You are here

This week's phrase is “You are here”: “You are here,” she whispers into the pillow snuggling his ear. No truer words have been spoken. He is, in fact, here, with her, right now. He wants this to be his life, the one where he settles down, holds onto the happiness, and drifts off into a lifelong abyss.

You again...

The ache in my head catches me at the moment I cannot fathom dealing with the cause.

Pieces

You could not have known as much, but I gave you everything with my touch, it was the hardest decision I ever made; and when you left, you took me with you, and I can never get it back.

Sunday Scribblings (Pleasure)

This week's word is “Pleasure":

I watched from across the room as your shoe hung from its living partner. In that moment, I wanted little more than to guide my hand from that appendage up across every inch of your epidermis. It was a dream, I knew as much, but needed something to get me through the boredom of my life. But days in, the imaginary you, the one that traced my body with her tongue and panted my name in the darkness, failed to complete my emptiness. I needed you, and the freedom that would bring.
. . . .
You were everything I ever thought one could be. Fun was has, time was spent, stories were swapped, and tentative plans were hatched. Life, as least as far as I could see it, was good. That is not to say that we did not struggle, flight, and swear each other off, but . . . . I had your love, and in that, I had everything.
. . . .
The skies, as they always do, turned. I failed to live up to expectation. I excel at that. You accepted my failure, and turned away. It is not, regardless of my response, what I wanted. If only you could see inside me, you would see a man who struggles without the only woman who ever brought him true pleasure.

Sunday Scribblings (Raw)

This week's word is “Raw”:

Since reaching the age of maturity and freely expressing my own wants and desires, I knew one thing for certain; I am not a man afraid of taking the road less traveled, of hitting some rough patched along the way, and getting dirt in my teeth. Now I know the powers that be frown upon my course of action, stress the diseases, consequences and preach prophylactic measures, but it just is not the same. To follow that course means that I am destined to a life of decreased texture, connection, and the intimacy that comes with the natural feel, taste, and smell, the way our distant forefather did it. Right or wrong. I know the risks, sleep well at night, and enjoy the rush that comes with casting caution to the wind. Fuck the establishment, I say, it is my body, and I can do as I please.

So with my middle finger displayed proudly to the world, I say cut, clean, and cook that shit all you want; but me, I want my veggies right out of the ground, raw as a fresh wound.

Sunday Scribblings (Fire)

This week's word is “Fire”:

The flames tore through the single story dwelling at an alarming speed, leaving no time for me to save myself, or those that I loved. I would slink under my bed and wait for the inevitable, terrified of the pain I was sure to endure. It always ended with me crying and calling out for my mother.

That dream haunted me from the age of seven well into my teens. It was brought on by a short lived obsession with matches, a story by a neighbor of a terrible blaze the consumed her household, killing all inside, and pictures of burn victims placed strategically throughout my bedroom. It was a tough love approach taken by desperate parents after I lit the before mentioned neighbors backyard ablaze on my brother second birthday. Thankfully for all involved, it put itself out before any real damage was done.

After said incident, and the subsequent parental reaction, I never looked at fire the same. I became obsessed with checking the fire-alarms (to my mothers dismay), carefully planned escape routes, and consumed any and all preparedness manual available to a small child. My youth, from that point forward, was devoid of anything remotely capable of making even a spark.

Now I am still fascinated by fire, and the power it holds, but now have an alarm in each room, and plan endlessly my escape if it is so needed.

A Thousand Years

This week's phrase is “A Thousand Years”: This week, the one containing the anniversary of your death, is tougher than all others. I know why, from a logical perspective, but it confuses me nonetheless. It is not as if I miss you more today than last Monday, but the pain is worse, the dreams more visceral, and the failures present. It is as if I am preparing for your funeral again, and I was not ready the first time. People appeared to show their respects, and their love; the band played; beautiful words were spoken; it was lost on me. I know I said something, what it was I do not recall, but words came from my lips. I knew they did not mean much to you, as they came too late for you to appreciate the love I had for you, and you were gone. All I have to give now is the knowledge that I will never let the memory of you pass, nor will I let the generations that follow forget you. For a thousand years or more, your name will ring out with the legacy you left. Good night my baby brother.

A little something...

There was a little girl that liked to play with the baby bear she had found in the forrest.  Everyday, rain or shine, she would wander out, find her fuzz ball of love, and pick and eat berries and other fruits with it until nothing more could possibly fit into her tiny stomach.  She would then drag her over indulged self home and wait until tomorrow to do it all again.

There was a little bear cub who longed to eat the skinny child that would bother him in the forrest.  In an effort to make it worth his time, he spent each day tirelessly working to fatten her up.  He would then retire to his den, and pray that tomorrow would be the day she would be worth the energy it would take to eat her.

Waiting

Every day I am reminded that I am waiting . . . for your voice, words, and, at times, touch. It is a reality that I count on to get me through the numbness of the days. I am slightly afraid to be at this place, but thankful that I have it, and you, to give me a purpose.

