Under the band aid and gauze was a bruised vein. When I walked out of the room, I thought nothing of the warm flush because it felt good. Real good. I had to say something once I noticed the drenched sweater was crimson instead of grey. While she was cleaning me up, the blood trickling down my arm felt soothing. No wonder they can't stop when they see red. It's mesmerizing. She kept apologizing, but I was hoping she would stop applying pressure. See, I've been fantasizing about it. I think my body needs a rest from such tiring functions.

Maybe the lithium isn't addictive, but the numbness is. I miss listening to music. I miss my favorite spots. I miss owning my memories. Without the meds, my mind decides to interpret even the most minor unrelated event into a painful episode. Everything hurt. To the point where I'm not touching anyone or letting them touch me. I'm watchful of the skies and check to see if people are breathing in their sleep. Things I would usually say out loud are censored and summarized. I say good bye like its my last. So yea, give me the pills. And more.

They tell me about their struggles and ask for prayers. I imagine their house all a mess, the phones off the hook, and a smell of antiseptic. It's not enough to hear it. I want to meet him. I want to tell him that he will be alright. She finally brings him to the office. He's fragile and already his hair's gone. He's got a sweet smile to his demeanor since the denial phase faded. I stood there like a fool, completely winded of words and simple conversation. He would be angry if I gave him vain hope. Like I get angry.

Not only do they laugh at witless humor (and expect everyone to laugh along with them, and they do), but they settle. They settle for their dull lives that go nowhere, the boring Monday through Friday monotony and a few weekend dinners. Where is the spectacle? What about the spontaneity? But what gets to me most is if there is a hint of a single guy within my age bracket, some over and under, they say…hey, what about that one? No concept of quality standards! I may be in a rut, but I'm continually clawing my way out.

It comes down to this: I baked a cake. What else is there for me to do? They don't go to concerts, won't try ethnic food, they hardly drink and when they do they know not what they drink. They don't say ass and much less know what a clusterfuck is. When we drive around, I end up staring longingly at the city that seems so close, yet so far. But these are my people, so When In Rome. I get away through my solitary books and sweet dreams. I have all intentions of finding my kind of people. Soon.

Are you going away to that field? The one where the wispy wheat is as golden as the sun setting beneath them? And besides a break from the sirens and smoke, what are you going to accomplish sitting there waiting for the lightning bugs to play among the stars? Don't try to contemplate God. That's a task much too laborious for the brain. Do try to be still long enough to hear your breath and musical crickets. Do learn to appreciate what you have, shrug what you don't. No ones ever told you that before. That's what getting away is.

There was a homeless man sitting outside the pharmacy. I say man because homeless is a descriptive word. He still is a man with an agenda. Or was at some point. He had a dirty shag top for hair and looked as dingy and far-off as one would expect. Any ordinary Wednesday I would walk past him, avoiding eye contact because we have nothing in common except I work despite everything. This fellow had a guitar by his side. He's probably more satisfied living off meager coins and making music, than me at desk. I commended him with some change.

Now she has the strength to write, after a long period of mental dullness. Regretfully, she's overcome with intimidation. The Greatest Man on Earth told his lessons and stories through clever illustrations. Surely, he could devise one on the spot effortlessly. It's guaranteed that his example was efficient and successful every time. Although she appreciates his effectiveness, she finds in cheesy. Isn't an If/Then approach more logical? Logically, His method is more perfect and correct, comprehensible to even the most lay person out there. She's trying to be better than Great. She knows it too, and feels guilty for it.

When I had a guitar, I would spend hours tuning the six strings. The song of each note had to be refined with such absolute finesse in order for me to feel fine. That didn't happen often. The day would be lulled into evening with the sounds of plucking. Too sharp. Too flat. The pitch: it never reach its destination. The music would be too excruciating to listen to. This was my conclusion anyway. Now I have a digital piano. It's too expensive to get an upright or grand serviced to fit my ears. The automated flaws aren't my deficiency.

She walked up to me. Nothing but terror when she started gesturing wildly before an actual word fell out of her mouth. I was sure of it. She could see that my eyes have started to sink in toward my nose. My cheeks had expanded in size, like I had a mouthful of acorns stored. My chin had sagged down and my hair line was patchy.

"Look at you!"
Yup, I was right. She could see Frankenstein's girlfriend.

"How do you stay so thin? And you fuss about 5 pounds."
So, there is something wrong with her vision after all.

There it was in my rear view mirror: the exquisite glowing sun. Oh how I detested the road that lead home, where the surrounding willows detain entry of anything pertinent to growth, especially sunlight. And how I feed off the sun. The rays. Vitamin D. Serotonin. Whatever the hell it is it provides, I need it! In a spark I would race to the sun, arms outstretched , and scorch every inch of my body just to feel the heat. I would be that mad. Ironic, that without it I could be mad enough to hate my place of residence.

