I have walked along the trail of fire, no longer composed of shadows and screams, nightmare visions, ripping up through my spine and into my brain, shattering me in two, like it used to do. This softer, newer place is more like a quiet lullaby, fireflies between the trees, every dream I have shared with another, and every other sharing their dreams with me. This boldness allows me to see things from a higher plain, clouds all around me, where I have to stand on my tippy-toes to see over and above and into everything else. Everything as it really is, as things really are, which is sometimes better than pretend. These aren’t illusions anymore. Hope swells here, my chest burns bright, and I feel like flames from the sun. Precious diamonds make my skin. I am a spectrum, a prism of light and color. My eyes turn everything magical. I begin to think of words that never existed in my vocabulary: Glory, Mighty, Awe. An angel hums in my ear, a clarion call.
All things mesh together, realizations of light-colored eyes, reasons for the way things were that have easy explanations now. Forgiveness held more power than I ever imagined, a chain that reacts to love, that reacts to joy, that reacts to bliss, that concludes with Freedom, which makes it all go round and round again.
It’s funny to walk on two feet, to be on solid ground, and feel like you’re flying. My heart is a lance, penetrating every breast I walk beside and encounter. Nothing broken. No shadows. No torture chambers. No permeable darkness. No laughter mocking me.
Someone told me I created all this, but I never thought I could take credit for that. But now, I see they weren’t lying. Several conscious efforts put me here, standing tall, proudly, surveying the scenery. What do I have this sword for? A spiritual dragon cannot be slain by such superficial means. My hair is blowing in the breeze, and all around me—vineyards, farmlands, sheep grazing, rolling hills after hills of lush, deep green. The sky is a perfect, cerulean blue with huge white clouds lazily moving across the sky like giant spaceships. Tiny cottages dot the landscape. A cliff overlooks an endless, unpredictable sea. Birds call, seagulls. I think I see a sea-lion or two. I could stand here all day. Nothing’s stopping me. Maybe I will. I have this valorous duty to defend the land, my King and Queen, rise in the face of wrong-doing to set things right, be a strong and noble man to some fair maiden, and tell her chivalry is an honor I practice every day. I’ll invite you to my castle, and we’ll read poetry by candlelight and you will see a side of me far from the battlefield. No, my dear, please. Do not get up. Let me…
To capture all this beauty in ink is impossible. How do you capture a feeling on a page? You can paint a picture, see a knight in armor, feel the warmth of the sun penetrating my breastbone. Some come close. Truth is all there is here. Truth captured. Truth fought for. Some naïve nobility I laugh at, but I cannot help but be me.
Radiant smiles leave an impact like a cannonball. Keep that fire burning. I want it never to leave me. I put it in an unbreakable jar for safe-keeping. No one can touch it then.
Pretend, imagine, go away to some lost paradise, some fairy-tale creation, a perfect fantasy of my own making and watch it come to life. Someone tells me I created all this, and it turns real. It was real all along.
I burn like fire. This trail is easy to follow once you get the hang of it. I am like a lost treasure waiting to discover myself, and amazed by what I find. You mean all that was inside of me?
There are no shadows here, and nothing is broken. Love burns with blinding, white incandescence, knocks on my door, and by God, it wants to stay! It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
If you’ll excuse me, I have to set the table and get dinner ready. Playing a good host is one of my favorite things.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
If Not For All the Screaming...
Here's another little horror tale in the traditional sense. Available on the Nook for only .99 cents. Don't have a Nook, no problem. You can download the app, too, my friends!
If Not For All The Screaming...
If Not For All The Screaming...
Monday, May 2, 2011
The Truck Driver
One of my very first horror story ideas, available through Kindle or Kindle apps. For a measly .99, you can't go wrong.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004YEZB8E
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004YEZB8E
Sunday, April 24, 2011
My Little Golden Bell (For Cookie)
What was once silver, turned brown somehow, sometime back long ago, amber, blonde, platinum with streaks, pieces of white, then turned purple if you looked close enough, sometimes silky black, then chestnut brown, depending on the light. Looks perfect with the curl, wavy elegance, I think, long, lacy sleeves on that blouse you wear, floral skirt, and I always think, Lady—with a capital L. Do you see what I see?