March on

I was an athlete once, and if I can say this without my head swelling too much, a damn good one. I let that fade a bit this past year, and it took a toll on me. I forgot that physical activity, and more importantly, competing, keeps me sane, and focuses the rest of my life. Without pushing my body to the breaking point on a fairly regular basis I am a shell of a human. I get bogged down in the everyday minutia that drivers people insane. I was built to push—not human capacity, for there are many out there that can put me to shame, and I am never going to garner a sponsorship—my own limits. I heal at an alarming rate and have an incredible pain threshold. My goal this year is to channel that talent, and get back to the insanity that once defined me.

Randoms

Here I am again, sitting before this computer, headphones on, cigarette dangling from my lips and beer at hand, but the words refuse to find the page.
****
I know a man who proudly served his country, and fought tirelessly to make it a better place.

I know a many who cared so deeply for his friends and family that he would give up anything for them.

I know a man whose life, along with five others, came to an abrupt end on a stormy night in December.

I know a mam whose memory will be carried on by all who met him, and many who did not, including this sad writer.
****
As the engines of the aircraft kicked in, for the first time in my life, I found myself saying a prayer to whoever would listen, and wondered if all in my life, including those that I rarely see, know how important they are to me.
****
Tooth pain is fucking debilitating.
****
I can feel her in my arms at the end of the day, even when she is sleeping in a distant bed. Her skin is on my fingertips, her aroma fills my nose, and my love longs for her. If only I could verbalize those feelings in the moments we are together.
****
It is not my home, and, the argument could be made that it never really was, but I feel alive in our nations capital.
****
I want to watch you sleep again; moments spent together in total silence, me, you, and my dreams of the life we could share.
****
The stress associated with December depresses me . . . where is my fat jolly man to make it all better?

Sunday Scribblings (Bright Idea)

This week's word/phrase is Bright Idea: You could feel the beat . . . thump, thump, thump; the glow sticks danced in sync with the chaos; she pumped in and out of sight. I concentrated, aided by the powders, pills and caffeine of a night off the grid. Shirt off, sweat dripping, teeth grinding, movement chaotic, but focused. She was my prey, I was her gyrating predator. My frustration, sense of anticipation, and arousal heightened with each passing moment. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not get her to come into focus, to stop, to let me feast. I knew I would love her in the light of day, but day it was not. If only the sun would rise, I was convinced that she would see my chiseled body, drugged out smile, raging libido, know my desire, and match my rhythmic wiggle. In a moment of clarity, or insanity, I saddled up to the curtains, lit them ablaze with my cigarette, and waited for her to observe me in full light. A bright idea it may not have been, but it was an idea, and it brightened the room, mission accomplished.

Two pieces, one soul

He promised himself, long ago, that he would only take the bare minimum of what he needed. He would not, could not, and deplored the idea of taking more than was necessary to survive. For the vast majority of his existence, he stood by this principle, leaching only enough from the few he cared to bleed so as to survive. It worked for all involved . . . he was whole, and they were, well, mostly the same. Then she came along and all control was lost.


At what point does the consumption of ones soul become disastrous? When is the breaking point crossed, with no hope of return? Is it the moment where you look in the mirror and see a reflection that you can no longer comprehend, understand, or look at? Is it then, where the you, the one you nourished, babied, and built from the ground up, in shambles, for good? Is that a negative, or the necessary evolution of a flawed species? Should I worry that I do not see myself absent her?

The Funeral

I found this written on my phone; I wrote it while sitting on a plane a few months back:

As the world closes in around, and the nights grow increasingly grizzly, the beauty in the moment wrestled is not lost on his soul. For a brief flash, he enjoyed the freedom that he once thought would be his everyday

Vision

I am a runner. I am blind without corrective measures. Why I would decide to do the former with out the latter is beyond me. I, however, being the brain dead moron I often am, decided it would be a fantastic idea to go for a jaunt with out my contacts or glasses. It did not go well.

I should have known the end result when I noticed that the lights in the distance looked like fireworks exploding in the night. I pushed on. I never saw the curb end, but I sure did feel it. I recovered from my stumble with only a few choice words and staggered on. I have no clue where the cement post came from, I have never seen it before, and am convinced that it was erected today. I thought of turning back, but I am Irish, so I refused to accept the obvious, and continued. The last straw came when I ran down a smallish woman who tried, in a moment of shocking realization, to dodge left. . . .that was my reaction as well.

I am a runner. I am blind without corrective measures. I know now that I cannot skip the latter while doing the former.

Silence

I am afraid to write the Story because I do not know what emotions will be set free and what that will do to me.

Listening to The Cure, Disintegration and The Clash, The Clash (UK release).

