Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Spitting Venom

I've been using this blog for the better part of the last year, as a forum to say what I wanted to but through the eyes of created characters. Yes, it's evident that there's a continued running theme of loss, despair, desperation, and feelings of the sort... I won't begin to deny that, and on the whole it's been somewhat therapeutic, but rarely do I address things directly, maybe all of three separate occasions, and in my own right I've rationalized, that I haven't needed too, that everything I need to address can be done so through the eyes of whichever character I create, or whichever non-fiction persona I decide to dawn on every given day.

I felt it prudent to finally address things directly, if nothing but in this single message alone, and maybe then I may begin to see some improvement. I'm not alright, I'm not okay; and though I want to be, and though I fight to be, there's a constant dissent into deeper and deeper pits of my own internal torment. I was once told by someone who was close to me, that I don't need to be upset or depressed to make art, in which I quickly recanted (after some optimistic bullshitting,) that I do—this is my way, this is my right. I have an unfortunate connection in creating from the burning ruble that is/was my optimistic hopeful spirit. I speak on hope as if I have any. I don’t know if I do, I want to feel like I do so as not to seem completely despondent to the world that often wished to accept as one of its own; but I don’t want to be a part of the world outside of my own. If I did, why would I go through the trouble of creating my own?

Am I emotionally unstable? Or am I normal? This is the constant conflict I come across. In one moment I can be perfectly fine with who I am, where I’m at, and this isn’t even in the midst of being with the one I want to be with, this has happen devoid of her. I know I can stand on my own two, and be relatively stable, it has happened before. But I wake up, often enthusiastic with the prospects of the day, with the people I may see, formulating a plan of interaction, and it soon leads to a somber state because I know what I’m missing out on. As much as it pains me, I’ll remedy this with drinking away the parts of the day I cannot sleep away. I would rather stay in bed, with the covers over my head, and I now know that’s not an awful thing to say, but I do recognize the cowardice in such an action, and as such I do my best so as not to perpetuate these possibilities. I do my best to try and take-on the challenges that befall me, and prove to myself, (because I could give a fuck about others perception) that I am strong enough to battle all my inner demons on a daily basis.

I’ve realized and understood for some time now that I have this story that follows me, as we all do, but mine is one which seems to arrive far sooner than I do, and with that there’s this notion that people know who I am, they feel like they know what I’m about, and this couldn’t be further from the truth. How could they know when I’m still trying to figure that out? And I will be conceited and arrogant to the point in saying, I can tell you what you can’t figure out about yourself, but I know with almost absolute certainty that you won’t be able to come close in doing the same for myself. How can I be so certain about a statement like this? Well it’s simple, I understand the illusions of the world, and that with the amount of self-reflective thinking I consistently do, I’ve never met anyone else of my few years to have done the same; in doing this I’ve been able to find the answers to the common problems, but as I’m not common these problems often do not suit me, as they would suit you. In this sense I’ll admit that I’m vain and narcissistic, but I do this only by evidence through a multitude of situations that have done nothing but reinforce this thought. I’m not claiming to be that genius generations will study years from now, nor am I claiming to be better than any other person; however what I am claiming is that I’ve arrived at certain inalienable truths that take decades and decades of discovery to understand, and I’ve only endure the two.

If given the ability to let you live through my own eyes for even a several hours you would be able to understand that there is much validity in my claims. I suppose it’s time to cease my self-empowering rant… then again no one has really put much weight into my thoughts, so I assume this will be one of the many messages that goes unnoticed, except to myself.

Shit Luck

My heart has definitely begun to dry up...

Little Motel

I know I haven’t seen you in years, and I know the last time I had it wasn’t on the best terms… all I can say now is that I hope your happy in your own personal hell.

I had nothing but the utmost faith in you, nothing but kindness and consideration in the deepest pits of my heart, but constantly you would threw these feelings back at me—calling me naive, foolish, and too hopeful. If there’s anything I ever been its hopeful, and it’s understandable that this isn’t always the most attractive quality in a person. Often times it leads to unrealistic delusions of grandeur, but there needs to be someone that holds steadily to those feelings, otherwise we’re both sinking ships passing in the night.