Fair, like alabaster, white marble, the milk you drink so much, only smoother, with a pink blush, something you probably have to touch to believe, make real. Know what I mean? Probably not. Makes me wish I could touch it freely, run my finger down the length of your pretty white cheek and tell you, “This is only one of the things that makes you beautiful to me, that stirs my blood.” The rest…well…I’ll try to get there eventually. This is just the beginning.
Sometimes, too, like a porcelain doll, healthy and flawless, skin that can’t be real and you wonder how such a pretty girl had that miasma of personality that shot through the roof. Gonna meet a superstar someday, make the devil blush. What a lucky bastard someone’s gonna be. Brings a tear to my eyes, sometimes more than one. It often does.
Don’t be afraid to cry. I see sometimes the hurt you go through (It’s hard not to with those puffy red eyes.), knowing there’s nothing I can do, but let you let it run its course. No hug will do, not for this girl. She needs something more, a magic word, fairy dust, to make her feel better, a carpet ride or something. Did I tell you you look like a princess today?
I wish I could be younger sometimes with a chance out there, or you could be a little bit older, and we could run, and laugh, hold hands, and play like two little kids always getting into mischief. Turn the kitchen into a den of flour from floor to ceiling. You got it all over your face. Smear the chocolate syrup in your hair and think about the beating our parents are going to give us for what we did to the kitchen and not care at all. Open every single cookie jar. For some reason, there are a million, make sure that loud laughter of yours continues to ring and ring and ring. Change your name and call you My Little Golden Bell, tinkle like a snow chime, watch the lights at Christmas time, open up a jar of honey and say, “I made this special for you with all the bees’ cooperation. You should have seen the looks on their faces. Bees smile. Bet you never knew that, did you?” Take you back to a land of lost chivalry, let you ride upon a handsome steed, because I always have to throw in some romantic fantasy to make it complete. All the townsfolk are throwing flowers at you. See, the blush in your cheeks.
Carry you up to your tower at night, put you to sleep, and stand guard by the window, watching the stars come out, making sure all is safe, no monsters, no dragons, no villainous creeps, nothing to harm you, watching you sleep, peaceful little princess girl with all that drool on your pillow just makes you look that much prettier to me.
Fair, like alabaster, white marble, the milk you drink so much, only smoother, with a pink blush, something you probably have to touch to believe, make real. Know what I mean? Probably not. Makes me wish I could touch it freely, run my finger down the length of your pretty white cheek and tell you, “This is only one of the things that makes you beautiful to me, that stirs my blood.” The rest…well…I’ll try to get there eventually. This is just the beginning.
Sometimes, too, like a porcelain doll, healthy and flawless, skin that can’t be real and you wonder how such a pretty girl had that miasma of personality that shot through the roof. Gonna meet a superstar someday, make the devil blush. What a lucky bastard someone’s gonna be. Brings a tear to my eyes, sometimes more than one. It often does.
Don’t be afraid to cry. I see sometimes the hurt you go through (It’s hard not to with those puffy red eyes.), knowing there’s nothing I can do, but let you let it run its course. No hug will do, not for this girl. She needs something more, a magic word, fairy dust, to make her feel better, a carpet ride or something. Did I tell you you look like a princess today?
I wish I could be younger sometimes with a chance out there, or you could be a little bit older, and we could run, and laugh, hold hands, and play like two little kids always getting into mischief. Turn the kitchen into a den of flour from floor to ceiling. You got it all over your face. Smear the chocolate syrup in your hair and think about the beating our parents are going to give us for what we did to the kitchen and not care at all. Open every single cookie jar. For some reason, there are a million, make sure that loud laughter of yours continues to ring and ring and ring. Change your name and call you My Little Golden Bell, tinkle like a snow chime, watch the lights at Christmas time, open up a jar of honey and say, “I made this special for you with all the bees’ cooperation. You should have seen the looks on their faces. Bees smile. Bet you never knew that, did you?” Take you back to a land of lost chivalry, let you ride upon a handsome steed, because I always have to throw in some romantic fantasy to make it complete. All the townsfolk are throwing flowers at you. See, the blush in your cheeks.