Books are so beautiful, wouldn’t you agree? Where to begin the breakdown of their simple splendor. Personally, I like the spine best. Much more when dozens of them are side by side at slightly different lengths. Then the jackets or hard covers, as if they’re dressing up for the occasion to share, teach or entertain. Then the best part: the block of pages bound together making the whole collection beat to life. Even people who do not read will erect libraries because there’s no denying books are essential to life. Well, maybe not in strict survival mode, but for meaning.

Here’s to all the pretty words we will never speak.
Here’s to all the pretty girls, you’re gonna meet.

Not originals of mine, but thoughts of mine. Considering this gal is from the west coast somewhere, is it possible she flew down to this sorry peninsula, reached into the emotional functioning part of my brain, and carefully extrapolated the words I hadn’t yet delivered out loud? Improbable I suppose. It is better that she said them first because she had the ability and opportunity to sing it in a brilliant melodic song.

Oooh, it … feels good to be free.

Looking back on us, the man didn’t know how to love appropriately. He needed to be loved, tended and held in the utmost regard at all times. The man didn’t live in the now quite the way reality allows for. He wanted now to be forever and always, but that was far in the future. The man dreamt of how he would touch me, how he would feel pleasure, but if it were to happen with eyes open only the man would be in ecstasy. If I’d paid attention a little closer, I would’ve known the man was a boy.

You over there. 1000 miles, then there’s me. Fret not. Stay there, towns and cities in between, cause I won't move. For every glass of wine you have, I'll drink one over here. For every time your ears ring, I'll say a prayer of gratitude. Every time you hear our song, I'll be singing on my side of the land. Each new friend you meet, I’ll make sure to tell another about you. Because our friendship is not based on proximity or even common interests, but a connection so profound, we could separate for years and still sense each others presence.

If I’m in nearing a left turning lane and the traffic contraption is lit red, I’ll swoop on over to the adjoining lane and race under the green light instead. I keep going. There’s no stopping. I do what I can do feel the weight of my limb and the streaming blood in it reaching hastily to the heart. The forces from every corner of the universe are coming to screech me to a halt, but during this time, my reactivity is swifter than my reflexes. Even if I were wounded, doesn’t mean my motion can’t be lightning.

These days I take serious delight in reading.
That gives me cause for pause.

I should walk away from the books and not look back.
Because every I touch turns to ash.
Every good record is stored.
Every fond memory is tarnished.

Those pages I’ve come to love very much.
The words fill up what nothing else has.
So I regretfully walk in another direction.
I’d rather leave it, to keep it. I’ll indulge in something more dispensable.

Everything that shines, becomes lack luster.
Everything new, ages.

Did I mention, everyone I touch turns bipolar?
Two official diagnoses. At least.

At the bookstore deli, here I drank the most delicious cinnamon-apple latte I’ve never ordered because of calorie count. And we shared sweet blueberry scones and a delectable lemon-raspberry tart.

So I continued to enchant her with my current endeavor about reading all the classic works of the renowned authors of the world. She went on to show me a Spanish Bible and found me this:

Ecclesiastic 12:1 As regards anything besides these, […] take a warning: To the making of many books there is no end, and much devotion [to them] is wearisome to the flesh.

Point for her.

My semi-humble quest to conquer the Classics has been already botched. Since book one. Here I am reveling in the hilarity of this Spaniard loony (which I imagine will be me in a few years, so I better invest in a steed), and I say to myself, "My, this book does feel a bit light and has gone quickly". I open to the page before the preface and "Dios Mio!" I bought the abridged version! The reading in null! Incomplete! My attempt at frugality led to a major setback, both economically and timely. Only lazy or dumb people take shortcuts.

You have mommy issues. I saw the red flag waving brightly when you said you would bang your head against the wall for attention. Social awkwardness. Unrealistic expectations from the world. No creativity in your kiss. Dimwitted humor. Extreme insecurity. Extreme lack of common sense. Inability to please others to their liking: me. Splitting. You're a child. When you're an adult child, they call that a disorder. I call it stupid. And now, you're going to get a venereal disease.

AND MY FRIENDS ALL THINK YOU LOOK LIKE YOU'RE A MANGY HOMELESS ON CRACK COCAINE!

That there…
…is true catharsis.