I know that you have it in you to be something so much more, something stronger; but I also know the amount of effort and painstaking work that is involved in order to ensure this self-reality. It doesn’t mean that it’s a thought that should be dismissed with a casual scoff. You’ve said that I never knew you and that even more so I wouldn’t know you now, but that’s a claim only you can hold on to. You’re not as deep a person as you would hope. Your feelings are worn clearly on your sleeves, and your emotions are strewn about the memories we once held dearly onto, everything was clear and everything was easy to read.

I know you live deep within a state of sorrow; I can recognize this much as I have constantly been fighting to get out of mine. Birds of feather, not only flock together, but we can also see the worlds of one another. I’ve never been difficult to understand, my intentions were always things you could read, if not been told—this hasn’t made life easier, but at the very least I’ve hoped its been made at least a little more understandable.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Mouthful of Diamonds

“Wake up,” she said… I found myself hunched over the bed, half dead as she would claim. Everything had spiraled out of control by this point, I lost all focus and now I was living the junkies dream… nightmare was more like it. Everything I ever wanted was well within my position to attain, but what I craved was something that couldn’t be bought at any store, it wasn’t anything that any regular person could have; you had to fight for it, and when you finally were fortunate to get your fingers close enough, there was no turning back. I wanted power, I wanted respect.

The power was easy, and the respect… well that was easy at first, however both were done thanks to the power of fear, and fear alone. I had become bigger than I ever imagined unfortunately this left as a perfect target for more than one type of person. I walked around every day with a bullseye on the back of my head, practically begging to be taken out by the next punk that thought he knew what he was doing, or hell even the heat that would’ve loved to permanently solve their problem. I was in a constant state of panic, but I had to stay calm, I had to look cool, I had to be in control otherwise my whole tower would’ve definitely crumbled from beneath my feet.

I buried my nose in my own product; I buried myself like an ostrich trying to hide. How idiotic could I be? The root of my problems seemed like it could also be my salvation—there was no saving me at this point, I was in too deep, and there was no coming out. Well I suppose the plan was always to go down in a blaze of glory.

Pig Food

Winter is a merciless endeavor. Often we feel like we’ve had enough, and in that desire to see the Sun cast its glorious rays down on us once more, like a fickle bitch it teases us. Momentarily for only a day’s time, two at most, it will indeed warm our hearts that have begun to ice over, only to bring forth yet another reminder of who’s actually in charge. The cold breath that we feel on the back of our necks often does one of two things: it either forces us to pull ever so closer for our lover’s embrace, or for the unfortunate many it’ll force us to flip the collars of our lapels and wearily trudge along, yearning for that next moment of warmth. The nights are long, the days are short, too short to even give warmth an opportunity, but I suppose we forget that after all it is indeed winter, and loneliness needs its own time too.

Despite this feeling of loneliness… despite the solitude we’re forced into like captors in the Great War, there’s a hope that is inherent, there is that light at the end of the tunnel. Some recognize it as Spring, but really it’s just the great meltdown. Those hearts that were iced over begin to thaw, and we allow ourselves once more to cling on to hope, no matter how false the feelings may seem to be. With this peek into the realm of brighter possibilities maybe we can find salvage for our character, maybe we can see a reflecting hope within our spirit. If it’s been lost there’s no reason to assume it’ll always remain absent, instead we may assume its eventual return.

The spirit seems to leave just as most things do; it grows weak, tired—it becomes fed up with the same monotonous routines and the same despair that we ourselves cannot singularly claim freedom from. As a friend it rather leave when it things become too uncomfortable so as not to sever the relationship to its host permanently. We must find our way back to that home of sanity, the dwelling of acceptance; we must become satisfied with the stranger in the mirror, and rely on the unknown within to help us get through the unknown “on the out.” Become strong in self, in body, and in mind, to become strong for one another…

…a task I know is much simpler said than done, but one can hope, right?

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Skin of the Night

The days had been warm, the only comfort he seemed to be able to find in his current emotional state. She had left, and that was likely for the better, but that didn’t mean it would make the pain any easier to work through; nor did it mean it was anything he was yet willing to accept.

His drives would seem endless, and that was fine with him, he never wanted them to end anyway. No longer was there anywhere he saw himself going, there was no home waiting for him, there was nothing drawing him near, so he sought to find a new reason to wake up in the morning. The time did enough to teach him that he could no longer entrust his overall state of well-being in the hands of another. Though they may help, it’s no one duty but his own to ensure his well-being. Damnnit, if this wasn’t one of the worst feelings he thought through; it was a normal state of existence to put everything he had into another person, and hope for those feelings to be reciprocated. He didn’t know how to exsist otherwise, no longer was he just trying to get back to normal, but instead he was having to figure out how to completely change himself.

