Silence

I didn't know how to approach it. Played it over so many times, it was as trite as that very phrase. I explained as best I could, hands trembling. Fingers threaded against each other. It's hard to explain apathy . . . the lethargic sense of nothing that stems from deep despair. But, I did the best I could. I mentioned that I planned it so someone could take care of the dog, even filled the bowl full of more food than necessary. Just in case. I didn't know what to expect when I put the sheet around my neck. As I turned against the dark thoughts, I felt closer than ever to something that was neither peace nor torment. It was a second of rushing clarity. I saw the past for what it was and the future that never would. My heart pounded in my ears louder than ever possible. I still turned. Both realities crumbled, inching closer to the nothing that I sprung from and would hope to enter sooner than later. I remarked that hope in these situations is . . . ironic at best. I don't know when I stopped. For all I knew, this was all there was. Afterlife was more of the same. Wouldn't that just be the worst? Is it the worst? How does one define "worst?" Others certainly had it worse than I ever will. Does that diminish myself? Am I lesser in a self-fulfilling prophecy? What kind of tenuous bullshit would that be. No can know the feelings of wishing for it every night. Every day. Every second. It's like thirst only completely different as well. All this, I explained. And more. Far more than necessary. I took a drink. Caught my breath. And waited for a response. I exhaled and the scene before me fogged like a autumnal morning. My reflection smiled and I knew. I knew what the reaction was. Nothing at all explains everything.

Drive

I drove last night. Doesn't matter where, how long or even why. It wasn't the journey. Certainly not the destination. It was experience. To see the shadows. Witness to the the dancing lights and creatures of darkness. The snow began to fall and I saw a sign: "stop" And I did. I Stepped out on the lonely midnight road. Crunched in the fresh cold. I held out my hand made out the snowflakes falling and melting in my warm palm. It was surreal to think that something so warm would destroy something so beautiful. The snow continued to fall and I peered at the dots in the distance. Porchlights. Beacons of life. Pinpricks of headlights. I turned to switch off the truck, its hum far too loud. In the noiseless void that followed I waited. I heard the heartbeat of eternity in the dark hour. For once in my life, I listened.

Mourning Broke

The moon skittered from the encroaching sun as stars melted into the gray five am morning. Lights flickered in houses unknown, their occupants readying their day. Streetlights began to sleep for the day. Morning was breaking and so was I. I don't know when the cold started. Or the sleepless nights. Or the yearning need to stare into existence, hoping to will meaning from nothing. Part and parcel, one would dare say. I shivered. Even though summer was young, I no longer was. The dewey mornings had a chill and I steadied my shaking body to adjust the beanie on my head. I buttoned the top of my jean jacket. I was dressed like a transient. But I wasn't going anywhere. A car roared to life in the distance. I saw headlights create a quick shadow across a stray dog. My deck croaked as I shifted my weight again, this time to see the sun cresting the mountains. My eyes lit with fire from the awakening day. So many things found it easy to be alive. And I felt nothing. The dark sky washed into a pale blue. I wanted to feel something, but that's very difficult when one has been stripped of peace. Nothing could calm me. When the depression started, I slept more than enough. I couldn't even do that properly anymore. When I tried, I would see . . . see everything. And it was a horrifying abyss of emptiness. It was existential, it was a crisis, it was nothing. I didn't want to die, I didn't want to l live, I didn't want anything. But I was growing. Today, I stepped outside. Today, I wanted something. My hand cradled the cup of coffee I had purchased from the gas station barely an hour ago. It was lukewarm. Like this very morning. I wanted warmth, physically and spiritually. I ached to find meaning again. To have a night where I didn't gaze into the very nothingness of our planet. It was small, but I was analyzing a fragment of anything. As the last star in the sky fell into a blue stupor, I realized that we are nothing and it was glorious. Specks of light in the sky could be from a dying star. Could the light from my eyes be from a dying soul, an essence gone supernova? How brilliant! To shine just before expiration! And it was in this, I smiled. I sipped my coffee. It was bitter but very sweet. One day, my mourning will break.

Conversation

"I know you care." I smiled and brushed the blanket off my shoulder. The cool spring melted into a hot summer and the evenings no longer required a blanket, but I still liked having it for comfort. "But, those are just words." Shrugging, I turned and stared out the window. The 10 o'clock full moon shone brightly across the hay field. Freshly cut, it smelled of sweet labor and musty earth. The complete opposite of the watermelon smell of just cut grass. A light breeze trickled through the screen and I closed my eyes. It was cool. It was needed. "It's always words with you." I turned and faced my reflection. The mirror was silver in the moonlight. My reflection smiled back, silently miming every word.

Memories That Survive

Written many years ago. I've often tried to not explain this piece being that it's fairly obvious.

A fateful day would be too dramatic. 

It was more or less an ordinary day, as they always are it seems. It rained in the morning, I remember that well. I got splotches of mud against my crisp, white pants. I think I smiled or maybe I didn't that day. My brain forced my heart to forget certain things, but just because you can't see clearly through a window it doesn't mean you're blind. 

But sometimes, I wish I was. 

Hours later, there I was. Naked for you. I can't remember why, but there had to be a good reason, there's just no other way it would happen. I wondered what would happen if the priest next door would have seen through your blinds to the living room.  

Again, not blind. 

Your touch was like a barrel of a gun; cold, menacing . . . deadly. To say I was shot through the heart by your bullet of molested trust is an understatement. I was utterly decimated when your hand left my chest. It travelled down my stomach like a hungry spider as it crept lower and lower until— 

The tears came.  

