Tuesday, December 28, 2004

 

I had a dream the other night. It was a weird dream in terms of what I normally dream. I was a father. I was an actual father conversing with my son about music. He was trying to play a guitar. He wanted to take lessons and for his birthday I bought him and old Fender to start with. He was slightly interested in playing rock music. I remember listening to the local radio station trying to see what he sought that was so alluring to him. I listened trying to understand him but the music the kids listened to was just not my style. I would often turn back to an oldies station where Nirvana, Soundgarden, Metallica, and The Doors played. Knowing the guitar of choice for some of the oldie bands was an old Fender it influenced my decision for what I bought my son. So I had given him my gift and he was strumming it a little trying to gain the feeling for it. I was bringing out some of my old music CD’s and blowing the dust off my stereo. Now a days everything was controlled by streaming from the net so you never needed to actually touch any media. I bought out an old Door’s CD to let him listen to what history says he will repeat. I think in the end he got frustrated with me as I was trying to give him appreciation for music that I loved. I had tried listening to his stuff and didn’t make the connection and now I was hoping we could do the same through this guitar.

Time fast forwarded a few years and I saw in some cases slow motion replay and in others super fast replay me pushing my son away by trying to make his dream what mine for him was. I pushed him away bit by bit each year. Where my father was not there I smothered mine and he went out each night staying out longer and longer until he would not come home for several days. According to my friend who worked for the police dept he was playing late at night in a rough club. I tried to imagine my son playing music for a few hundred other people and them connecting with him through his music like I was trying to do through that guitar. The connection I would never be able to achieve because though we both are the same we are so different. One night I got a tip on where he would be playing and went to the club. It had been 3 days since I had seen my son. It was also the first time I heard myself speak his name. I entered club seeking out son asking people if they knew where Kenneth was. Then I saw him up on stage standing there with the guitar hanging off his shoulders a bent and lit cigarette hanging from his lips leaving a little trail of smoke that weaved between his bangs and his eyes while he looked down to the floor. Occasionally a bit of ash would drop and land on a his hand but he didn’t seem to mind. He was slowly strumming along while someone in the background hidden by the haze would be playing bass. No words came out of his mouth for the music said everything. He was playing a cover of a Door’s song called “The End” I had never felt so proud of my boy and I snuck back out of the club. I was certain he would be ok that we would be ok.

Fast forward through time a bit more. I am an old man now. Hitting my 50’s my son is now 22 and travels around the world playing music for people. When he made it big he asked me what I wanted and I told him I only wanted him to be happy. He gave me a Fender like the one I had given him so long ago. He kept his still and played it during shows. One day while I was sitting in the den playing with the strings trying to learn how to play as I never did have the time or patience for it. I was sitting there trying to pull the first line out of “Light my Fire”. It was then my wife entered the doorway. She never looked so sad before. I went up to her and the tears started falling in her eyes. As she lost control she started yelling at me it was all my fault. Her fists beating against my chest as she blamed me for something I apparently did.

When she calmed down a little she spoke again, ‘You encouraged him and now he’s gone. Its all your fault.’

`What do you mean he is gone?’
`I got a call a minute ago from his girlfriend. He OD’d last night after a show. … they….’ She broke down crying again. We both slumped to the floor holding each other as we mourned the loss of our son. The loss of a dream. The fulfillment of prophecy I had spoken that he was destined to repeat history. I meant that the great songs of the past would help him learn and make new songs for the future. How could I have imagined he would follow the same footsteps as previous musical artists?

I dreamt I lived a life full of troubles and joy. I dreamt I was a man being a father. I dreamt I failed.

Friday, December 24, 2004

 

This counts as my 101 post total for my 4 blogs. 53,000+ words written over the past 11months. I wonder how much longer I can keep it up. Some posts take a lot more out of me than I would care to admit. Perhaps I should change the name of it to Tears and Blood. Such would be more fitting as these are not just my words but they are my feelings and thoughts. My dreams and nitemares. It is my story retold over and over with different words and different characters. In history thousands of others have told my story and it is nothing orginal. Thousands more will repeat it again in the future because history repeats itself.