Carry you up to your tower at night, put you to sleep, and stand guard by the window, watching the stars come out, making sure all is safe, no monsters, no dragons, no villainous creeps, nothing to harm you, watching you sleep, peaceful little princess girl with all that drool on your pillow just makes you look that much prettier to me.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
A Honeymoon in Outer Space
I can be a killer, too, as I watch it progress into outer space. I took your hand and told you not to be afraid. You don’t have to worry about breathing here. You trusted me. That was a good thing. This was just the beginning of the adventure. We would see things through and through like magic. Take this bus ride all the way home. Paint it pink and send it off like a sling-shot into outer space.
I saw, at least briefly, the way it was supposed to work between us. Some caricature of me I had a dream about one day like a flashy, bold cartoon. I imagined Thor, because he was the only super-hero with hair like mine. That wasn’t conceit, just a way to build my self-esteem. I would’ve mentioned the Silver Surfer, but he doesn’t have any hair at all, despite traveling at the speed of light through space, which I like. But I’m getting off the subject.
You were my courageous little princess. The funny thing about you was I just needed that smile. You gave it to me many times with those big brown eyes of yours, so that was all the strength I needed. You were my little hammer, like Thor. I was strong, plenty strong, I thought, but not nearly as strong until I could hold you in my hand. So, that made me want to be your provider and protector, a champion, here like every little myth and archetype history created for man and woman to be. We had a step above them, though, because we had our own definitions of each that we were living up to. That was the key. I had armor made from steel and sun beams. Still, I couldn’t do it without you.
“There,” I said, pointing to the night sky. “Look.”
You followed my gaze while my cape billowed behind me. You put your hand to my shoulder, and we watched as every star imaginable shot across the sky.
“That,” you said, “is a lot of wishes.”
“Aye,” I said, nodding.
These rivets were just the shirt I was wearing. I didn’t need armor at all. We can confuse ourselves into thinking the silliest things. So, I told you to hop on the back of this dragon. I was never meant to kill such a big, cuddly thing. We could train him, make him a household pet.
“Good,” you said. “What shall we name him?”
“Leprechaun,” the dragon said, and winked at us. All three of us started laughing.
“Hop on,” he said. “I’ll take you for a ride.”
“How’s that for agreeable?” I asked.
“Pretty cool,” you said, then asked Leprechaun, “Where are you taking us?”
“Past the sun and three times around the moon. I want to show you the rings of Saturn, too. And Uranus has these huge ice cliffs. I thought we could have a barbecue and watch Neptune rise in the sky. It’s pretty far-out.”
“I think this dragon is tipsy,” I said.
“Never been more sober in my life,” he said.
“In that case, lead on Leprechaun.”
He nodded and took to the sky.
“This is gonna be one hell of a honeymoon,” you said.
“But I haven’t asked you to marry me yet.”
“Well, what a better time to propose, on the back of a dragon, soaring into outer space. What girl gets to say that?”
“She’s got you there, champ,” Leprechaun said.
“We’ll have to stop at the store first and pick you out an engagement ring.”
“Can we try that pizza place on the mall first?”
“Of course. What do you say, Leprechaun? You hungry?”
“I love pizza!”
And that’s how I imagined our fairy-tale to be.
I saw, at least briefly, the way it was supposed to work between us. Some caricature of me I had a dream about one day like a flashy, bold cartoon. I imagined Thor, because he was the only super-hero with hair like mine. That wasn’t conceit, just a way to build my self-esteem. I would’ve mentioned the Silver Surfer, but he doesn’t have any hair at all, despite traveling at the speed of light through space, which I like. But I’m getting off the subject.
You were my courageous little princess. The funny thing about you was I just needed that smile. You gave it to me many times with those big brown eyes of yours, so that was all the strength I needed. You were my little hammer, like Thor. I was strong, plenty strong, I thought, but not nearly as strong until I could hold you in my hand. So, that made me want to be your provider and protector, a champion, here like every little myth and archetype history created for man and woman to be. We had a step above them, though, because we had our own definitions of each that we were living up to. That was the key. I had armor made from steel and sun beams. Still, I couldn’t do it without you.