On the nature trail, I had all sorts of monologues with myself, pleads with God and some dialogues with the fellas in my head. The sensations experienced were incredible. Chest pangs, buckling knees, muscle spasms. As usual, I overshot my capacity, finding myself practically crippled on an eleven mile journey. God decides to answer me at marker five with a torrent of rain. The irony! But then suddenly, the pattering on my skin was soothing and I found my legs painlessly advancing at the unknown path ahead, leaving behind the traveled asphalt. And the bugs stopped flying into my mouth.

You're always tired, you stinkin s.o.b.
I've seen your business receipts. You hoard pizza and burgers with your salivating orifice. You're pushing 41. Think it's healthy to drink grease from a jug? Bet you don't think twice to investigate what corn syrup does in your body, or what partially hydrogenated oil is? That's why you're wasting away. I'm free of that mess.
But my love/hate relationship with food does tire me some, unless there's a treadmill available. Come to think of it, family and friends say I'm somewhat emaciated.
Never mind, I don't want to talk nutrition.
Stuff your face!

Specifically marked persons sense that something is not quite right. Something is off, something is missing, something is wrong with this picture. Some conspirators venture off to believe that secret societies are ruling over us with subliminal oppression. Some proclaim to feel the force of the spirits toiling arduously. I don't fear the looming hoodlum on night patrol, but I do feel a pair of ominous eyes watching me. I don't know what it is, but the simplest answer is probably the mild hangover or too many movies themed like the Matrix. Still, this anxiety that medicine calls generalized, remains.

Our premiere party was dual hosted. I can handle that. She's likeable, so there will be no catty territorial resentment. She gets appetizers, I get wine and cheese. Of course, this turns out to be a bigger-than-life scenario. What kind of wine compliments cheese? The quantum of crackers is not in exact proportion to the wedge of cheese. The crackers are definitely not of the same caliber as the cheese, so I need to buy fancier ones, which would up the wine standards. I need to return all these items, and re-purchase everything! Like some Cabernet Sauvignon with your issues?

We mail journals back and forth, despite extravagant postage prices. 'Twas my idea cause nobody writes anymore. It's a world apart from talking on phones. The pages don't fill themselves. Staring hard, burning through paper. Not much happened. Sent it off with childish delight. I saw them go, then panicked attacked. There goes my source of being heard. Jumbled with other meaning or meaningless letters. Far as I'm concerned my pages are blank. Don't know how the ink materialized. But when they receive them, they're precious scribbles. They preffer it over Plan B. If I didn't write, they wouldn't know.

Tonight is harvest moon. The Wiccans must be whirling with excitement for tonight's festivities. I, too, am a little impatient myself as I have a crush on the moon and if I can see him in his brightest moment and possibly touch him, I have all the right in the cosmos to be high on glee. I may not get stark naked and dance wildly in the fields, but I'm considering a spot to sit and watch him all night long. During that period of darkness, directly after the sunset, I'll be making a list of things we should discuss.

It's too grey and despaired in the throes of battle in my head right now. Yet somehow what would regularly be booming and boisterous is muffled and mellow as if the war were under a faint faraway fog and I was observing it from a lengthy distance. This chance, I'm taking it to observe the silence with reverence and solemnity, not uttering a word, until all that is being input during my time of gathering transforms into a flourish of solace by way of serene visions, favorable expressions and a clearer view. Silence is much more than golden to me.

My darling brother turns 28 today. I've never researched if his life expectancy is of the average person. I must conclude, if happier people live longer, and his most cherished care in the world is to have a satisfying (not exquisite) meal and to listen to his music (note: played on a scratchy old cassette player with low grade headphones) and the occasional challenging puzzle, yet my high-stress mission is to presumptuously conquer all knowledge, find the perfect emotional connection, and understand time….I'm hypothesizing he's going to live longer than me. And a lot more blissfully. I'm happy for him.

At first, it was not okay what he put me through.
But what I did wasn't alright either.
So there's your anger and denial in sum.
The order doesn't matter. I'm not a very organized creature to begin with.

Moving along in scattered sequence...

Then I said, let's be friends: Bargaining.
Oh, the depression was splattered all over the place.
As for acceptance: no way.
The other four stages could cycle about, juggle, group, regroup, fall apart, collide, socialize and discuss amongst each other.
Cause it's not okay. There's no justifying his actions or lack of.
Good grief? Bad Grief.

Someday I obsess with thoughts, others with physical activities. Some days I'm fixated with objects. The most complicated of my obsessions are words and the speed at which they travel. It's so fast. They're so many. Some I know well. Others I've only concluded their meanings from context, and that's not settling. Heavenly in my head. Delicious to the tongue. When I can't pronounce them or put them down they pile up and gain momentum. Until I sedate the fury with a drink. Then I cry for the loss of the words that fell from the tip of my tongue.