I can’t get past this song. The lyrics running through my head in little circles Even when I can get rid of the instruments I still hear the voice speaking to me slowly. As if he is trying to reach across space and time to tell me something. You know those movies where the person receives a message from the future from themselves or someone else and its like, ‘You need to save the future!’ I keep hearing this and it sounds like a warning to me. It triggers several things that I see it applying to. One is a good thing but it could lead into something more and the end result could be even worse than the other.

‘I wont let this build up inside of me ‘

Self delusion allows one to mask someone else’s weaknesses and faults. It also can block your sight when reviewing your own faults. It is even more difficult when you can recognize some of them but others still remain beyond your sight. Sometimes we seek people who are like us in many ways. Once in a while the person you meet is so much alike you it is frightening. It is also tempting as you feel as if you know this person inside and out. What happens when you hate yourself and you meet yourself. It can become a relationship that can only really go one direction.

“I'm a slave and I am a master
No restraints and unchecked collectors
I exist through my need to self-oblige
She is something in me that I despise fine”

So many people fit the description so many of my friends match a little part of me. If I ever was to die I could be easily replaced. It would be a human puzzle. Take a little bit of personal pride from one. Add a touch of strength and conviction from another. Find the low self esteem in each and harvest it. Then a dash of anger and hate wrapped up in a blanket of love and compassion. Shake thoroughly and then bake for 25 years at 140.

“I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me…..
She isn't real
I can't make her real
She isn't real
I can't make her real”

It has always been my fault to place people on pedestals and admire them. Placing them a bit higher and magnifying in my mind their good parts. Ignoring what bad that I can deceive myself about. In the end after so much deceit I no longer recognize the person I had placed up there. They had ceased being real and became an dream that I wanted to come true. Such dreams fall apart easily. Am I someone else’s dream? Have I been placed up higher and when I disappoint them will they delude themselves into thinking something else? I doubt I could ever be such. I could pity the person who would do that with me. For I do not belong on a pedestal. The janitor doomed to clean the hallways of hero’s I am cursed to forever dream.

“I can’t make me real.”



Thursday, December 23, 2004

 

It has been too long. I could almost say it has been impossibly long but mentally I tally up the days and I come to a conclusion. 13 days it has been. 312 hours have passed either in restful sleep or in twisting torment. 18,720 minutes have passed by many leaving me to ponder what has happened. 1,123,200 seconds unaccounted for. Mentally I tally up again what I did during those days. I know I was busy. I know I did something to pass the time by. Still does any of that time matter? I could possibly add up a whole minute and have something that would brighten the darkness of a wasted youth. Wait counted it up again. It would be 10 minutes of time total that were bright and shiny. Small moments that have added up together. Taking by themselves each are small and would mean nothing to most people. Ah… but to me those moments were the bright points the fill up my life. A thousand moments each by themselves could fill a lifetime. Little moments like those which allow me to tally up an otherwise wasted 2 weeks and know that I did receive something. I could not really name what I seek. It is not salvation. It was never redemption. Perhaps what I seek is something close to intimacy.

I often try to not let it build up inside of me. But how can I compete with 13 days. A magical number in itself. How can I compete against the 312 hours that passed by some slowly and others burning like flash paper in darkness? The 18720 minutes tell me that I waited too long and that telling myself that I will not let it build up inside of me is self delusion. It is impossible to change the past. That is what those moments compete against. A lifetime full of those moments but on the other side of the coin. What stops the healing process is I wont allow myself to forget. That hinders the forgiveness. As I remember vividly those memories that will haunt me. I will not forget however nor will I forgive. Denied forgiveness I am stuck in a circular path. Slowly digging deeper into the earth. 6 feet the depth will be and a decision will be made. Either forced or it will be a natural conclusion. It is evolution baby because all endings are the start of a new beginning. Now listen carefully because the chorus is radio friendly and almost catchy…

‘all I have to do is believe
In the things that believe in me
My ends justify my means
As my means will be my end’