“There,” I said, pointing to the night sky. “Look.”
You followed my gaze while my cape billowed behind me. You put your hand to my shoulder, and we watched as every star imaginable shot across the sky.
“That,” you said, “is a lot of wishes.”
“Aye,” I said, nodding.
These rivets were just the shirt I was wearing. I didn’t need armor at all. We can confuse ourselves into thinking the silliest things. So, I told you to hop on the back of this dragon. I was never meant to kill such a big, cuddly thing. We could train him, make him a household pet.
“Good,” you said. “What shall we name him?”
“Leprechaun,” the dragon said, and winked at us. All three of us started laughing.
“Hop on,” he said. “I’ll take you for a ride.”
“How’s that for agreeable?” I asked.
“Pretty cool,” you said, then asked Leprechaun, “Where are you taking us?”
“Past the sun and three times around the moon. I want to show you the rings of Saturn, too. And Uranus has these huge ice cliffs. I thought we could have a barbecue and watch Neptune rise in the sky. It’s pretty far-out.”
“I think this dragon is tipsy,” I said.
“Never been more sober in my life,” he said.
“In that case, lead on Leprechaun.”
He nodded and took to the sky.
“This is gonna be one hell of a honeymoon,” you said.
“But I haven’t asked you to marry me yet.”
“Well, what a better time to propose, on the back of a dragon, soaring into outer space. What girl gets to say that?”
“She’s got you there, champ,” Leprechaun said.
“We’ll have to stop at the store first and pick you out an engagement ring.”
“Can we try that pizza place on the mall first?”
“Of course. What do you say, Leprechaun? You hungry?”
“I love pizza!”
And that’s how I imagined our fairy-tale to be.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
If Only I...
It’s funny how sincerity is not always a good thing. You think being honest is what it’s all about, but it must have to do with the people you meet. You hear that all the time, being honest, being sincere, because it’s the right thing to do, but you meet the wrong people to be honest and sincere to. I’m no stranger to irony.
I would tell them, let them know the truth, everything about me, because you think it’s the right thing to do, the right way to start it all, but the world is a funny place. I’m here to let you know about all the realness I have inside me. The last thing you should be is ashamed, you tell yourself, but you end up feeling that way anyway, at least sometimes. I laugh about it because it’s the only way I can get past it. To think all that honesty and sincerity would come back to bite me. It’s like your heart is talking to you, telling you there is no other way to be. Is my heart wrong, I think? Is my soul lying to me?
I put her up on this little white cloud, held her beauty there like the sun, wondered all the time if she was just that beautiful inside. I think I said that to someone once. It’s part of the mission, I guess. Part of the quest, the one thing to get you past all the rest, that everything I thought and felt was real, genuine through and through. How could you fail, you think? Everything I wanted to say, knowing it came right from the heart. Some had to do with honor, even. Unbelievable, you think. Old fashioned approaches, authenticity. All dead now. To think none of it was pretend, and that’s what you were trying to convey. All these men are really little boys, and there was a measure you were living up to that said otherwise. You were trying to tell them you were worth more than that, that you were worthy of them, good enough, when really, it was just the opposite, wasn’t it?
I wasn’t just talking to amuse myself, to give you all the things you wanted to hear, to sound like every other guy who just wanted to get what they wanted at your expense. There’s just so much suspicion anymore, it seems. I guess the right person would know better. You wouldn’t have to convince them of that, would you? They would know. That’s the difference between the right ones and the wrong ones. They didn’t believe you anyway, despite what you felt inside. They couldn’t feel what you felt inside. You wondered where this role reversal came from. Little boys and their video games, their lack of responsibility. Women without a shred of sensitivity, colder than a drill sergeant. Something happened along the way and this, today, is the catastrophe. Frightening. I would kill to find a girly-girl, a shred of pink, a bright color, a laugh like a lilt. You can cry at everything. I don’t care. Just cry on me. That’s all I ask.