The summer air would fill him up, slowly piecing his spirit back bit by bit. Though the days were long they would quickly lead into the night, placing a fear of uncertainty deep inside him. With the night came inevitable rest, and the thoughts which would accompany this rest, did nothing but tear him back down. Every night was another opportunity to revisit the mistakes made, and the beauty that was now absent. Every night was another battle to keep himself sane, so that he may be able to eventually make it through; but it was because of this the night was always deep inside of him, haunting him.


There had been a rift in communication… there had been a rift in sanity. The slow downward spiral into a state of despair was assumable, but at least this time there would be some fight against it. He had always followed her around as if clinging to her coattails, afraid to miss a second.

Every moment was a subtle reminder of what happened, it was a stinging memory of how simple it was to force change; unfortunately comfort and pride got in the middle of this unsavory dance, as it normally does. Every picture, every piece of clothing, every breath came with a time that had yielded something more, something that was inherently pure.

The seemingly painful period of silence had left them weak, it left them aching for some classic state of normalcy, a situation that was not only always welcome, but now it was simply craved—each fixing for their share, as if fiending for that drug all over again. No longer did the idea of separation help to suggest how needed it may be, there was no benefit coming from the situation, just perpetual pain. It was an easy fix, but in fixing it, would that be taking the easy way out? It would undoubtedly take just one of them to stick to their guns and try to break the vicious cycle, but as awful as the cycle could feel at times, there was the hope that the connection which was refusing to be severed was somehow much stronger.

Soldier On

He found himself back at the same point he had sought refuge from. All that was golden had begun to rust; the glorious resurgence of love and possibilities was one short lived, but nonetheless it wasn’t anything he would’ve changed. They both held on to some hope that things were going to change, that maybe it wasn’t foolish to believe in those fairytales we were convinced had been nothing more than fables retold to perpetuate a supposed undying spirit.

The realization that maybe love was indeed something less permanent began to creep inside his thoughts. Everything seems to cosmically have its respective “expiration date,” so how could it be the one thing hell-bent on trying to defy the laws of the universe. There wasn’t any philosophy he could develop or subscribe to that was tangible enough to believe in, which spoke of the possible powers which transcend all rules and logic.. but essentially this is what love is supposed to do. To know no boundaries, know no barriers, but only know truth and self. Maybe that’s what goes wrong in trying to understand the sentiment, we neither know truth, nor do we know ourselves, and as such we fall victim to the follies of affection.

Blinded by his desire for her, he was all too ready to give up everything for that opportunity, they scoffed at him when he had said it before, but it was something he always meant. Since he met her all he wanted was constant love and affection…It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t give it back in return… it wasn’t his fault for trying to convince her otherwise…these things happen, and they’re just byproducts of an unnerving learning experience that ultimately is in place to weed out the weak.


There’s often an eerie sense about behavior in relationships. Often times there’s conflict as annoyances are addressed, but they are hardly ever worked on. Are we to busy to work on the quirks that our partners find to be irritating—does the “go-go” life have us completely consumed? This would be too easy a response. I feel like we’ve grown lazy and tiresome; unless we’re constantly engaged, and as long as that feeling of euphoric elation is reinforced regularly, maybe then, and only then can a relationship survive.

Unfortunately as it seems this hasn’t always been the case. There were centuries, hell millennia, which gave hapless romantics a chance for the potential of undying love. They found their soul-mates, their perfect compliment, but it would be a hell of a lot easier in a world of a few million at most, oppose to the billions we all have to individually sort out now, lest we have an opportunity.

It would be too cynical to take the stance that we can’t all have that “perfect match.” Maybe the thought of “Mr/Mrs. Right,” isn’t about a specific person, but when the “right” person is, “rightfully” developed. When they meet those qualifications you’ve always imagine, and their compromise with reality. When you realize your dream person, wasn’t that man or woman that just got those hormones to convince you to do inappropriate things, however it’s when you realize it was that person that would get your heart pumping and nerves fluttering at the very utterance of reciprocation.

We fight for love, we fight for attention; when we get it, it’s addicting, it’s empowering—in this sense it’s a dangerous drug. What happens when that well dries up? We get broken, and we have to learn to mend ourselves back to some collected state before healthily pursuing on with our lives. Say it happens again? Often more damaging than the first, we still must pick ourselves up and carry on. And yet it persists? Well at that point when the love has gone, you carry on, and it’s increasingly easier to dust yourself off…by this point there may still have been hope, but at the very least there’s a realistic conclusion already drawn.