According to a website every day 24,000 people die of hunger. In my 13 days 312,000 people died waiting for nourishment. Every hour 1,000 people die. That means every minute 16.6 people die. I wonder if the .6 means they suffer for a minute before the next one comes along to free them from their torture. Every 3.5 seconds another person dies. So by time you finish reading this sentence someone has died. Feels good doesn’t it? What it doesn’t. Too bad because another person has died while I played with your emotions. It doesn’t really feel like anything at the moment. Perhaps you should let it build up inside of you and build up and build up… until you explode into a mushroom cloud of rage.

My ends justify my means. I wonder how many religions have used that in the past? How many people have died because of that phrase? So what is my end? What drives me? That I still do not really know as what I seek is difficult to name. I could probably spend a lifetime trying to decipher it. Actually I kind of am spending a lifetime on it. One spent quickly like burning a field of dry weeds for warmth. I shall be the flame that will burn bright briefly then disappear leaving a cloud of smoke and a scorched land around me. I speak in metaphors. Perhaps replace land with souls and minds of people who knew me. Replace cloud of smoke with clouds of confusion and sorrow. Or just let me butcher the language even further and I could suggest more things to describe it. I seek something close to intimacy.

‘all I have to do is believe
In the things that believe in me
My ends justify my means
As my means will be my end’

Leniency, passion, trust, and compassion? So many words that fill my mind when I consider what my options are. I consider so many different things as I started this to get back in touch with someone who I lost touch with. Someone who I haven’t spoken to in 13 days. Someone who possibly sat in some ethereal realm watching the 312,000 souls pass into the afterlife. Sometimes it takes me 3.5 seconds to breath in deeply. Amazing what those moments add up to. If you met an artist who killed people to create beautiful masterpieces would he still be an artist? If you took someone who forced themselves to listen to sob stories and read sad tales to conjure up the emotions they needed to write that sad song would they be any less talented? If a witchdoctor was able to grasp the passions and feelings from souls of the dead and used them in the beating of his drums that made thousands dance would he not be an artist? Using the tools at ones disposal should not make one any less than what you would be if you used lesser tools. Though placing murder as a tool to gain something is a broad step to take. Taking lives should never be an option but what if they were scheduled to die by execution? What about those doomed to die and wanted to get it over with? What line do you cross or how does one find the line? Nothing is ever really what it seems anyways isn’t it about what ends you achieve. In the history books do they not write about the ends that were achieved? Do they go too much in depth to the tools used or are the tools just a footnote to what changes were created?

‘I have to do is believe
In the things that believe in me
My ends justify my means
As my means will be my end’

I have him conjured in my mind now. We are speaking and I know what his point of view is. It takes so much to reconnect and now I am afraid I will lose this connection. Though its all abstract that which I am writing. Its an illusion, delusion, and confusion. I sit and write random drivel that most people would have stopped after the first paragraph. It would have taken them a minute to decide that I was insane. Though the 16.6 people who died in that time could not be contacted for comment.

Though a flash of a dream or perhaps a vision induced by music I see a doctor leaving a nail inside a poor boy who made the mistake of stepping on it. ‘I think I will leave it in there for a few days. It will build character and teach him a lesson.’ Unnecessary cruelty it screams to me. How much character does one need? If there was a counter that went to 999,999 before it rolled over I would imagine mine rolled over either quite a few times or at least once. If some being has a greater plan for everyone why would such a compassionate being choose a life of pain for someone? How can you love your children and punish them when they are ignorant? Am I being punished or is this my reward?