I was always putting the perfect personality to the pretty face. You can imagine my disappointment. Someone who actually cared about the way I thought and felt, saw the world. Supported my beliefs and ideas, stood beside me, said they wanted to come with me on my pilgrimage, because they believed in me. What was the point otherwise? That’s what made it work. But alas, it was not to be…
I wanted her to know I could listen to everything she had to say, let her be who she was, good and bad and love her for it. Be sensitive, thoughtful to her every need, acceptance, without judgment, protective, honorable, and all that old-fashioned crap people don’t care about these days. Seems the world is in short supply. I was just trying to create a little balance. But some women don’t need men at all. They have all those qualities anyway.
It was your femininity I liked best. Old time movies, your girly nature, soft-batting eyes, you little coquette, coy looks and laughter. Girl through and through. Radiance when you walk through the door. You make the sun blush, a beacon through the cloudy haze. Eyes that smiled, too, charm—virtually villainous. That is how you seized my heart. You taught me more about love than I taught myself. If only I…I thought. If only I….If only…
We’d have these late night conversations, pillow to pillow, every subject covered, every secret revealed, every word like a bridge of conviction, a dawning solidity, confirmation that two identical souls had come together and set the world on fire. We were the dawning, second by second, moment by moment reality. Proof that sometimes things were meant to be. A grand scheme, a design, a compliment that we could be part of something that bold, mysterious, and beautiful. A play, a poem, a sonnet revealed, a song, a Victorian novel, or some damn thing. I wanted you to be my Jane Eyre, my Anne of Green Gables. She deserved someone more dark and mysterious than Gilbert, I thought. I could love her more than him. I built myself from the shrine of ashes, everything like new, but still scarred and somehow that made you like me more. Even boys can have fairy-tale dreams, like you girls do. But some girls turn into men, and let them die. Boys turn into girls and do the same. That’s why some dreams never come true.
I wonder what happened when we both built for ourselves the perfect each other, conquered demons, slaughtered dragons, only to find the tower empty. Created myself for myself and you to be everything I could be, I thought. Unrequited love, and there was never even a lover. Go figure. Just a thought in my head I didn’t want to be the only one to uncover. Words on a page. Bitter irony. Alas, a dragon slain. And for what? To walk the streets alone in wonder with myself as my own company to keep me company. Do you meet the same dead ends I do? Why is it always a destination I’m trying to get to, as opposed to understanding this is enough here now, the way I am? I am missing the moment otherwise. Do you wonder why just being you left you so frightened and alone with no one to talk to but an idea I might be out there? That’s how it is for me here, finding my own solid ground to stand on. But still wondering…If only I…
I would tell them, let them know the truth, everything about me, because you think it’s the right thing to do, the right way to start it all, but the world is a funny place. I’m here to let you know about all the realness I have inside me. The last thing you should be is ashamed, you tell yourself, but you end up feeling that way anyway, at least sometimes. I laugh about it because it’s the only way I can get past it. To think all that honesty and sincerity would come back to bite me. It’s like your heart is talking to you, telling you there is no other way to be. Is my heart wrong, I think? Is my soul lying to me?
I put her up on this little white cloud, held her beauty there like the sun, wondered all the time if she was just that beautiful inside. I think I said that to someone once. It’s part of the mission, I guess. Part of the quest, the one thing to get you past all the rest, that everything I thought and felt was real, genuine through and through. How could you fail, you think? Everything I wanted to say, knowing it came right from the heart. Some had to do with honor, even. Unbelievable, you think. Old fashioned approaches, authenticity. All dead now. To think none of it was pretend, and that’s what you were trying to convey. All these men are really little boys, and there was a measure you were living up to that said otherwise. You were trying to tell them you were worth more than that, that you were worthy of them, good enough, when really, it was just the opposite, wasn’t it?