Je Suis Le Vent

The snow had begun to cascade the city rooftops, terraces began to dawn an image of overgrown icicles, and those adventurous few willing enough to brave the torture of the elements appeared to be nothing more than walking snowmen. The lights danced off the falling flakes, illuminating the sky with a blanket that appeared to be a million falling stars—nature’s way of making up for the one’s that couldn’t be seen through the thick clouds. The cold began to beat down at the windows, at the doors, at the walls, at the sanity of its victims; like a thrown out guest that was fighting to get back in, it too was craving acknowledgment of its existence.

Coming out of nowhere the storm took over the city, engulfing the inhabitants, with them their hopes, their dreams, their fears, their worries—unifying everyone in a state of solitude and loneliness. Was it too much to ask for recognition? Was it too much to see the grandeur of the situation? Like a small child yelling for attention, the wind, the clouds, the nighttime in its solitude was now crying out. The attention it yearned for so desperately was finally being given, and though it would only be a moments time, it did empower the ferocity. Instead of being loved, it was content in settling for just being noticed, recognition did enough to fill the void and pain of being forgotten and ignored. To it, something will always be better than nothing.

You Are My Scar

Time had passed, and though the pain became easier to deal with there was still something missing within him. He couldn’t shake her from his thoughts, she was always right at the forefront; and though he knew better by this point, it was an innate reaction that he seemed to have lost all control over. Every passing day, he would lose a little more hope, and with that slide closer to an approved state of normalcy; but it didn’t change anything, he still waited… He waited for that night, when she would call him, and he would know, that it would be ok, and in her voice he would find warmth and comfort once—he would find that home he fought so hard for. Was it in the stars though? Was he just feeding in to a maddening fantasy?

There was no desire to meet anyone else, he grew content with each amount of hope that would dissipate, that he was better off alone, than with anyone other than her. What a sad and foolish thought. Reserved to the feelings and thoughts of a golden yester-year there was no actualization of this love ever to come, a fact he wasn’t blind to, but rather one he wasn’t willing to fully accept. It had always been his role to guide others through these types of ordeals, and there was the eventuality that things did indeed get better, but he could see major differences between the situations; never had he known others to love and care for another person as much as he did for her. Though this made the situation somewhat different, it was his crutch he relied on; with its aid he was able to hold on to a fleeting thought that would never come to fruition.

She loved him, but that loved had changed. She sought refuge in the comfort of other men, but still for whatever reason relied on his support and care, a selfish act. Was it out of genuine concern, or had she just felt guilty enough to play this much into his emotions?


He had been away for years, off to find himself in some land that he had hope to find answers, some peace, some… something. She had left him long before, and maybe that was the catalyst into pushing him into becoming a vagabond, but it wasn’t anything he would ever admit too. It was his time to leave, just as she realized.

Their lives had grown into two very separate paths. The family he always wanted, the home, they were a far off thought now. He lived in the moment fully, and that wasn’t a life you could cultivate a family around. Going from city to city, each one coming with its own distinct love and allure, the travel was his home, and the cities were the family... Yet he couldn’t shake the memory of her warmth, her love her temptress ways.

She left to learn what it was like to be what she always wanted. Career set, and goal oriented, she always had a plan something that she could always follow. He was never in that plan, nor was any other man for that matter; plans have a funny way of changing all too often. She now found her self, married, and settled down. She had the life he always dreamt of, and now he had hers.

They would often think of that time they shared, and through whatever connection it would never dissipate. There would always be that passion, there would always be that carnal desire, and because of that they could never give themselves to any other, as they once had to each other.

It’s Ok

The night was steady… the wind was stiff, and the harbor was resting easily; there were no ships sailing in. They sat at the edge of the pier staring out to the water break against the rocks below; it shimmered in the moon, lighting up the view like sparks fading into a dark empty void. His hand began to creep closely to hers… she pulled away. The wind would peak out every so often making them both shiver; she would go to grab for his embrace, but he would pull away. They fought for each other, yet at the same time they never wanted to get close.