‘I have to do is believe
In the things that believe in me
My ends justify my means
As my means will be my end’

So I sit there pondering completing a story. Finishing something that I had completed but my computer conspired against me. I was going to finish a story for a character but now as I look it over the reflections looking back at me almost scare me. Previously I never really thought about how much in common I had with this character. Now I look and I wonder if I was writing about myself. Changing only a few things and creating metaphors to hide that which I did not want to say right out. Perhaps I shouldn’t bother as now I think I understand him more. I should look no deeper inside than myself. Though when I utter the phrase, ‘Breathing death and dripping torment out of my hands as I walk’ I do not mean it literally. I probably don’t even mean it at all. I could vision myself achieving that statement. Breathing out a slight growl with my brow furrowed. Eyes still blue but now the kind of ice. Five thick ropy lines of blood dripping down my arm each going down to a finger where they converge into a single blob held together by my will while still dribbling onto the carpet. When I was younger I often said I was powered by Hate. Sadly there are too many types of hate. Its like gasoline. You have the cheap, medium, and premium grades. Premium carries a high cost often associated with its name. You still have to seek it out and usually pay for it anyways because the difference is shown while you start to burn.

‘I have to do is believe
In the things that believe in me
My ends justify my means
As my means will be my end’

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

 

I plan on continueing this later on. I have a general idea on where it will go. Hopefully it will work out. Either way enjoy or hate. I plan on adding more tomorrow or tonight. Whenever I get to it. As I now have to sleep.


Lights are bright inside this room. Making even the sunlight outside seem dim in comparison. I stood there for a moment looking into the mirror at my naked body. The fine lines and bits of hair scattered about. Scars on my chest and arms too faint to make anything out but my imagination and memories made up for the lack of detail. ‘Grant me death’ was the plea but never was it given. The execution was stayed as none wished to do the deed. At least no one within my own mind. I now stood there alone. Having found rebirth has made living an addiction. Each moment spent trying to do more than the previous one. Experiencing new things at all times and sharing it with others. Minutes filled with conversations about theology. Hours spent hiking and enjoying the world. Days filled with study and reading trying to grasp a simple yet so complex of an idea. Weeks packed full of conventions and fellowship with fellow believers. Months of talking and words used over and over again. Years if fighting trying to fill my life with something more than what I already had.

Standing there one hand caressing my clean shaven face. It traveled downward along my left shoulder and arm. It followed the path etched upon my soul. It was a short path and memories fill me as I idly traced over a scar that once spelled out ‘Why‘.


It was a dark and rainy night. Mom had tried to put me to bed early tonight. I wanted to stay up and watch TV until daddy came home. So I lay right outside of my bedroom door. Head laying in the hallway so I could watch the TV. I remember cupping my hand over my ears and I could barely pickup the one liners and parts of the punch lines. It wasn’t the words that entertained me. It was the pictures on the TV that moved and the occasional clash of the drums when a joke ended. The funny tricks people or animals would do late at night so others can watch them. I would lay there still as part of the floor. Slowly and mentally pushing further into the floor as to make myself disappear. A few times mom would look in my direction and she would not see me. So I stayed there laying watching TV, silently hoping daddy would come home before I fell asleep. Time passes by differently when your young. To me it passed slowly but to the rest of the world only an hour passed by. The TV show was ending and the jokes were being tallied. People were still laughing when some stomping at the door was heard. I had dozed off a little laying there but now Daddy was home! I silently got up and went back into my room. Barely closing the door so I could peek out and catch when Daddy walked by. I made a plan, on opening it quickly to give him a hug before as he passed by heading to bed. More stomping at the door and the front door opened. It groaned like an old man getting up as it opened slowly. Heavy footsteps sounded as one stomping ones feet on the rug near the door. The slight creak as the large person turns around then the closing of the door. Occasionally a creak in the wall as someone put their hands against it as they balanced themselves. Though I could not see what was happening I could imagine it. Mom welcoming home dad. Typically an argument would ensue but tonight there was a few seconds of silence. I crept towards my door so I could listen in on the conversation. I stood there waiting and holding my breath as it was so loud it could prevent me from hearing everything.

