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.

The Gift

The approach, like every other, was the same. I slumped and staggered away from the broken and beaten SUV towards the door, depressed by the day that had unfolded in spite of myself. I could not help but dread the nightly walk the dogs were expecting, the meal that needed to be prepared and the wife that was waiting to ask, painfully, what had happened during the prior twelve hours. Energy was gone, food nonexistent and imaginary stories of a day spent in excitement running thin. But that was the world in which I lived and I accepted as much. One foot in front of the other, it would all be over soon enough.

Upon entering, I was greeted by two dogs full of exuberance, a bitter cat and a wife . . . with a perplexed look. “Were you expecting something?” “Hello to you, my day was fine if you must know.” My anger had broken the surface, and I had to breath to calm my nerves. “Sorry, not sure where that came from. No I am not expecting anything, why?” “You received a package today, and by the looks of it, you knew it was coming.” “I have no clue what you are talking about. I have no friends, stopped talking to my family years ago, and you know nobody ships to this godforsaken island.” She pointed at a box, adorned in GI Joe paper, sitting on the table. I stared, she stared, and the dogs fought. “What the fuck is this” I thought. I walked to it, excited by the thought of receiving a gift. The writing on the box was childish, but recognizable as . . . my own.

To: Bruce Pidd, 3242 Freidman Ave., Godforsaken Island, 34123
From: You know, just open it

I turned to the jury of one, opened my mouth to speak, but was at a loss. Innocence is not the default. “I. . . really. . . don't. . . know anything about this.” Nothing.

Knowing that this would not end until the contents of said package were in full display to explain away, I tore the paper away, opened the box and recoiled in disbelief. Inside lay six of my own possessions, five of which had a pastel post-it attached.

I took the picture out first, it was of my brother, when he was young, happy, and alive. The note read “What would he think of your existence?” My nerves were frayed, emotions uncontrollable and fear real.

The ratty stuffed buffalo, still missing its tail, was adorned with, “You were happy once, is it too late?” I cradled it to my chest, much as I did as a small child when the world seemed to be caving in.

I set it aside long enough to pick up the baseball that still had my signature with a dedication to my mother, circa 1989. “You were great once, it is not too late.” It fit so nicely between my fingers that I debated throwing it against the wall to see what I still had left.

The diary, full of words, emotions and my youth was next. “You had dreams, ambitions and goals once.” I trembled, let the tears fall and recalled a time when I had hope.

My diplomas, ripped and ragged were covering the remaining items. “These do not define you; never have and never will.” I crumbled them up, threw them aside and felt free.

I pulled out a photograph of myself with friends long since forgotten. “Have you forgotten how to love yourself, others and the world in which you live? If so, move on.” I had, did not want to be that person and said as much out loud, to my observers great surprise.

The loaded pistol sat alone. There was no note.

She looked confused, lost and angry. I ignored her, took my life's greatest possessions, minus the gun, sat on the floor and broke.

Time changes everything

I started this thing three years ago today. I did so with no preconceived notion of what it would be, what it would become, or what it said about me. I did it, as I said at the start, because I had an abundance of free time, a computer and an internet connection. Over time, it became a way for me to explore the past, the deeper parts of my soul, the pain that cripples me and the stories/characters that were begging to be set free. During said time, I have moved twice, changed jobs once, run more miles than my body cares to admit and acquired friends and loved ones on my lonely island. It is fair to say that I am not close to the person I was when I started. While I still have the computer, albeit a different one and a new internet service provider, I no longer have the free time to do this. Nonetheless, I continue to return as often as possible, not because I have nothing better to do, but because it has become a way for me to express myself in a way I never found possible in my everyday. Things written in these posts are the most painful, happiest, and craziest things that cross my mind; things I do not feel free to express. Some are about real people, pain, love and loss; others are pure imagination, often inspired by things I see, hear or read about. Regardless of their source, the feelings in each of these posts is real, all-consuming and exhausting. I have not yet learned how to distance myself from this, that, and the stories they create. And, as I am sure the few readers that I have have noticed, I tend toward the dark, hateful and melancholy. Despite my best efforts, the happiness of this existence, which I am capable of expressing in the real world, does not translate well to this forum. I am, by and large, a happy person. I see the inherent good in people, strive to make those around me better, and will do almost anything to make someone laugh. And while I often write about the joy I receive in watching others fail, it is not me. I want all to succeed, to get all they ever desire, and to enjoy the beauty of the accomplishment. It inspires me to be better.

If you continue to read, which I do not blame you for stopping, I intend to turn this blog into something different. Instead of a collection of off the cuff pieces, which tend to meld into each other, I am going to try and craft short stories, inspired by the things I see in my world. They will most likely not be good, but it is structure, and I need that in my life. I would appreciate your comments, thoughts, and suggestions, for that is the only way I will grow. I understand completely that they will not be all that different, but I am trying, so stick with me.

I could not say it better, so . . .

"It's not human to let go of love, even when it's dead." Rob Sheffield

"I grieve that grief can teach me nothing." Ralph Waldo Emerson