Like the window previously mentioned, my rebellious eyes tried to fight away the image, the touch . . . the smell. It stank of shame mixed with absolute guilt. I know my soul was condemned to Hell the day I stepped into your car. The brown muddy specks on my pants told me that. 

But it didn't end there. 

"It's our secret," you whispered as I peered at the priest's house. I wanted faith to save me but does faith work like that? One can't ever be truly sure. My eyes were still blinded by the tears in my heart as I nodded my head. That wasn't the only movement. A soft bobbing ebbed from your arm and I knew what you were doing. I felt so exposed to you and you smiled . . . you smiled at a child. 

But was I? I was old enough to know better. 

Or so I thought, but nevertheless, I scampered to my room and cried against the door. I've never cried tears that silently before. It was as if a cougar had torn out my throat and lecherously watched me as I cleaned up the blood it made. Speechless horror, really. But still, that's dramatic. 

This isn't supposed to happen to boys—to anyone. I remember later, I crept out of the house and stared at the street of roaring cars. I contemplated throwing myself in front of any speeding vehicle just to make the damn tears stop. I'd rather be a oily blob of flesh against the asphalt than a broken human. Only, thoughts like that made the tears come faster. It was like my eyes ruptured and they wouldn't fix themselves. 

But they did fix themselves. 

As did I. Time went on and I remember hearing about your illness. I remember seeing you before you died. In a bed with no idea as to where you really were. Time had made your sanity plead guilty to all sorts of suspect mental disorders. 

Now, you're dead and I'm still alive. To me, you are a buried memory and someday you will leave my mind. But your stench will never leave my body. Your fingers traced numbers across my thighs and I still carry the ghostly scars across my skin. I still can't be in a relationship without crying over the mere mention of touch.  I remember the way you made me feel. 

Memories that wither and die only to become one with the void of lost space are nothing compared to the memories that survive.

Somewhere

The pounding of Skechers against crumbling pavement mirrored the ache in my head. One breathe in, two out or something like that. I lost count when the beats of Kelly Clarkson guided my troubled mind from byzantine concepts like counting. Just as the elongated weeds and sprawls of goat heads monopolized the road, I too, snaked my way around corner after corner.

Somewhere along the path I freed myself of something.

I became whole again. With the air, the planet . . . all of creation. My lungs struggled to keep up with thoughts of freedom and I pressed myself harder. Fingers were clenched in a tight ball as I streaked across a hill. I felt it now, felt it all over.

Acceptance. That fear itself was leaking from myself.

Sweat beaded against my forehead and I fought a burning sensation in my eyes. I blamed it on sweat, but totally knew better. I looked back, partially to check for traffic but to see if my past would catch up. Of course, it wouldn't. How strange the anthropomorphism our hearts construct in a desire to find a darkness.

I knew I could continue on.

The shadows grew in strength as did I. From within, I found the energy to put on a burst of speed. As I did, the shadows released me and sunlight blasted my face. For the first time in a very long time, I felt powerful. Not in an egotistical way, mind you, in a way that only perseverance and sheer force of will can conjure. I felt like me.

I rather like that feeling.

One last look behind my shoulders and I eyed the hill. We'd meet again and for all the high I feel today, at this moment, it will come back another day. Another time. I don't mean from the run. This is coming from within. It's all allegorical anyway. That hill could be anywhere. That burning sensation can stem from anything. Those sweaty tears can be caused by so many things. I just hope the next time I feel such unity with all of eternity that I can savor it again.

Somewhere along the way, we have paths to navigate, shadows to cross and sun to feel.

And Then

Slivers of moonlight skate across my face. A coyote howls in the distance, its echo carried by the lazy breeze of midnight's presence. I counted two lights in the distance, now only one remains. My fingers brush up my arms: goosebumps. May giving birth to June leaves cool nights in the place of warmer days.

The subdued hue of night always brought a smile to your face. We'd streak across the field and camp at the pond. Starlight reflecting off our eyes. Our feet wet from dew and irrigation water. Mosquitos would swarm us but we didn't care. We heard more animals then; more signs of life.

Your arms were hot from being on a tractor all day. Your skin, sticky from sweat mixed with dirt. It's never the big important things one remembers. Weddings, parties . . . none of that. It's the making you a ham sandwich with tomatoes and having my cheek kissed in gratitude. It's watching the field change from green to yellow bales of hay.

It's the ache of a coyote's howl.

The things lost in a lifetime are immeasurable. The memories forged innumerable. Each day happens with such tremendous velocity its down to autonomous programming to simply keep our bodies alive and hearts beating. I remember putting my hand on your chest. Thump. Thump. Thump.    It reminded me of the thump of a hay baler. You'd turn and listen ever so carefully for that one knock that didn't sound just right. Only you'd know. That one erroneous thump.

Then, it was all about moving out . . . reaching for the heavens and sky above. Staying alive and keeping with the rhythm of humanity. I had started a new job and you were still in the field. We were the forces of unity in our home. I still made sandwiches.

I stare in the distance. Stars began to swirl in the sky as the egotistical moonlight waned. Colorful mountains became dark and imposing as trees crested the ridges like jagged teeth ready to devour the universe. I swirled the pond's water that night we camped, our reflections distorting outward. The drift apart then was comical and expected.

I feel so small here. No lights to guide me. Even the stars are cruel and emotionless. I heard another howl and looked out one last time. No more lights. I grew quiet, stilled my breath and recalled one final moment before this night owl found its perch. A night not dissimilar to the pond. A night where feet were wet and my hands were all over you but not because they wanted to be. Your skin was rubbery and I ached for starlight in your eyes.

I remember putting my hand on your chest.