“Where have you been?” Her voice sounded stern and angry. She had work in 5 hours but had stayed up waiting for daddy.
“I was over at Joe’s place with some guys. We were talking about the move the rig could be taking….” His voice was just a little slurred but to it still sounded like dad.
“Why didn’t you call?” Her voice raised a little bit but still controlled as she apparently did not want to wake me. Good she thought I was sleeping.
“I did but the phone was busy.”
“No one has been on the phone all night long.”
“um no I meant someone there was using the phone and I couldn’t call.”
“For 3 hours? Someone was on a call that was so important you could not even call?”
“um It wasn’t my house so I didn’t bother asking.”
“You know what today was. Why did you not bother calling?”
“Um today.. ?”
A crack filled the air. Even without watching I could tell mom had slapped dad hard. I waited wondering what will happen next.
“Ouu….”
“Today was my doctor appointment. Don’t you remember me telling you this?” Her voice was now shaking a little. I can still picture tears in her eyes.
“Oh sorry. The replacement crew was late and we got back late I missed it figured you could handle it ok. How did it go?”
“It went .. You don’t care your just asking now because you will feel guilty otherwise.”
“No really I do care. Martha you’re my life.” Suddenly his voice changed a little. It grew warmer as if he was shaken from whatever was preventing him from grasping the situation. “Though I hangout with the guys now and then you’re the one I want to be with. Lets sit down and tell me how it went. Was the prognosis good or is there some treatment we have to pursue?” A few sounds as they moved to the couch and further away. I could hear crying from her though as she tried to tell how her appointment went.

“I was told it is terminal. They cannot operate due to the closeness of my spine. Even if they could remove it I would have very little chance at survival.”
“We can beat this dear. We will find another doctor to look and examine it. I will take a few days off next week and we will both go.”
“He told me even if they did try to operate the chance of me surviving and not suffering permanent damage or being disabled for the rest of my life was nil.”
“Alright its ok. Don’t worry we will beat this. I will call your work and tell them you wont be in tomorrow.”
“No I need to go. Otherwise the girls will work short and I don’t want them to suffer.”
“But you will suffer. Sometimes you have to put yourself before others.”
“No I cannot. I want you to promise me one thing though.”
“Anything dear you know I will do anything for you.”
“I want you to stop the course of action your on.”
“What?”
“I want you to be a father. I know you are doing exactly what your dad did and it worked fine for you. I want you to be more though. I want you to be the dad that you never had. I want you to be the daddy to Nicholas that he deserves.”
“I will do that not only for you thought but because he is my son and I love him.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise. Now are you sure you don’t want me to call in for you?”
“I will be fine. I want you to find a day to take off work next week and we will go see another doctor then.”
“Alright dear. Remember though I get wrapped up in other things I still love you.”
“and I love you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Sounds as they got up off the couch and started heading into the hallway forced me back into my bed. I quickly laid down and pretended I was asleep as my dad came in and tucked me in. I remember this memory so vividly because it was the last time I heard my mom. The next day she suffered an aneurysm and died at work. The next few years were tough but my dad was there. Always supportive. Always there when I needed him. He kept his promise to her and was there for me as if trying to make up not being there for her when she needed him.


I put my under cloths on. There was a tradition that I was to cast off my old clothes and present myself to the congregation a new man dressed in white. New clothing to cover up the used body that I inhabited. I read my literature. I memorized the words and I went through the motions seeking an answer. Seeking something to help me find where I can find the answer I kept asking throughout my life. As I pulled the robe around my shoulders the white reminded me of hospital sheets and brought forth another memory.

The years had passed since she passed away. I got involved in sports and just like my father I found out I had legs that could carry me swiftly across the ground. I could almost run on air. I remember dreaming when I was younger about running up into the sky to meet mom. As soon as the coaches found out that I could run I was placed into ever sport program they could fit me. Age 10 it was baseball and football. At 11 a local soccer group tried to form and I got involved in that. At 12, 13, 14, and 15 it was all the same. I would go out for a sport and excel in it. My dad would sit on the sidelines watching and cheering. He would help me train and even bring me along to the oil rigs so I could run around free and during their lunch and other breaks they would take turns throwing a football or hitting a ball out to me for me to run after. Both of us were almost possessed. Trying to be something more than what we really were in hopes it would honor her memory. Being good at sports made me popular in school. Girls would notice me and guys would hangout with me just to be seen. I remember my birthday parties were always full of people I barely knew but didn’t care that much if they were there. I was a rocket ship heading to the stars and if a few people wanted to hang-on I would not mind the extra weight. Every weekend though my dad would be there for the games and would be there after the games.


