Sobriety means that the morning’s feel much better, but the nights feel much worse.
It means the world outside of me feels much softer, more understanding and tolerant. But the world inside is spinning around violently and colliding with itself.
It means I am less truthful than ever and everything about me is harder to believe, even more so to myself.
It means that nothing that is desired will ever happen fast enough but everything else will last for all eternity.
She longs for me merely because I am gone.
Just as motion inflicts excitement in a cats vision, if I had stayed dormant in her life I am certain she would have grown tiresome and walk away from me indifferent. Like a feline from a fresh kill.
These are the fetters of the human soul; the mind naturally fills in all blank spots, often creating a canvas much more appealing and wonderful than all logic and reality.
Thus, if I am to remain elusive and continue on as a fly just out of reach of her claws, my perpetual motion making her heart beat, her eyes dilate and all instincts of the hunt rise undeniably to the surface of her skin, she may just love me for all eternity.
Confinement doesn’t interest me. I confine myself enough, I don’t like when the world decides to do it to me. I have no interest in parks and trails or places that seem to state that you can play or explore, but you can only do it here. I partook begrudgingly in the education system and pursed my lips as it told me that I can learn, but only what (and when) they are willing to teach. I resent art galleries and museums or even magazines and advertisement that tell me that beauty exists, but only within the confines of these walls or pages. There are things that can be studied without words.
If I have to be confined to this soul, I should not have to be confined to the madness or brilliance of other souls. I should be as mad and brilliant as I see fit.
I felt a rapid presence inside me.
Dire one – winged hummingbirds dreaming of thier nectar.
They all cry out “I am what’s lovely about you!”
Indeed, the parts of me still alive with passion. The parts that know not of all my shortcomings. And they flap about on cold tile floors with sturdy dreams and certain prevail in thier bellies.
With thier eyes focused on the tall blossoms. Nothing is ever so clear. Nothing glints so blindingly.
No gold, No silver, No sunbeams bouncing off the sea.
They are parts of me consumed with deep hunger and naivety is the glands watering thier mouths.
The birds cry out from the cold floor.
But I mustn’t feed them, nor lift them to their nectar for they are what’s lovely about me. They are my passion! Thier hunger is my muse, you see!
But, years go by and thier calls go quiet and they lay still.
How selfish am I to be such a masochist! To suffer my physical body to such proportions merely in order to feel so alive internally. How naive am I! For now I see the two go hand-in-hand and here I sit with neither.
Just dead hummingbirds and dried, crumbled old flowers.
The best of our days consisted of me watching her take drugs and staring off like she was a wolf that heard a small creature off in the distance. She waits to piece together it’s location for the hunt, but it never shows any promise. At times I feel like she could quit the chemicals if she wanted but it’s that promise of a good hunt she can’t seem to shake for the life of her. The problem here is that she will never realize that she is the one being hunted.
The sun pulls itself up over the horizon, back from the end of the world, and I hold onto her like a small child holds a red balloon. But the drugs were wild gusts of wind and on certain days, I felt as if I’d “accidentally” let go of her string. It grows tiresome and I am not such a small child anymore. I guess you could say that was my addiction: my inner child had passed long ago and following on her little “hunts” made me feel as if I was visiting it’s grave site. Filling her needles for her was as if I was giving it flowers and holding her hand while she nods off was like a little prayer uttered.
It’s crazy how my body and mind simply refuse to work together. Sometimes she repulsed me and I only loved her with my mind. Like the way she took the breath right out of my chest the day I saw her standing so awkwardly in the bookstore seeking out a novel she had been talking about for weeks. It was the strangest thing and I couldn’t fathom how her body could even naturally assemble like that. Her legs were crossed and she stood on her toes with her back arched and twisted. Her arms were straight in front of her but clasped inside out and tangled. Like an ancient statue with a million small pieces knocked out, barely holding itself together. Like any day now she would crumble into dust and thousands of years of history would dissolve into a pile of dust. How funny the mind works that I could fall so hopelessly for a mere stance.
Other days, I loved her with only my body and I felt nothing more. It would remain that way for weeks until I caught another glimpse of something that made me come to my senses. She was a helpless old toy and the memories of my youth threw her around as if I had never grown. She couldn’t stray very far.
But I made up my mind one night while we headed back over the bridge towards her place. The passenger seat was pushed back and she was curled into a little ball. She was so small I could barely keep my eyes off the road. How does something so lovely wander so far off and land here with me? I wasn’t even sure if she was still breathing, it had been a long night and she certainly pushed her limits. I couldn’t concentrate, I would look away from the road and stare at her sleeping until I felt the tires meet the grass, then I would correct the vehicle and stare at her some more until it happened again and I did this almost the entire way home. I wanted to keep her like that forever. I decided I would leave that night and never come back. I couldn’t imagine things ever getting better than that exact moment and I wanted to make sure that no matter where I went from then on, no matter who I was with, I would always have her sleeping so beautiful in my head and I could find peace.
I carried her into her apartment and placed her on the sofa. She didn’t move a single muscle until I started to walk away and her little awkward fingers grabbed at my pant leg without even opening her eyes. She was so weak that her hand just fell right off as I walked away. She was a helpless little toy and I had grown old. I had realized tonight that the memories of things you once loved are much stronger than things you still have. Love is like a loud roar and people grow so used to it over the years that it eventually blends into the background. The same way people that live near great waterfalls no longer hear it. I carefully created a situation and a woman that I could hear loudly and love forever. This was the only thing that made sense.
People these days naturally put up walls to protect themselves. You can’t blame them, the world is a cold place and “survival of the fittest” has never been so prominent. But sometimes, its not the walls that you have to worry about. Sometimes they are placed there for your benefit. You could build a great mansion with all the walls me and her built from each other and the rest of the world. But all the items decaying in the crawlspaces behind her walls made this great palace uninhabitable.
I locked the door behind me and tossed the key to that great home down a sewage drain.
With sincerity, I implore that you live life to its very core and that you do so with brilliance and a complete lack of haste. For I am certain that the only vengeful gods lay within. And what awaits after you are laid to rest is negligible until it arrives with certainty. Life waits to be grappled with both bleeding palms and those who tremble at the sight of it are the only who feel it’s wrath.
The heavens above are stable and move contently with or without you and the pits of Hell lay placid.
You are not to be punished for any sins or mistakes you’ve acquired through life. You will not be punished for black cats crossing or mirrors broken or impure thoughts. Everything is unfolding exactly as it should and those who lay in wait are the only true suffering.
Love is not a thing that sings anymore to me.
It’s not a elegant bird or a soft kiss.
It’s not the waxing and waning of the ocean tide in the pitch black.
It’s not a quiet night in, or the way her dress sways against her hips when she thinks I can’t see her dancing.
It’s not an open field, or box of old pictures found in the attic.
It’s fistful’s of hair. It’s crying in my passenger seat. It’s the things that make my phone ring so early in the morning. Because everyone and everything is at war, my love, and most of us are unbearably alone no matter who we wake to.
And keeping our past from haunting us is like keeping a cat off the kitchen table.
An Introduction To Terrible Things.... 