I wasn’t just talking to amuse myself, to give you all the things you wanted to hear, to sound like every other guy who just wanted to get what they wanted at your expense. There’s just so much suspicion anymore, it seems. I guess the right person would know better. You wouldn’t have to convince them of that, would you? They would know. That’s the difference between the right ones and the wrong ones. They didn’t believe you anyway, despite what you felt inside. They couldn’t feel what you felt inside. You wondered where this role reversal came from. Little boys and their video games, their lack of responsibility. Women without a shred of sensitivity, colder than a drill sergeant. Something happened along the way and this, today, is the catastrophe. Frightening. I would kill to find a girly-girl, a shred of pink, a bright color, a laugh like a lilt. You can cry at everything. I don’t care. Just cry on me. That’s all I ask.
I was always putting the perfect personality to the pretty face. You can imagine my disappointment. Someone who actually cared about the way I thought and felt, saw the world. Supported my beliefs and ideas, stood beside me, said they wanted to come with me on my pilgrimage, because they believed in me. What was the point otherwise? That’s what made it work. But alas, it was not to be…
I wanted her to know I could listen to everything she had to say, let her be who she was, good and bad and love her for it. Be sensitive, thoughtful to her every need, acceptance, without judgment, protective, honorable, and all that old-fashioned crap people don’t care about these days. Seems the world is in short supply. I was just trying to create a little balance. But some women don’t need men at all. They have all those qualities anyway.
It was your femininity I liked best. Old time movies, your girly nature, soft-batting eyes, you little coquette, coy looks and laughter. Girl through and through. Radiance when you walk through the door. You make the sun blush, a beacon through the cloudy haze. Eyes that smiled, too, charm—virtually villainous. That is how you seized my heart. You taught me more about love than I taught myself. If only I…I thought. If only I….If only…
We’d have these late night conversations, pillow to pillow, every subject covered, every secret revealed, every word like a bridge of conviction, a dawning solidity, confirmation that two identical souls had come together and set the world on fire. We were the dawning, second by second, moment by moment reality. Proof that sometimes things were meant to be. A grand scheme, a design, a compliment that we could be part of something that bold, mysterious, and beautiful. A play, a poem, a sonnet revealed, a song, a Victorian novel, or some damn thing. I wanted you to be my Jane Eyre, my Anne of Green Gables. She deserved someone more dark and mysterious than Gilbert, I thought. I could love her more than him. I built myself from the shrine of ashes, everything like new, but still scarred and somehow that made you like me more. Even boys can have fairy-tale dreams, like you girls do. But some girls turn into men, and let them die. Boys turn into girls and do the same. That’s why some dreams never come true.
I wonder what happened when we both built for ourselves the perfect each other, conquered demons, slaughtered dragons, only to find the tower empty. Created myself for myself and you to be everything I could be, I thought. Unrequited love, and there was never even a lover. Go figure. Just a thought in my head I didn’t want to be the only one to uncover. Words on a page. Bitter irony. Alas, a dragon slain. And for what? To walk the streets alone in wonder with myself as my own company to keep me company. Do you meet the same dead ends I do? Why is it always a destination I’m trying to get to, as opposed to understanding this is enough here now, the way I am? I am missing the moment otherwise. Do you wonder why just being you left you so frightened and alone with no one to talk to but an idea I might be out there? That’s how it is for me here, finding my own solid ground to stand on. But still wondering…If only I…
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Fallen Echo
I wonder if there’s something beyond all this. More than words can describe, nothing I can capture here. Colors you can take a bite out of, something sticky and sweet that drips down your chin. I wonder if I can be a constellation someday. Look, there in the sky! It’s me in a constellation now!
I embrace the cold, empty air as if it were a woman, holding tight, my arms wrapped around her, breasts pressed tight against my chest. See me. Touch me. Feel me. Like that song by The Who. Hear me run. There, as I move my head back and forth, a slight lingering aroma of subtle perfume in her hair. Copper curls, maybe. That’s what it was last night. Black. Brown. Platinum. But it’s all pretend.
A different road leads off into deeper solitude, tall trees on each side, blocking the sun. It’s barely a road at all. Pretty little cloudy day anyway. There must be something beyond all this—here, this road never got me anywhere but the same old wandering. Leads me back to where I used to be a hundred years ago.