On the weekdays though when life had to return to normal for a few days before practice again he would go out and drink with friends. I did not mind him going out and leaving me home alone at night. I could take care of myself and he was there for me in so many other ways heck he deserved to go out drinking with his buddies. I remember one night he did not come home. I found this out because he wasn’t in bed in the morning as I made breakfast and headed out to school. When I got home he still had not arrived so I practiced by myself and ended up cooking my own dinner. That night though I got really worried and hoped onto my bike to find him. I rode down the streets until it was dark. The moon full in the sky lighting up the world making an almost eerie twilight. I stopped at a few places he would haunt and his friends places. I rode, and rode for hours on end. When I started out I rode fast pumping my legs hoping to find him before it got really dark out. I kept my legs moving until they started hurting but kept on riding. When the moon was high I figured I should start heading home incase he was there and turned on a street. I was riding on the side of the road and I remember seeing a truck coming down the street.

That is the last thing I remember of that night. I wish I could remembered more. The next memories are of rooms of white and tubes. A silent TV in the background and random faces entering and leaving my field of vision. White sheets, white bowls, beige cups, off white wallpaper, Nurses in light blue dresses and white smocks, white ceilings, and white floors. If I had thought about it back then I bet I could have imagined I was in heaven. There was no pain. There was always this grogginess that filled my mind. People brought me juice and food. All the Jell-O and TV that I could ever want.

I was 16 at the time when I found out my dad had killed himself. He apparently went on a drinking binge at a local bar then bought some more beer and drove out to a remote location. He slept there and came back to keep drinking. When he left the bar the second night he was legally wasted. Even after the crash and several hours at the police dept he was still trashed. They say he drove because he couldn’t even stand up. In the years I had spent with him I never at such a young age realized he still felt guilty over my mom’s death. Then after he hit me and sobered up he found out I may never walk again. He went home and ended his life. I found this out a week after it happened. No one had the heart to tell me.

I wonder what it was like for the nurses who would come in and try to cheer me up to only be confronted by questions of where my daddy was. Questions on if I could still go to the game. I felt no pain from the drugs they pumped into me. How was I to know my knee was now a jigsaw puzzle? It was my grandmother who ended up telling me. The morning before they wheeled me out so I could attend the funeral. It was her who also told me how they figure that nights events happened. It was her who spat on my daddy’s grave and me who slapped her for it. She gave me a look but she said nothing of it. I remember thinking how dare she do that to my daddy after all he had done for me. How dare she?

I lifted a cup of cold water to my lips not to drink but to wet them a little. I still looked in the mirror the metal bracer on my left leg looked out of place. The metal shined and reflected light back at me. A cruel reminder of life sometimes I could almost see a face in the reflection laughing at me. Even now as I look in the mirror at myself. I am all white even my hair as I bleached it a few weeks ago out of boredom. All white except for my blue eyes, red lips, and my shiny reflective metal bracer. The memories came quicker this time around.

Three months of surgery and laying in bed. Faces of people important and not so important would enter my little white world then they would leave. The insurance money from the truck paid for everything that had to do with my injury. My grandmother’s pleading paid for the time and for people to come and visit me. Teenagers are so flighty. You don’t show up for school a few weeks and suddenly your forgotten. I remember wheeling myself into the school one day to pickup some things out of my locker and half the people didn’t recognize me. A few teammates would stop by and say hi. They would quickly leave as if my injury was contagious and they worried they would no longer be able to walk. I wanted to scream at them that I was still me. I wanted to tell them to not take what they had for granite. I wanted to tell them so many things but my anger kept me silent. I doubt my anger helped. I was made on not being able to play football or hangout with them. I was forced to an existence of being bound to a chair and stuck in a room at my grandmothers as she tried to catch my education up. At times I would wake up screaming from a nightmare or from when the pain medication wore off.

