REPORT A PROBLEM
I have a hundred and twelve dead dad poems. If I could write more short stories then I think I would be a lot happier. Each story is like an epiphany of sorts. And it's much easier than writing an entire seventy thousand word book, which I have currently started editing. I could no longer resist. Plus, I like the feeling of having written, especially of having written well. But short stories are just as satisfying, though short lived. Not that the effects of having written a novel was long lived. The high of it didn't even last a week.
In the world twixt life and death, my words find meaning. Where there is writing, there are fans. Watch me as I toss my words about haphazardly. Watch the critics and audiences, watch as I drop the masses to their knees as they grasp onto dictionaries for dear life. They won't save you now.
You handle language so comfortably, formidably, and wisely&
There is a professor who knows good writing when he sees it. My competition is pale in comparison. There is power behind words and I have received the encouragement needed to harness it. All I need are reasons.
I admit that thus far I have had a fairly passionless life, hence avoiding college for 5 years. But, truth be told, I am currently swimming amidst three passions vying for a piece of my soul. Three external passions, not including my internal world in which writing rules the roost. Writing and the desire to understand everything thrown my way. Making sense of things is a tiring feat. But days like today make it all worth it, for what it's worth. People like me need classes like this and semesters such as this. I currently know why I do this.
Her name, her story, she lingers on in my mind without showing reprieve. Time heals some things, until you recover them in an unattainable manner. I never let go of people lightly. I will hold onto empty memories and the sound of her accented voice saying my name. At least she steals time against mourning for my father. Grief for her is so futile, yet present. I fucking hate grieving for people who are alive. Have I ever let go of anything, anybody? I mean, fully. Mind extraction and all. I hate her for what I have done to myself.
I don't understand people. I thought I did, but I do not. People are ridiculous and unpredictable. They don't understand themselves. They're all fucking crazy. Human behavior is a concept beyond my realm of understanding, apparently. I will spend the rest of my life trying to decipher the meaning of cognition and how our minds work the way they do. Why are perceptions so different for each person? Maybe I'll be alone forever. Will it really matter? Is God really going to make me live forever? There's things I want to do but I'll be okay if I die first.
In the grand scheme of things, nothing seems worth the effort. No outcome in the world seems worth fighting for. School holds the most meaning, but even that becomes increasingly futile. I think I'm back to not wanting to get out of bed in the morning, seeing no reason to do so. Of course I do though, get up, just to get knocked down by my own damn self. I am by far my own worst enemy and truthfully, I am my only enemy. I've never been around people long enough to make anybody hate me, at least not severely.
I live inside my head. I'm lost inside the world you live. Tired and torn, torn between realities and slipping between the cracks I found. The foundation has long been eroding. I live inside my head. Your world beats me down. My warmth has escaped and my father is still dead. Time still heals nothing. I live inside my head. I push the rest away. I'm eternally bruised, I'm damaged goods, like a dropped carton of eggs. I live inside my head. Out there it's always dying. I wish for reprieve but find empty solitude instead. Nothing left is real.
Lies. I lie to myself. It's a strange day when you realize the extent of it. I lie to myself more than I lie to you or them. My mind is a desolate cavern with the real twists and turns shut off. My mind is a rotary circling around the same concepts day after day. There is nothing in this world for me. I don't care for anything. My body is young but my mind is exhausted. There is a soul trapped inside of me and it yearns to be free from this world and all earthly desires and passions.
Death is as universal as it gets. It is huge and limitless. Death transcends space and time. This is a concept beyond full comprehension. There exists no sensible grasp of this reality. There is a level of guarantee to my life of writing. As long as I awaken each day, I know that there will be new words to express this deep boundless loss. I remain frozen in endless regret. My mind bends around logic and abstracts in a frenzy of pure rampage. I used to think that every word mattered, that it got me closer to the resulting answers.
I worry about so much of everything that I forget there are certain things I need not fret over. Psychology is one of these things. It is innate. I can read something once and commit it to common sense after that. Undoubtedly, it is the hindsight bias. But regardless, it remains as a known truth. I worry of Philosophy stealing the limelight, but I need only remember that it is not exactly an inborn ability. It is more of something I have to work at. Unlike writing which again is innate. And of course, everything is better when worked at.
