. I get sparks here and there leading nowhere. I am not ready to start another novel. I wish I could think smaller, or just think of something other than the next book, something other than these characters I have fallen in love with.
I wonder if it's any coincidence that time is round?
I often wonder if people from my past ever allow me to cross their minds as they do to mine. People have touched my life before fleeing. Have I done the same for anyone else? I feel sure that I have, but off hand I have no examples.
Sometimes I think all the world is fake. Every person is a fraud. No one from my past could ever have been sincere.
How can people claim to love you oh so much, but in the end leave and not look back?
High levels of emotion must be responsible for producing certain reactions within one's body. Well, naturally this is true, of course. But I'm thinking of less approachable happenings. For example, there exists moments in time consisting of extreme dangers, as in, on a road bike riding at inordinately high rates of speed. The moment you feel that a fall is imminent you can taste the pavement as you envision your skin tearing free upon meeting the Earth. It is a split second. And then it is over. You fall or you do not. I do not. Bicycles decide many fates.
How does it feel for someone to whom over 100 poems exist? How's it feel to be a muse? I want someone to pine over me; spending each day with me occupying their thoughts. The entity putting meaning behind letters forming words filling spaces on blank pages. If I died, would he have begun his writing career? We were both a muse; unutilized before death. Death is the wake-up call. Someone goes first, and logically, it makes sense this way. But, so soon? Maybe allowing time to perfect my craft; utilizing my muse. I am still alive and mostly whole.
Mourning is a series of waves crashing, dragging bits and pieces of silt that made up the beach, unnoticed underfoot. Shorelines change shape more than anyone realizes, if realized at all. Each pebble, a large chunk of my heart, my soul, pulled away. Standing still, my feet sink deeper with outgoing waves. Engulfing me if I remain motionless. Normal people lose the attraction before getting ankle deep. Me? I'm half way up the shin, on a day like today. I once felt certain that the act would take me to China. With that lie unmasked, how do I believe anything?
Real grief feels like dying. Bargaining is the sound of desperation. In the beginning it made me physically ill more often than I care to remember. (Nothing is worse than waking up in the middle of night throwing up from anxiety, or from another shard of shock wearing off.) I will not take the easy days for granted because I know there are plenty more days like today left throughout the remainder of my existence. I immortalized a tub of butter and never realized that we immortalized an entire room. These were the last lingering reminders of his living here.
When I see people on bikes I wonder what they're riding
. Not any rider, more like avid riders. You know the ones, wearing spandex and grimaced faces. We're riding from
, past or lingering fear or trepidation. I don't think we do this for fun. Instead, it's a means of erasing something. Quelling certain aches with overpowering physical aches. The more emotional pain felt on any given day will equal out to more physical pain doled out to your poor unsuspecting and undeserving legs. No matter what way I look at my riding, all I see is self-created pain.
Pick me! Pick me!
My grief calls for me to don a hat for the day. Pick a style; choose a shade. I have but one list of grievances containing one lone name. The world sees not of it, but of what I show. Pain doesn't color my skin, it doesn't coat me on warm days. Not even a cold, bitter day. My process of mourning is long and daunting as the red carpet laid out before your feet. I am like a hopeless romantic swimming in my sea of grey bereavements. The life preservers continuously sink to the bottom.
I have tried to fly free of my minds barriers. It's hard to believe he died. I am my own hindrance. But what, really, am I?! But a holder, a container for my thought driven self. I could very well exist without external worlds to latch onto. I can exist independent of worldly desires. This is hugely monumental and not to be taken lightly. My father needs not a body for his soul to continue. He needs only a living being to fully know the truth of him lingering on. I can almost feel him breathing life into these pages.
It's just a number. They are only numbers. Yet, Descartes, my idol, thought that math was the only certainty. He attempted to place the entire universe on a mathematical foundation. Numbers are vital. It all comes down to the mechanics of it all. Today is only a number on the calendar. What does that mean?
Ten months. It's such a long time depicted through such a small word. Three letters representing a catastrophically huge amount of torment wrapped into this one time frame. Ten months.
tee eee en.
That is all. That is all it will ever, or never, be.
Check the time, turn to the wall, and stare at your feet. This room hugs me and allows me the security of feeling safe and protected. Shift, huddle in the corner, linger in the crevices. Quiet, except for me. Or is it you? I'm thinking I won't ever let go; I don't want to move on. I only get the one; it's not like I can put this behind me and look forward to the next. That is wrong on two levels. Fathers and death. When will I tire of this topic? It might be never. Always, he is
The elusiveness makes it relatable. Mixing the tangible with the intangible; corporeal with mental. It is rogue and uncaring. They say this is normal, continuously. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly expecting different results. Out of sight out of mind? No. Like warm water fueling this hurricane, it will run its own course. No. The lemonade truck, forgotten in its absence. The cigarette yearned for during its cessation. We never fully escape deaths grip, no matter how far we run. Gaps grow larger, but it only means there are more words needed to fill the spaces.
I can sit down to write a poem with no previous thought or notion. Why not for a book or even a short story? I discredit myself. I gave more credit to the writing fairies. What a silly thing to do. Where are they now? Exactly. A book landed in my mind, continued playing itself through, and I wrote it down. It seemed supernatural at times, but undoubtedly, it was I. They were my fingers and my words. My pen, my keyboard. This is far from writers block; worry not. This is me, unwilling to write what I've been given.
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