Sunday Scribblings (Flashback)

This week's word is Flashback:

I was drawn to her unpretentious, yet careful, attire, the smirk that shot across her face when she thought others were not paying attention, and the manner in which she held her beauty. She was the most inviting woman I had ever laid eyes on, and there had been many. This one, unlike those before, did not stir my sexual response as much as light my mind on fire. I longed to hear her story, and for her to hear mine. Her presence made me love both myself and the future.

The normal me would sit back, hope, and wait . . . if it was meant to be, it would. I was keenly aware, however, that if I did not act, and do so right then, she would drift in and out of my days many feet from me, with only a smile here and there to keep me going, until she was gone. That was not an option. Therefore, I attacked the situation, inserted myself into her path, and refused to be absent, for even a moment. I knew that failure would dent my delicate psyche, and an arrest for stalking would do the same to my career, but I was going to get her to notice me. I felt that with that much, I could do anything.

Once I got her ear—a much easier task than I had anticipated—I took full advantage, and told her every good thing about myself, with just enough bad sprinkled in to keep me honest. I talked a lot and made a complete fool of myself. But she laughed, assured me that I was fine, and disclosed her most intimate secrets. With some reluctance, a serious talk or two, persistence, and time, she accepted what I was offering. We embarked on a romance that proved to this lost soul that love is real, painful, and exhilarating.

A place I have never been

There is a place in his my mind and he knows it well. It is where he goes when the day is burnt, body aching and thoughts out of control. It is, as best as he can describe, a mountain full of climbable faces, a lake replenished by snow fed waterfalls, and trees checkered atop the visible peaks. By day the sun's brilliance shimmies across the glass smooth water, the air warm, but dry; in the darkness, the stars and moon directly overhead shine with a heaven like glow, broken only by electric storms dancing in the distance. In this place, he needs none of the distractions that get him through his life, namely, the constant noise pumped in through headphones, the liquor, the cigarettes, and the occasional compliment. All that is required is a pair of climbing shoes, chalk, swim trunks, a partner in disappearance and something to lay his and her lazy head atop. In this place, life is everything he ever wanted.

It is in these moments, however, that he is saddest. For he knows where he longs to be, with whom he seeks to share it, what they would do when they got there, but cannot find it in the real world. As it is, in its truest sense, a place he has never been, will never be, and will die longing for.

You will never read this

You were an important part of my life, but one that was centered wholly around my 9-5. During our time together, I never once thought about the life you lived away from your duties and obligations. I valued you for what you could bring to me, not for what you were, and I am sorry for that.

There is a family mourning your loss at this moment, and their grief is real, painful, and heartfelt. I do not know them, never will, but hurt for them nonetheless.

It was an honor to be in your presence, even if it was for just a moment. I found you to be engaging, honest, and hard working. . .I do not use those words lightly.

Goodbye, you will be missed, by many more than me.

Sunday Scribblings (Clean)

This week's word is Clean:

As I sit alone on the patio, staring off into the rain-soaked semi-lit darkness, I think of all the things I should have said, should not have done, and the person that is part of me. We both wanted something pure, unending, and impossible. Accordingly, our time, and by that, you know of what I speak, included painful realities, tears and frustration. The words I have written and spoken throughout time have started to wear thin, I am sure, as they bother even me. So instead, I have written a song, or lyrics, or something. It may not read different than the others, as there is no background music, no instruments, and my band members are sadly absent, but it is, at least in my head, something revolutionary. The ballad, in all its failings, goes like this:

I want to tell you that you are the bridge between the person I am and the one I long to be
I wish I could have put my actions where my mouth is, and followed through on my dreams
But I did not, and nobody, not even you, knows the sleepless, destructive nights this caused
You are my muse, freedom, someone that keeps my struggling head above the waters edge

If offered the chance to give it up, snare all this world could offer, but lose the memories of you, I would pass
There is nothing, regardless of value, worth sacrificing all I have accumulated with you
The pain may be debilitating at times, and the tears often, but the life with you in it is worth it
When I was broken, dirty, and covered in shit, you were there for me, pulled me from my knees, cleaned me off, and gave me hope

I will love you till my dying day, regardless of what comes my way
You buried me with kindness, peppered me with beauty, and gave me the strength I needed to carry on
At all stops, through this time, I have turned to you for guidance, and you never flinched, even when the effort took a piece of your soul with it
I know the cost I have have extracted, and know I will never be able to repay, but hope this rhyme helps in some small way

If offered the chance to give it up, snare all this world could offer, but lose the memories of you, I would pass
There is nothing, regardless of value, worth sacrificing all I have accumulated with you
The pain may be debilitating at times, and the tears often, but the life with you in it is worth it
When I was broken, dirty, and covered in shit, you were there for me, pulled me from my knees, cleaned me off, and gave me hope
. . . .

It is not complete, I know as much. Hell, it doesn't even make sense. Honestly, I lack the talent to make this meaningful, the patience to fully express myself, and the absurdity to sing.