My Life

I sit on my bed.  I see my pillow, and am caught between two opposing desires. The joy of escaping the bitter, cold grasp of this hell known as reality, and fear that my mind is so preoccupied with negative thoughts that the alternative shall be infinitely worse than that which I am trying to escape.

I feel like a man sitting in silence in an open field, the rain, lightning, thunder, all striking and falling around his body. It penetrates his gaze by rolling down into his eyes, by starting fires all around his naked body. And he sits, silent, ignoring the storm which threatens to end his life.

So here I sit, silent, while the storm erupts around me.

So what does one do?

The words linger in the air, like a strange mist creeping beneath the window and surrounding us, its eerie haze creeps into my lungs, enters my blood stream, and crawls throughout my body. My heart drops, and the familiarity of pain erupts like a volcano.

Why must every chance at perfection be tainted by emotional infidelity?

So much pain… But it’s always the same. Am I stupid for trusting it? The Grim Reaper enters the room, his black veil drawn, his scythe in hand, and cold, dark eyes set on mine. She sent him, she always sends him. He walks in and cuts a perfect square in my chest, her maniacal laughter inebriates him, pushes him forward, even provides him meaning in his work. He looks down at my heart, I stare up in fear, and he leans forward, his cold breath on my face, I can feel his icy touch moving toward my ear. “Next time, I’m taking it.” And he glides out of the room.

A metaphorical explanation of her ripping my fucking heart out. Why? Will it ever change? Will I ever stop coming back to it? When will I learn? Do I need to learn?

And even now… She is out with his family, smiling, laughing, talking. What of? I am sure I am not even a fragment of the conversation. I am sure my name will not be spoken for the longevity of the weekend. His will. She’ll think of him, wonder if she should go to him, and call me to say goodnight; what a good night it will be.

The world flashes around me- hillsides engulfed in blooming flowers, trees occupied by families of creatures given freedom through their wings, and a lonesome cottage. This is where you live.

My eyes linger a moment too long on the window next to your doorway. What is it that you are doing inside? Reading a book? Writing a poem? Or are you lost in the depths of your self, eyes closed and head resting on a soft pillow while dreams of joy, bliss, and love flash through the perfection known as your mind? Am I in your dreams?

You are in mine.

I avert my gaze and look instead toward the blur of a landscape which is shooting across the television of my passenger-seat window. I smile as I think of you in your little cottage. Ah! Too smile again…

I stare into the rear-view mirror and watch as your cottage blends with the background and slowly fades away. The smile disappears, and the dullness of reality creeps into my soul once again.

Goodbye, and until we meet again.

The prettiest word I’ve ever heard may also be key to my present demise– Nostalgia.

People say that every beginning needs an ending, and that all good things must come to an end. I disagree.

There are lots of things in this world which shall never die to me: love, laughter, truth, friendships, joy, passion, hope. Perhaps things can only end, die, then fade away into the oblivion if certain conditions are present.

I write a lot when I am sad. It is my outlet, at least recently. All of the bliss, smiles, and  happy thoughts felt inside of my heart are generally expressed toward her. There is not much left to say when those moments pass, so, I don’t write.

I would like to explain that although most of this is sad, and true, perhaps, it is not all of the truth. Love hurts, occasionally, but the days between the entries show me that the pain is worth it.

When I first wrote this entry, I explained that I was stopping this blog, and creating a private one. I thought that all things must come to an end, but I now realize that they don’t need to. Not if they help us. Not if they make us happy. Not if we love what we are doing.

Not if there is passion. Passion leaves no room for an ending.

“Grab my hand” I plea.

“Okay!” I call.

“Hold on tight. old friend,

I won’t let you fall.”

I look down at myself

“It’ll all be okay.”

But I know the truth,

I am slipping away.

I look up at myself,

Wondering when I’ll let go.

“I’m destined to fall, old friend,

Like a seed’s destined to grow.”

You see, time is unknown;

It could be a minute or a day,

But about this I am certain-

I am slipping away.

Trees tower above my head and cover the sun. All is dark. All is quiet. All is nothing.

I walk down an unmade path, viewing identical trees for directions. My mind is spinning, the world is too. A branch catches my bare foot and I slam my face into a rock. Blood flows through the break in my chin, I watch it splash across the brush and branches. Ruby red droplets surround my gaze.

I stand up and glance toward my bare foot. The branch has sliced it open like a knife through paper. I don’t feel it. I look up to the trees, and begin walking again.

I stumble down a path, intoxicated by fear, mind unclear, body almost uncontrollable. I feel pain, not physical, for the cuts and breaks along my skin do not hurt, but emotional. It has lingered in my body, and serves as the timber feeding the flame of fear.

Perhaps it is the other way around.

I walk for hours, tripping over my own two feet and staring down identical trees for directions. I begin to feel lost.

A branch catches my bare foot and I slam my face into a ruby red rock. I watch as droplets splash on already stained branches and brush. I lay on the ground and watch as the blood from my face floods into a previously formed pool. I look at the pool and realize that I am hopelessly lost. I shut my eyes to fall asleep,

and I wait for her hand to guide me through the forest.

I think I forgot how to write when I’m not depressed.