Categories
Prose

It’s Too Cold To Die

Dispense with the grainy film life, like a silent film where cards spell out everything, because life isn’t easy. When the waves crash over us both, they may pull us under and they may cast us onto the land, and there’s no way of knowing until we get out there. It’s scary and terrifying and necessary. The shards of breaking waves slice our skin and pour salt into the wounds. Pain is nothing compared to the feeling of your smile, like sunlight on my face.

This frozen wasteland is my heart. Is it preserved for the right moment, or destroyed for all time? Again, tragedies must happen for triumphs to have impact, for they are the settings in which a triumph’s jewel sits, glittering. What happened back there is a titanium platinum alloy, unbreakable and just your size, and right in the center is the jewel that is my icy heart, multifaceted and clear, the highest quality, nothing but the best for you.

How many deaths I had to die just to get it right, but it was all worth it.

Categories
Uncategorized

The Conversation

He said “Have you ever been dead before?”
I said “No, of course not.”
He said “Are you sure?”
I said “Yes. Death is something that I would remember.”
He said “So you say, so you say, but consider…”
I said “What?”
“Was there ever a time you felt alive?” he said.
I said “Yes.”
He said “What were you before that?”
And I said…

Categories
Prose

It’s Never A Dead End When You Have A Machete

You say your words aren’t about me. I know that. They were never about me. They were always about you. I walked upright once that wind stopped.

I made my wishes out loud. That’s why they didn’t come true. Not because wishing out loud makes things not come true, but because you heard me and ignored me and feigned ignorance. I knew what you were doing, and I know what you did. They say exercise adds years to your life, but that’s not a math problem. Don’t get mad when the tiger escapes your circus.

You were tattooed, completely, or partially, or not at all. I can’t say you never had an effect on me. You did. But look! Those ripples are fading, and soon the stone will sink beneath the surface of the water.

The metaphor was always about water, whether the vast ocean or the rushing river, but stepping stones don’t matter anymore. I discovered I can fly. Who looks down on who is a matter of perspective, but don’t forget, Aquaman is mocked and Superman is celebrated. That’s why I look up at the sky.

I never imagined a universe where I get along better with the one I spent so much time leaving than I do with you. But here we aren’t.

You always said that happiness was transient, and it is. But so is each breath, and I’ve been breathing my whole life.

Categories
Prose

I’m Pretty Vanilla When It Comes To Sanity

Churning words, your milestones in rear view, side view, front view, because you’re driving in reverse. You keep those people right there. You keep your own set of books for your head, and another one for public consumption. No one knows you’re cooking with gas and you’re ready to blow, like a whale coming up for air. Right out of your hole that you hope causes a commotion, deep as any ocean. A salad of dances, undressing underestimating me.

What will annoy you about me most and please you about me most is that I remember everything, and I pay attention. I know you love the morning glory and the purple rose and the stargazer lily. I know you love the beach and the mountains and big cities. But I notice that you can’t stop talking about your flaws, as if you’re challenging me with them, daring me to disagree with you, daring me to dislike you.

But I pay attention, especially to what you say about yourself, and if you tell me you’re terrible, who is a better expert than you? You lied to me repeatedly, and gaslit me, but I’m the horrible monster? No. I remember everything. I remember what I did too. I own it. It’s mine and I still let it go, because nothing defines me, not even the dictionary. You create a cage and then bang on it, screaming at me to let you out.

You can’t slam the door in my face, and then knock for closure.

Categories
Prose

Notice

I know things happened, things were done to you, you had negative experiences. But I am not those people, those situations, those experiences. I can’t be responsible for them, or suffer for them.

I can sympathize, and I do. I can listen and be there for you. I won’t be the stand-in for those who came before me. I’m nice, and I care about you deeply, but I care about me too.

And I have my own traumas.

Categories
Prose

A Phantom Call Reminds Me To Change My Headspace

A phantom call… I let it kick to voice mail… I internalize and process and think… and feel…

Your attempts are touching, if sad, but I can’t respond from the place I am right now. I’m too busy growing and changing for the better, and I am sure I can’t go back there.

I hope everyone I treated badly will understand what I went through and why I did the things I did. Just why. Just reasons. I make no excuses for what I did. I own up to them, admit them fully, acknowledge them completely, and apologize for them. Even if most of you did things too, it doesn’t matter. I forgive you, all of you, for all of it.

I’m responsible for my own shit, and I am sorry.

Categories
Poetry

Zen Diego

The curves of cirrus clouds high in the frosty winter sky

The curves of your body, draped in the sheets of last night’s slumber

Both seen equally difficult to grasp, to reach, to touch, however I may long for them

For you

Maybe all I have to do is learn to fly

But you’re under the water

Categories
Prose

Lost Vegas

He always used the metaphor of stepping stones across a raging river. He meant don’t worry so much about being deliberate and careful, and just dive right in.

She always repeated his words back to him… “Let’s splash right in that fucking water.”

He was wrong. They never splashed in the water. They were always in boats.

But they were never in the same boat.

Categories
Philosophy Prose

The Knife That Sharpens Other Knives

One: The Blood That Runs From Shadows
Everyone has his or her own version of reality. It’s when the two converge that people get along. It’s when they diverge radically that the end is near. I don’t care what other people say about events that I was there to witness, events that I lived. I know the truth, and so do they. People like to feel better. I don’t. I like to feel the pain of what I did, immerse myself in it, and swim in it. It eventually goes away. Avoiding pain is like that birth defect where nerves, pain receptors, are disconnected, and a person literally feels no pain. But without pain, we don’t learn. “Look at the wrinkled blistered bubbling skin on my hand from the stove!” shrug

Then repeat the bad behavior.

Two: The Knife That Sharpens Other Knives
My reality dictates the words written on the story of my life
The electric glow from my eyes outward
Illuminating shining showing spotlight
Absolution in a can
Gaslighting at the edge of the stage
As I play my part for other who play their parts
I’m the only one who didn’t get a script
Everyone expects me to say my lines
In the scripted world I am improvisation
I won’t live up to your expectations
I don’t read from a teleprompter robotically

Three: It’s A Two-Way Highway, You Know
I don’t begrudge people their own versions of reality. I just recognize them for what they are – time loops, little repeating patterns of hell that they have trapped themselves in. I’m not Lucifer. Nephilim, maybe – but I don’t have to be here, and I certainly don’t have to stay here. I’ll open the door, but they have to walk out themselves. I’ll wait, but I have life to live and shit to do.

You’re on your own here.