They just sat there, staring absently into the dark blanket that seemed to encompass their world; they were brought together by a simple loneliness, this was no way to live. It was too hard not to be together, but it was too hard to sit next to one another—there was nothing to talk about, they never had anything to talk about. Their relationship could be reduced to nothing more than a few solemn moments of physical bliss, and the occasional embrace that they could find comfort in. They had fooled themselves into believing this to be something of substance; unfortunately it was a mere farce, that neither of them could come to accept. It was easier to live in the ignorance, instead to deal with their own inner demons alone.

She turned to him, trying to draw his attention, instead all she could see was his empty eyes staring out—what was it that he was thinking? Was he thinking about her? If so, why couldn’t he ever address it, why couldn’t he ever make her feel wanted, loved? Didn’t she deserve it? She shrugged it off, and assume that whatever it was, she wasn’t good enough to know, and that was a fault of her own, she had built him up in her mind to be someone truly exceptional… All she could do would be turn her attention back, and try to find solace in her own world.

A few moments passed, and he turned to her… He wanted to reach out, he wanted to console her. He could feel her pain, her frustration, mainly because he had the same feeling. All he wanted to do was to hold her, and tell her that it would be ok, that he loved her—that’s all he ever wanted to do. He could see the light of the moon gleaming through the clouds that seemed to rest as a halo above her head, she looked so beautiful sitting there next to him, and next to him he felt safe. He could never understand why she wouldn’t touch him anymore, how he became so repulsive to her. Her affection for him seemed to have fade with some far away sunset, that they had both forgot… His mind was consumed with thoughts of what he may have done to have lost that attention. The thoughts would quickly shift to trying and figure out how he was lucky to receive it in the first place. Could he ever get it back? He reserved himself to the way things now were, because that’s how they were going to stay, and any different could mean that she would no longer be next to him, and if it was this or nothing, he’d rather this.

So the two sat, in silence—both wanting to hold the other, but being too afraid to. Their love and desire for one another couldn’t be enough to bring them together, in actuality it’s what was driving them apart.


Within himself he begins the process…
If every action has a reaction, why couldn’t I get hers? I stare the night sky down in an attempt to find a place in its endless blanket… For those moments of complete insignificance there’s a freedom, a freedom to let everything go, and fall in line with the movements of the world around. There’s little explanation or understanding as to how this situation seems to stay ever so present within my thoughts; when does it just naturally fade away?

No amount of pleasure had subdued the pain; it’s almost comical how powerful the mind can be. Despite any effort to sway or push differing thoughts, if it’s against the consciousness’ will, then it surely won’t happen. Is this supposed to be taken as a sign?

Nothing is as special as this… deconstruction of thought is too powerful a process to ignore. In trying to understand the inability to sway thoughts that torment, it’s easier to pinpoint and focus in on the defects which cause them to arise originally.

If I’m dreaming of you, and you’re dreaming me why don’t we choose a different story…? I guess because not everything’s supposed to end the way we envision. It’s the world’s way of reclaiming control and claiming its dominance over us. Uncertainty and chaos in action reign supreme, the sooner we understand that, the sooner we can find beauty in the breakdown. In reality it the thought progresses as I may want you, but you don’t want me, so why wouldn’t it be better to leave?

Too Warm to be Chilly

There was love inside the basement, with an open door he let it go. For an ego as large as his to be brought back to some state of equivalency was earth-shattering. He had been given this aura which didn’t suit him. Others perceived a person that wasn’t him. From how he lived, to how he spoke, there was some vague sense of certainty about his actions… He had never acted in certainty, he always saw it as reacting to circumstance; suppose his natural ability in handling life’s situations was just more innate for someone of his few years.

The life he had envisioned as a child had long since passed, as it does… It’s a natural discourse of human development to forgo those ideals of the quintessential life. Had he only lived in seclusion maybe he could’ve forged a destiny less tainted from self-destruction, alas this is a fools dream, or rather an idealist’s nightmare. It had taken him too long to figure out the things in life which were important. Often carelessness and pride would get in his way, acting as a detour from any progressive path. Too much time and effort had been invested into fields of unimportance.

He had grown with the seasons, cold and despondent. The relics of yesterday did little but stir mixed emotions, none of them with a recollection of anything worth cherishing. His life had become a monotonous routine, each day blending seamlessly with the last. He lived in his own personal hell, the only saving grace were the few memories that took control of his thoughts. Those eyes, that smile, her voice… all of it was constantly at the forefront of his mind. He wanted to let go, and felt he had time and time again, this was something new; this pain, the longing, all of it was a new feeling. His inability to recognize it just drove him madder.