A year went by silently. It was then I found out who my friend were. Sadly there was not many of them. I could count them on a single hand and still have room for improvement before expanding to the next hand. They were the last people I expected too. One of them was from the Art class I had taken as I had to focus my energy on something and trying to draw or paint took up a good amount of it. Another was a girl who liked to read. I would approach her with a question about a book, an author, or subject and she could point me in the right direction or warn me what would happen if I pursued the path. These two filled my life up with hope and fun. It was also these two who encouraged me to get a surgery done. I had heard in the news about this new surgery that could help some people walk. It was reconstructive and it was not 100% but it had helped restore others. Being that I had no job I tried pursuing charity and fundraising to cover the costs. In the end the town could only give so much I had to choose between using what was left from the sale of my parents house or the possibility of being able to walk again. Being young I followed the dream.

It took 6 operations 4 pounds of metal though only a few ounces remain inside me now and my family’s savings for me to take three steps. I promptly fell to the floor but I was happy. It was just a step on my path. She was there watching me. My grandmother tried to be supportive but she knew where dreams could take someone. Especially if they were delusions of grandeur. She always told me that self deception was a tool of the devil. I never really understood it but she was older and knew more than I did. Still though I took my first steps and from there proceeded further. A few months later I could take a small walk across the room and into the arms of my girlfriend. Soon I was able to walk to my desk in class and sit down. I could not stand or walk for very long without my brace but still I could walk. There was several years to go before I could run and I would never be able to achieve that which I already had but it was my efforts in trying to recover what I lost. It seemed though that every time I gained something I would lose something else.

It was the summer after I turned 17 that she killed herself. I never really understood why she was so distant and always off in some other place. Her vivid imagination and smile are what attracted me to her. She was found in a bathtub of her own blood. A note written with love to me found in her bedroom. Her daddy apparently loved her differently from other fathers. She could not stand hiding it anymore and was scared I would find out. When I did find out it was apparently too late. When I went over to her house to confront her father it was also too late. The police had hauled him away. When I went to court to look into his eyes as they sentenced him it was also too late as he had either killed himself or was killed in his cell. The paper said he hung himself but there were conflicting reports otherwise. It appeared to start a trend. My being too late. Slowed down by my brace and broken body. When my grandmother passed away that fall it was expected. She was old and the past years did not go by easy for her. She left instructions with a lawyer to make sure I had money for a few years and a place to live. What she did not however leave was instructions for me. I had lost everyone that I cared for and was alone. It was this loneliness that forced me to spit on her grave after we buried her.

Depression is a tough thing to fight. I remember taking pills for the pain in my leg but never could find anything or take enough to stop the pain that existed elsewhere. Sometimes I would take no pills at all and feel nothing but the pain inside my body. Other times I would take so many I would go numb and collapse on the floor, chair, bed, or wherever else I was. I eventually dropped out of school and spent my time at home surfing the internet listening to dark music. The songs of darkness that filled my existence I remember fondly as I caress the scar on my arm. I remember writing “Why” because I wanted to know what I did to deserve this. Other words appeared across my body as I kept asking questions and never got a response. The pain pills would go unused as I wanted to suffer. Perhaps I would suddenly expire from suffering too much. I would push myself to the brink and be ready to accept death but could not do it myself. Anger would then fill my mind as I would be sickened with how weak I was. I would cut further and deeper into my skin to punish myself for not being strong enough to end it. Sometimes intelligence would reemerge from the darkness and I would make sure I would clean my knives and wrap up my cuts to prevent infection. Stories of people getting their arms removed from infection would scare me. I was partially crippled and did not want to be completely disabled. This continued for several months. Long nights full of songs of sorrow. Thousands of droplets as my life and pain was slowly bled out of me. Still each night as I sat there the light would reflect off the blade as it would with my brace. I was a slave to pieces of metal. One that caused me pain and the other that was put in me because of the pain. At times which was which would overlap and I could not disconcert the difference.