As of right now, I am boycotting Nike shoes and will try to avoid all other Nike products. My last two pairs of sneakers have been Nikes. Prior to that, I had been wearing Skechers for years. I never had a problem with skechers. Now, my Nikes, my last pair ended up getting holes in each shoe where the toes bend. They didn't last very long at all. My most recent pair, they squeak. I had hoped that with use it would wear away, but no, I think it's only gotten worse. Poor workmanship covered up by an enticing appearance.
I have been writing these hundred words for awhile (obviously not with this name). Through the past five months I had never fallen behind, not once. By fallen behind I mean missed more than one day, not that I often miss even one day. But this month has been different. Maybe this has become my least favorite month, on some subconscious level. Maybe I'll never be okay. The days leave me too tired to come up with anything worthwhile to write here. No, not writers block. I fear letting go, and sometimes the release of words feels like moving on.
It's always a decent day when you get whistled at while out walking the dog.
At the library, I enjoy going to fiction and looking where my name would be. I like to see who my current competition is, as far as for people scanning titles. Pipe dream, maybe. Maybe not. We can't say for sure, can we? I wrote one book, and there's nothing yet saying that it won't happen again. Of course, for every minute that ticks by without a word written toward anything, I do worry. And the thought of editing this novel to submission is scary.
I will not write about dad. I will not write about Dad.
I will not write about dad.
What else is there? Everything revolves around him and his being gone. I really can't fix this. I can't stop it. It's a whirlwind of grief blown in with each new day. If I let go I fear I'll fly away. If I move on I fear I'll leave something important behind. Away. Behind. It's all done and gone. I never suspected it could end like this. We've no control over much of anything. Life is a faÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â§ade of deeper underlying meanings.
This is more than him being dead; he is more than dead. This isn't me; this isn't my life. Here is the combination to my bike, please take it. Trading bike pumps for gas pumps. I have never missed summer more than I do right now. I have once feared winter more than I do right now, and that was last year. It was unknown last year, I just knew it would be bad. I have a general idea this time, and I know it will be hard. Living isn't a spectator sport, but I try to make it one.
There is a guy at the bike path who I ride with when we're both there. I'm always on my road bike, apparently with a mountain bikers helmet. He is forever calling me a mountain biker at heart, though I sometimes try to deny it. I have once again been denying myself something. And I wonder if this isn't what's holding me back. Poetry. I've put that part of me away, for months now. Just here and there spilling one out. I thought fiction was easier, I know the rules. But I miss spitting out poems, despite defying stupid rules.
Caller ID is beautiful. It's an introverts best friend, and it also displays people in ways you would not normally see. It brings to light their true obsessive nature. Every Tuesday brings the same annoyance a-calling. I'll call this person Sex. Sex is funny. Sex will call four times within a ten minute span. Sex just doesn't get it.
I will call you, Sex.
But no, Sex cannot wait. Therefore, Sex gets none because Sex annoys me. Ain't that the truth. And I didn't think writing that would sound as funny on the screen as it did in my head.
It's official, I'm declaring myself an existentialist. It is clear to me that I always have been one, I just didn't know it. I made it clear to myself with my most recent paper written for school. So, now I'm out of the existentialist closet. I need to do some research and find out what Descartes thinks about all this. I think there's gotta be at least some aspects he agrees with. I don't know, I'd hate to say what I think because I don't want to be wrong. I swear I'm a devote Descartes fan. We needn't always agree.
Death drags people away and draws others together. Tonight I am reminded of how quickly I could become an orphan. I'm halfway there and that is halfway too close. Life's meaning would change drastically, more drastically than the last overhaul. At this point I am still left with a reason. A cause to the effect. Without her I become like the uncaused first cause. The unmoved mover. Today, I had to remind myself that I will die too. I won't have to pull off this charade forever. But why does this life matter at all when it all ends anyways.
Is this it? Is this my life summed up by the death of one man? Is this punishment? My reward? My what? What the fuck do they all expect of me? I can't believe he's gone and I still refuse to believe he won't be back. There is no real letting go, it still seems a real impossibility. I'm drowning in a sea of my own acidic tears. I am proof that time heals nothing. Time hides things, but they are still there. And time will continue on no matter what. You can't put your foot down and stop this.
A part of me just accepts that I will always be searching. Of course I'll never find it. It doesn't exist. Nothing will stop me. I lost something and I would just like to see it once more. Something was taken away and now I hunger for it. A death has torn my world into two realities. Here and there. This and that. Sane and insane. Forgive and let live. Die or move on. Get over it and forget.