I Was Meant for the Stage

Michael sat in his room, it was bare hardly a shred of personality could be seen on the walls. There was a diploma hung up over the door, a remembrance of his success presumably every time he would leave his room. Sitting next to him was faded maple guitar; it had definitely been a faithful instrument, based on its appearance alone.

He fiddled with the heads trying to tighten the strings to the perfect pitch, a process he had mastered over years of practice. He put the strap on, and stood up. In that instance he was transported instantly. Standing in a capacity filled coliseum, the lights shining down on him, the fans consumed with anticipation. This was his home, this is where he belonged, this is where he was fated to be and he always knew it.

With each strum of his guitar, with each chorus he would sing out, a surge of adrenaline incomparable to anything in the known universe would flood through every last part of him. He would stand center stage, and in that moment everything felt perfect, any malice that existed in his life were immediately forgiven.

Melodies and accompaniments of strings, and horns, and drums would all be the background to his ballads of love and angst, of desperation, and hope; they would be his truest reflections. If we all have one purpose in life his was certainly meant for the stage.

My Night with the Prostitute from Marseilles

“I want you to take me, I want you to feel me, I want you to do everything you ever wanted to me,” she said as she craned to look at me from behind. I was lost in the moment, it was seductive, it was powerful, it was passionate.

“I want to feel you… Never stop, never let go.”

It began like this… it was one of those times in life where anything seemed possible. Here I was hand in hand with an angel, whom I had known for only a few short minutes, but had she asked I would’ve done anything for her. There was a sense of adventure that was so foreign to me, a true feeling of wild inhibitions. I wanted everything that she could give me, I wanted a taste of the freedom that she lived in, and she didn’t seem to forget that luxury.

We raced down the street as if playing catch with each other, fighting through the crowds, the neon lights highlighting every color in her face… she was beautiful, she was extraordinary. I felt out of my league, as if I was some lucky bastard that was living in a moment that would permanently leave a mark in my conscious, that single second in history that was mine—she seemed as if this was any other night to her, and that’s what I loved. She would grab for my hand and pull me in, grabbing my arms to wrap them around her waist, to hold her tight, she would feign as if to go for a kiss, and then quickly turn and run. The entire thing was a hunt to her, something she took great amusement in doing.

I followed her throughout the night, she letting me sneak a peek of her life; it was odd, sort of glamorous: one that seemed like what rock stars sang out about, but have now moved on from, or that you would see some hoity toity party may be played in a random independent film, where everyone was beautiful, intelligent and worthwhile—yeah it was that world, but real, it felt tangible. She would look at me throughout the evening and whisper in my ear, “this could all be yours.” Obviously she didn’t know me, I would never fit in a world like this, it was beyond me. But every time she would say it, I began to believe her a little more.

We found ourselves watching the sun come up on a park bench, slowly it would break over the rooftops of the buildings which had seemed to initially hold it up on the strength of their iron beams alone. She leaned in again, as she had done so many times throughout the night, I prepared myself for her to turn back once more but—she hesitated. She kissed me with an intensity I had never known. It felt like a tear was rolling down her cheek as she grabbed the back of my head, and pulled my ear closer to her lips, “this could all be yours.”

And now outside I saw her eyes meet the sky, and I believed her then.

Love Dog

The road ends…

He doesn’t know where he is, there’s just a cliff, perched over a canyon he’d never seen before.

The moon hangs low over the mountains on the other side. He breathes the sweet sage in the air… its warm; it fills his lungs up—slowly creeping into every part of him. He looks up the stars… the air continues to fill him up…“HALLEJUAH!” he cries out in a loud howl. He hits the ground hard, falling straight to his knees, his palms digging into the sand around; it’s not a weakness he’s succumbed to, but rather an overpowering sense of liberation that is justifiably too much for him to stand.

He feels a surge flow through him; it was the weight of his world slowly leaving, freeing him. It sends a shiver down to his bones. It’s in this moment he would ever feel the most alive, it’s in this moment he knew he was alive.

