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.