Monday, December 06, 2004

 

Just posted a few links that I wanted to share.


http://johnaugust.com/index.php

http://www.scphillips.com/morse/index.html?http://www.scphillips.com/morse/trans.html

http://www.moonwashedrose.com/

http://www.fadeinmag.com/

tomorrow I will write something and post it.. tonight its too late to do anything.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

 

Wrapping gifts is always annoying. I try to fold the wrapping paper just right so it looks nice. I always apply too much tape. It always seems like I just do not have enough hands to correctly wrap some gifts. Also it means that once I finish wrapping up the gift that’s it. Either they will like it or they will smile and say thanks. There is no turning back once the nametag is written on it and the last piece of tape is applied. Also once it is finished there is no longer any chance for mischief. It seems somewhat final. Like closing a book after reading the last chapter. You read about the problem as it slowly grew. The hero’s valiant search for the treasure or the prefect gift. Their conquest of the creature guarding it. Either they best it with swords, magic, or credit card. Then the trip home and returning to normal life. Then always the short chapter as they try to settle back in as they work around their house. Suddenly the adventure is complete. The gift is chosen. It is then sealed inside a box or just wrapped up. A nametag and a bow complete it as the book is closed. I try to wrap only a few gifts at a time. Otherwise the sudden loss of being able to change my mind can make me panic. So I always leave one or two for the last minute so I know the adventure is not quite over. Soon I will have to journey to faraway lands and search out my prize. Will I find a prince or will I find a new blender in the land of Wal-Mart? What creatures will I have to battle to obtain my prize? Shall it be a snooty cashier or will a dragon leap out from the toy isle and attack me while I am armed with nothing more than a wallet full of debt and monetary promises to a bank? Perhaps tomorrow I will go on about choosing wrapping paper.

I hate cleaning my room. Heck even organizing items as I often get sidetracked. It is just time consuming and since I keep getting sidetracked it often takes longer than it needs to. So many memories and things that I keep with me.

An old box fell to the floor tonight. It spewed open papers across my floor. I put away what I was trying to put in my closet and I bent over to look at what fell. Inside of it had a lot of old papers that I keep for memories. One of the papers was a worn out piece of paper that has been folded, and refolded, and folded, and wrinkled, and mashed, and even has a bit of water damage on it. I remember this piece of paper. I try to stop myself but I cannot. I bend down onto my knees and pick it up off the floor. My hands start to unfold it while my mind screams against the next course of action. My hands have held this piece of paper before many times. My eyes have read it over and over in the past. My mind each time would comprehend the letters and the sentences. The meaning of the letter is simple. Lots of things have happened to me from this letter. My heart was broken over and over again. Fresh memories brought forth to the front to relive in vivid detail. Words that jumble as I try to think of a response to the words long ago spoken. Even now I cannot think of a response. The words get stuck inside my throat as my heart expands and will not let a single breathe escape. I read the letter again. The one sent so many years ago. It was the letter that told me you were not and never will be mind. I read it slowly allowing the words to sink it as I also struggled with myself to prevent the next course of action. In the end I replaced the box on the shelf. The papers refolded and made neat so if I need to retried them I can. I read your letter again today. It made my realize how filtered I am compared to what I was. A sudden burst of emotion and release that I do not get anymore. The intensity of what I felt made everything else pale in comparison. It seemed back then when I did something it was with everything in me. I did not go halfway in the matters of the heart. These days I hold so much back to keep myself from falling apart. I do it to maintain my sanity and to keep me alive. After reading the letter again I wonder if I died that day and now I am just suffering slowly. What is life without loving like you’ve never been hurt? What is loving someone halfway? Why have defenses up to prevent you from being hurt when they prevent you from experiencing it to the fullest?

I read your letter today. It was when you said you could never love me. I read it word for word. I think I can now give a response to it. Though you will never read my response or perhaps even understand it after all these years. I read it over and over watching the tears smudge your writing. It is now that I say goodbye and I hope you can find someone that you can love.

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