Whatever Lola Wants

She sat at the edge of the bar, hardly anyone ever came in on Thursday nights. She convinced the owner to let her have a few hours on stage. She was trying to find her voice; bouncing around from a lounge, to folk acoustic—there was even a week she brought in a DJ set. It didn’t matter what it was, it wasn’t half bad. There were the occasional regulars that enjoyed her, and she began to pick up some enthusiastic passerby’s that had begun to swing by for a song or two at the very least—one in particular, who she had begun to notice and began to notice that she would look forward to see him each week. Unfortunately though this reality of hers, the weekly shows were being threatened of coming to an end, there wasn’t as many people as there needed to be.

Sipping on her cocktail she was mustering up the will to step on stage to an empty room yet again. Was it her? Were people not coming in now because of her? It didn’t really matter anymore, she was hoping on just milking as much out of the situation as she could, hell if nothing else it was a story after all. She twirls the cherries that rested at the bottom, and placed the glass back on the coaster, grabbed her guitar and walked up.

The lights dimmed, and she plugged her guitar I; there was that awkward moment of feedback… not the best way to start. Walking to the piano that sat next to the mic, she turned on a slight beat—grabbed the guitar, and walked up to the mic. It was slow, but it had a strong rythym… it was sexy, in a very provocative way. Looking down to watch her hands work, she gathers a breath and begins playing along.

She looks up… towards him, “Whatever Lola wants… Lola gets…”

The entire bar got up and began to surround the stage.

Expo 86

I rolled the windows down, the streaming stars began to fall into each, hanging like one big lamp flickering before it burns out. This thought brought me back to understanding my place in the world. It hadn’t mattered what the difference between the shooting stars and the satellites may have been, they were both out of reach. The world began to drift off in that moment, none of it mattered.

She sat comfortably in the driving seat. It was oddly empowering to see her there, she’d begun to rely on me for direction, and this wasn’t limited to being behind the wheel. I was the navigator, I had been here before, and though I didn’t think I would make the return trip as quickly as I had, we can’t always plan for these things.

I let my mind drift into another world; I took a breath and began to realize how much I wanted her to be in control. If only for a moment, if only for a day—to her I’d relinquish for as long as I wasn’t overstaying my welcome. Could I overstay my welcome? I feel like if that was ever a legitimate fear, it’s one that would have had created an uncomfortable situation many times over already. Perhaps that’s just who we were with one another; we developed a need for each other. One in which we both required the consent of the other to feel happy.

I wouldn’t have thought that, had she not brought it up time and time again.

Broadripple is Burning

I was wasted, she could taste it… I didn’t want her to look at me that way. I wanted her to leave, I would see her again, when I began to haunt her like a ghost.

If my many words felt like fire to her, it was only in an attempt to warm her cold heart. She had become a shallow resemblance of the joyful person that had brought me here; she immediately regretted coming. For whatever reason she had forgotten why she left to begin with… It was her odd homesickness which drew her back; however that had diminished within days of being home. Her resentment had begun to flood over into my world, one that had been crumbling long before I thought her to be what I waited for.

What is it that I truly wanted? This was an elusive thought, but I suppose my life would be drab at best if I knew what I wanted… even if this wasn’t the case it was the only thing I could come back to that proved to have some sense of comfort associated to it.

I didn’t even think to leave a note, that act of civility would be lost on her anyway. It wouldn’t matter anyhow, if I wasn’t there when she got back no matter what notification I may have forwarded along would still look like cowardice. I didn’t want to wait in fear of her following; but I was now, just as I always had been, going somewhere she could never follow. It wasn’t that I was better than this, better than her… but it was all those things and more. My life’s just casual discrepancies followed by double-speak, it’s complexity I thrive in, however it’s also been my own worst enemy.

The Getaway

The only thing that defines me, is her. Not in that I wouldn’t know who I am bereaved of her presence, however it’s in her eyes that I can see my purpose, I can understand the reasoning for what it is I’m supposed to do. Her words, her care, as long as I can look at myself in the mirror and know that I have some aid in helping her, I can sleep comfortably at night.

Would I be doughty enough to ensure her safety? The entire situation left me bereft of all emotion. Drained completely of trying in general… from trying to be social, to just trying to get out of bed in the morning, none of it made any difference—there was nothing left and I wouldn’t know how to rebuild if I tried. Time has become a formidable foe, as I know it’s no longer on my side; yes young I may be, but I thought I had more time with her, and it’s the unfortunate reality of the situation to see that slowly slipping away, and far from sight.

I have no inclination as to what I’m supposed to do, and that quite frankly is saddening. How is a person able to lose all focus when they are left by only one? It’s not like the world abandoned me, but it might as well have.