Just on the edge of my vision, something black flickers, a shadow moves and breathes like a whale. It snuffs out everything. I see redemption and mercy in fire sometimes, enough to put a smile on my face as I soak in tepid water with more than water going down the drain. My face doesn’t blush anymore. Flames are loud enough to consume me on their own. I think about them on the ceiling. Shadows are black enough to hide me. I have no excuse. But I’m still looking. Sometimes, it just gets this way in here.
Everything you ever wanted to be, everything you ever loved decided not to show up one day. I take my walking stick and begin my trek across this land. A pilgrimage, I tell myself. It’s necessary. Almost forty, still trying to be a man. Wish I had wings so I could fly away, a boat that could sail around the moon. There’s more to it than this, hollow prisons shaking the fruit from my tree. I keep telling myself maybe I have some gift I can offer, something I can wrap up, put in a little box, distribute to all my neighbors, family, friends, something everyone can have a piece of. Rejuvenate the world, one piece of cake at a time. I don’t mind suffering for a good cause. Dying’s nothing new. I know what’s going on here, but it’s funny how it still surprises me.
These eyes I see with are not my own. This lonely feeling is alien to me, but it’s been around for a while. I just pretend it isn’t there. This pain I feel isn’t mine, either. I know there’s something to learn from all this, and when I do, I’ll share it with you, so you can avoid all these stupid pitfalls I put myself through.
I want to stand alone on a clear, beautiful day, on top of a mountain, and gaze in silence at the world all around. I just want to see hills and hills and more hills, no city, no people, no anything. Just the earth and the sky and the clouds. Maybe get lost at sea for a day or two with nothing but the sky, the ocean blue, and whatever mammal wants to visit me. Anything to clear my brain, take this cluttered confusion and just iron it out with clear blue water. Nothing but me and the vastness, so I can see the vastness, understand how tiny I really am in all this. But wonder and hope, as beautiful as they are, seem to create nothing but pain.
I let the world fall away on both sides of me. I don’t want this same old conditioning anymore. I want some new skin to wear, someone to lift me up for once and tell me everything’s okay, that everything is perfect just the way it is. That maybe there is this crystal shard, this golden, unbreakable thing inside that cannot be touched, and it is the most beautiful thing in the world, in creation, that has every existed and will ever exist, and it exists in no one but you. Know what I mean?
I miss those sunsets, no matter where they are, behind mountains, lakes, the sea, the world going down, like a slow-blinking eye, stillness, just the sound of my heart beating. Makes me sad in some way that’s beautiful. I know that feeling. Turn it all into a cloudy day. It’s okay with me. There’s no reason it’s there. It just is. I can’t explain it.
My whole life, I dreamed all these big, impossible dreams. That I could be a super-hero and fly around the moon. That I could live like a cartoon character, a vampire, or smash a dragon’s skull with my bare claws. They were good company for a while, but I need something I can feel and taste and touch.
One day, I tell myself…One day…I will be the captain of a beautiful ship, and I will sail light years across the sea. I will war with Vikings, own a planet, a distant star. But I know better. I can’t base my life on tomorrow. How come that ocean isn’t here now? Why can’t it be?
My quest begins with a solid pair of shoes and a good walking stick. I used to cling to all these ideas, images, something to make me happy, and I realize I’m not so lonely anymore despite what my heart tells me. You can only make so many changes in one lifetime. Just who do you expect yourself to be? An invincible, flawless, warrior poet?
I look up into the sky after the sun’s gone down. It is just night and stars, but I don’t see a sign of me, not where I can draw those stars together and make them do what I want. What kind of puffed up ego is that? Self-absorption? Narcissism? No more than a speck, a tiny, easily forgotten thing. Barely makes a mark, a scratch. When it talks, it doesn’t breathe. You can’t hear anything. Even the slightest whisper doesn’t make any wind.
My voice is all the company I have, an echo that fails to return any of my calls.
I embrace the cold, empty air as if it were a woman, holding tight, my arms wrapped around her, breasts pressed tight against my chest. See me. Touch me. Feel me. Like that song by The Who. Hear me run. There, as I move my head back and forth, a slight lingering aroma of subtle perfume in her hair. Copper curls, maybe. That’s what it was last night. Black. Brown. Platinum. But it’s all pretend.
