Sunday, April 4, 2010

Werewolf




Consumed by the inner torment that haunted his existence, Michael walked as if there were a demon pulling at his very core. Day by day the darkness would consume his heart, turning him into something that he had no way to fight against; it was a cancer that he could not rid himself of.

He couldn’t recognize anything in himself aside from the pain and anger, the fear and the loneliness, all of which seemed to have a permanent hold. How had he come to this point? How had he been victim to such a cruel joke? He left himself open and vulnerable, in allowing himself to entrust any and every person that would give him the attention he craved so much. Unfortunately as they would leave him, they would take a piece of him with them, leaving a void that would grow with each day and the opportunity for something to come and fill it.

It became a fear of his, that which he feared would be the only thing that could inevitably come in and permanently fill that void; it was only for so long that he could fight it off—he was weak to begin with, and his only strength would often come as a byproduct in trying to dawn that fa├žade for those who had indeed given him his desired time. Now that was gone, he was having to learn how to be strong for himself, unfortunately he was no black magic wielder, he had nothing special within to keep pushing through. Giving up, letting go, not only of the hope of things changing, but everything in whole was becoming an increasingly attractive thought. It was more difficult for him to make this decision than to get back on that horse, that was what was expected, complete fall into the embracing darkness was new, and as his plan of action had never worked to begin with, he was ready to try something new.

Home



How could I ever put into words the way I feel? How could I ever, the representation of chemicals rushing through the mind, the body, and the soul… it’s overpowering and quite frankly daunting. Words just never seem to be able to do justice to the feelings themselves. I’ve never felt more comfortable, more loved, more cared for, than when I was with you. But the question which ensues: was I in love with you, or was I in love with what essentially you represented to me? Is there a distinction between the two, and if there is, does that latter make the former any less important?

There is something to be said, that I can’t help but look back and smile, ah, the great fortune of reminiscence. I do confess, though I may be past a point of sorrow and despair, I can’t help but wanting to make plans, to have something to look forward to, not just in general but with you… Am I going to do that? Not at all, but it’s the last of the entirety, I just can’t seem to shake. I understand quite well that I wasn’t yours, and you weren’t mine, but I WAS yours and you did feel like mine, so even in the slightest coming to grips with that changing for the both of us is likely the most unsettling of all the feelings.

I often have to remind myself how temporary everything in this phase of my life is supposed to be… the pain, the happiness, the anger, the sorrow, the joy… it’s all fleeting from moment to moment, and often going in between polar opposites. As I hide myself from the world on this day, I know that the next may bring something new, something different, the littlest of things that can change it all around. We’ll grow old, and we’ll look back at the foolishness of it all, how we fit the roles we were supposed to so perfectly, and it’s hopefully at that time we can open our eyes from recalling those memories to see the eyes and smile of our truer love, that love that feels like home, as long as we’re with them.

Pursuit



After years with the same person, or rather people, I still feel like I’m trying to understand who they are… essentially I’m still trying to meet them. As with most things in my life I tend to give to much credit to others, hoping their actions and intent are actually something deeper and maybe more profound… Oh how wrong I am. One in particular, she was something short of spectacular, emphasis on the past tense; I was blinded to the faults, as should be the case, but it was the faults that drove us apart, as did my own, and who knows maybe neither one of us actually did anything that could be considered as actual work on the self. I can be very difficult to be around, let alone be with, I know this, others know this of me, but I will always ensure a good time, I will always give you a memory, and furthermore a story.

I’m slowly beginning to understand that complex I have with having my “story” precede myself… I belittle where I’ve been, and what I’ve done, and I do this because this is normal to me, this is how to live, there is no other way, accept you have the here and now, and that’s all that you will ever be guaranteed. We can’t change the past, and planning for the future seems more reckless than not planning for anything at all. I’ve been a person to never plan a thing, I play everything as it’s dealt, and I couldn’t be happier with the overall circumstance of my existence. I’m not a rich man by conventional standards, but I have more locked away in my heart and in my mind that all the money in the world wouldn’t be able to replicate. It’s for these reasons I can now understand that story, and the idiosyncrasies that seem to define me. Yeah everyone is different, and no one is ever going to be the same as those around them, but I don’t even know if I come from any specific mold.

I’ve looked so hard for the route I need to take to find my own happiness, I’ve never really thought that looking for the route is pointless, I need only to keep walking, one foot in front of the next, for I am here, I’m on a pursuit of happiness already, there’s no need for me to look, it’s what I’m doing already.

Bitterness in Truth

I don’t mean to close the door
But for the record my heart is sore...
You blew through me like bullet holes
Left staind on my sheets and stains...
On my soul
You left me broke down beggin for change
Had to catch a ride with a man who’s deranged

In the mirror the man and I look too much alike.