That's all I have to say about that. Do you know what I lost? Do you care to care?
Did you know my birthday is coming up soon? No, not my literal one. My rebirth. In lieu of gifts, please send condolences. That's how I feel it should be anyways. Anyone who would say happy birthday if it were a birthday, they should instead say sorry about my loss. I lost and I gained. I was reborn. I am still an infant with much developing to experience. I'm sure I'll be okay some day. I'll never be whole again, but I'll find that grey area of just simply being okay with being okay. Let me fly far, far away.
I have enough information stored in my head about Rene Descartes to be able to write the entire paper with ease. These books have guided me, but the facts are mine now. His story belongs to me, for life. At this point, I could spit forth the entire five pages without reopening a single book. I got this. This is mine. And it was fun. Research is not work when you really want to know everything you are finding. My interests are clearly defined. I am happy with each piece of new knowledge. This is one search I can win.
Descartes was awed by ashes turning into glass. I am awed by dead people turning into ash. Oh, and also by Descartes examination of wax. God. How thought provoking is that? The wax is solid and we know it as it is, as we perceive it. That is wax. It
wax. But what is it? What is it when it melts? It is still the same wax we previously perceived to be solid and with all its other wax-like qualities. But it seems by magic that our minds will now perceive the melted wax to be just that, wax.
I have a father. He is wax to me. Or, at least, I try to see him as wax. He appeared as I perceived him for so long. He was solid. He was whole. He was my father. The one and only father I will know. But then he changed. His composition has taken a different form. Separate from how I previously perceived him. He is gone. Yet, is expected to remain my father. Intact. He is my father of whom I am forced to see differently, as a different form of matter, but the same nonetheless. Fathers are wax.
Maybe we should have taken it as a negative warning sign when I wanted Saint Anthony on my fathers prayer card. Saint Anthony being the saint of lost things. He's the one you pray to when you've lost something. When you need to find something. No wonder why the main objective of my dreams is that of looking for my dad. Searching for him, even when sometimes I'm not sure what it is I'm looking for. Even when I'm blinded by light while outwardly saying that I can't see around the shadows. The dream world is a very complex place.
Tomorrow. It feels like a birthday or a holiday. Or an anniversary. A strange thought happened upon me while walking the dog today.
My dad will die tomorrow.
My dad is dead tomorrow. He will be dead tomorrow. If he wasn't dead already. This almost makes the idea of having an anniversary seem silly. Everyday is an anniversary, technically. So why do we have these one special days? What about all the other months bearing the same numbered date? I don't get it. I do not understand a lot of things. I know that the entire universe is fucking absurd.
Today. I feel broken. It feels new. He died today? No, he died a year ago today. It's uncanny. My senses can't fully comprehend this. And just as expected, no one has called to say happy birthday, or whatever it is you say to someone in this situation on this day. You probably don't say anything, and that is why the phone does not ring. What do I know? It's all new to me. New and fully unwanted. Of course, what kind of person wants this? Oh, the severely depressed who go around searching for justifiable reasons for their sadness.
Paint it black and take it back
. I should make this day stand for something. Another rebirth, a rebirth in which I emerge from my overbearing shroud of mournfulness. I do hope it lifts. But I reserve my doubts. At least as far as that goes, among other things of which not a bit of truth can be found. Leaps of faith have never been my thing. But I have to learn eventually that no amount of liquefied grief will bring you back, or even create the slightest chance of reprieve. This I carry with me, until I
There is a band, My Chemical Romance. Last Tuesday they put out there third album. Four days before my fathers one year anniversary/day/whatever you want to call it. This is the greatest cd to have graced our earthly world. God, I am so egotistical sometimes. For me they have written every song. It's just that this was exactly what I needed. This and Emily Dickenson. I wish I had thought to coddle my pain with her much sooner. She knows things that I thought only I knew. With her, I wrap these intangible concepts around words of such stark candor.
She stands alone. Always she was lost. The walls, they echo. The echoes, they whisper sweet nothings to only her. She is scared, she is dead. She dances along the shore. She kicks up sand. She looks to the sky for messages. Anything to prove she still exists. The only voice she hears is her own. Solitude, solitary, solid. What? I have no idea. I speak of only nonsense. I do not care. You should not either. Wasting away, I'm escaping the clutches of life. Look eleswhere as death unclothes me. Standing nude and wishing for touch. Leave me, please.
The Tip Jar