A different road leads off into deeper solitude, tall trees on each side, blocking the sun. It’s barely a road at all. Pretty little cloudy day anyway. There must be something beyond all this—here, this road never got me anywhere but the same old wandering. Leads me back to where I used to be a hundred years ago.
Just on the edge of my vision, something black flickers, a shadow moves and breathes like a whale. It snuffs out everything. I see redemption and mercy in fire sometimes, enough to put a smile on my face as I soak in tepid water with more than water going down the drain. My face doesn’t blush anymore. Flames are loud enough to consume me on their own. I think about them on the ceiling. Shadows are black enough to hide me. I have no excuse. But I’m still looking. Sometimes, it just gets this way in here.
Everything you ever wanted to be, everything you ever loved decided not to show up one day. I take my walking stick and begin my trek across this land. A pilgrimage, I tell myself. It’s necessary. Almost forty, still trying to be a man. Wish I had wings so I could fly away, a boat that could sail around the moon. There’s more to it than this, hollow prisons shaking the fruit from my tree. I keep telling myself maybe I have some gift I can offer, something I can wrap up, put in a little box, distribute to all my neighbors, family, friends, something everyone can have a piece of. Rejuvenate the world, one piece of cake at a time. I don’t mind suffering for a good cause. Dying’s nothing new. I know what’s going on here, but it’s funny how it still surprises me.
These eyes I see with are not my own. This lonely feeling is alien to me, but it’s been around for a while. I just pretend it isn’t there. This pain I feel isn’t mine, either. I know there’s something to learn from all this, and when I do, I’ll share it with you, so you can avoid all these stupid pitfalls I put myself through.
I want to stand alone on a clear, beautiful day, on top of a mountain, and gaze in silence at the world all around. I just want to see hills and hills and more hills, no city, no people, no anything. Just the earth and the sky and the clouds. Maybe get lost at sea for a day or two with nothing but the sky, the ocean blue, and whatever mammal wants to visit me. Anything to clear my brain, take this cluttered confusion and just iron it out with clear blue water. Nothing but me and the vastness, so I can see the vastness, understand how tiny I really am in all this. But wonder and hope, as beautiful as they are, seem to create nothing but pain.
I let the world fall away on both sides of me. I don’t want this same old conditioning anymore. I want some new skin to wear, someone to lift me up for once and tell me everything’s okay, that everything is perfect just the way it is. That maybe there is this crystal shard, this golden, unbreakable thing inside that cannot be touched, and it is the most beautiful thing in the world, in creation, that has every existed and will ever exist, and it exists in no one but you. Know what I mean?
I miss those sunsets, no matter where they are, behind mountains, lakes, the sea, the world going down, like a slow-blinking eye, stillness, just the sound of my heart beating. Makes me sad in some way that’s beautiful. I know that feeling. Turn it all into a cloudy day. It’s okay with me. There’s no reason it’s there. It just is. I can’t explain it.
My whole life, I dreamed all these big, impossible dreams. That I could be a super-hero and fly around the moon. That I could live like a cartoon character, a vampire, or smash a dragon’s skull with my bare claws. They were good company for a while, but I need something I can feel and taste and touch.
One day, I tell myself…One day…I will be the captain of a beautiful ship, and I will sail light years across the sea. I will war with Vikings, own a planet, a distant star. But I know better. I can’t base my life on tomorrow. How come that ocean isn’t here now? Why can’t it be?
My quest begins with a solid pair of shoes and a good walking stick. I used to cling to all these ideas, images, something to make me happy, and I realize I’m not so lonely anymore despite what my heart tells me. You can only make so many changes in one lifetime. Just who do you expect yourself to be? An invincible, flawless, warrior poet?
I look up into the sky after the sun’s gone down. It is just night and stars, but I don’t see a sign of me, not where I can draw those stars together and make them do what I want. What kind of puffed up ego is that? Self-absorption? Narcissism? No more than a speck, a tiny, easily forgotten thing. Barely makes a mark, a scratch. When it talks, it doesn’t breathe. You can’t hear anything. Even the slightest whisper doesn’t make any wind.
My voice is all the company I have, an echo that fails to return any of my calls.
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