Life as He Knows it

He wakes up, head throbbing with pain
Barely questioning the why of feelings obtained;
Brain checks out of the morning routine
Just get out the door, sight unseen.

Get to a place he can truly despise
Do all he can to not close his eyes;
Hope for a better change of pace
Knowing he’ll never leave this place.

Glaze through it all, abide by the rules
Unique to him, enforced by the fools;
Staring out the window of his prison
Giving up hope than anyone will ever listen.

Is it time yet to go? No, not even close
Sit back and try to just make it the most;
Exhaustion creeps in, slowing the run
Regardless of wind, rain or sun.

And when he finally is free, finally home
Weariness drags, he just wants to be alone;
Pass out in bed, wake up at night
Try to make do with the boredom in sight.

He makes do with the empty dial tones
Of strangers hanging up their telephones;
Candles flickering with an anemic glow,
Somewhere in the darkness, a bell tolls.

He shivers –here –with his empty arms
A vagabond bereft of all his charms;
He knows how it ends, he knows how it goes
He knows how this story comes to a close.

It ends in the morning when the sun comes up
After midmorning showers and chipped teacups;
It ends with him walking out the door
Taking a flight, to never return anymore.

It ends on the shores of a silvery day,
When crustaceans and dolphins come out to play;
It ends, not with an echoing scream or a bang-
But the drawn out silence after the last bell rang.

 

The Doors

Is it a hall or a corridor?

I can’t seem to find the end.

I reach the doors of walls.

A handle in brick refuses to open.

Denied again, I reel in pain.

The door is never meant for me.

The beauty beyond was never mine.

Alone in the echoing halls, I wait.

The silence smoothers my breath.

Ice steals over my shoulders.

Will you hold me, winter? Will you never leave me?

Melting around me, I drown in the ripples.

The statue stares imperious and I wonder

How it can stand so strong all alone.

Does it help, that it is carved from stone?

The impossible pedestal remains beyond the remnantes of memory.

How can you be at peace with solitude? I scream.

Teach me…I whisper. Teach me to be ice and stone.

To put away this sorrow I’ve called my own.

Allow me to be content with my fate and succumb to these bindings.

Or cut me free at last.

“This Folder is Empty”

“Empty spaces fill me up with holes”
~Incomplete by Backstreet Boys

I clicked on “My Pictures”. This folder is empty.

I clicked on “My Music”. This folder is empty.

I clicked on “My Documents”. This folder is empty.

I clicked on “My Downloads”. This folder is empty.

I clicked on “My Desktop”. This folder is empty.

Suddenly, I felt like crying. I don’t want my folders to be empty! Why are they empty?!

Continue reading “This Folder is Empty”

Mother’s Day: Atomic Fallout

Lay on the guilt trip. I can take it. I’m a camel that needs just one more feather -but I ain’t gonna break. Can’t break what’s broken bitch!

Sometimes Gunter remembers the past and it cumulates to one simple truth.

Mother is the giver and taker of all.

Growing up, he struggled to understand that the nice mother and the…not so nice Mother were in fact one and the same. Mother giveth and taketh away. Mother loveth and hateth. Mother builds and destroys. Mother hugs and hits. Mother veers from extreme to extreme.

And then, was nice mother actually being nice? Or cunningly manipulative?

He tried to forget, he tries to forget. Because he is a person of tally and numbers. And with surprisingly good memory despite himself and his attempts to forget.

If he truly remembers everything he forcefully buried, it would cause a volcanic eruption of epic proportion.

It’s not just words, it’s not just actions, it’s not just force and intent. If it were but one, he’d be fine. He can take beatings, he can take mean words, he can survive lack of freedom. But put them all together and his tolerance burns to ashes.

So, with all the history between them, they -really he- is one uneasy truce away from severing their relationship permanently and finally.

Know what Gunter used to dream about as a kid? Changing his identity and disappearing for good. Changing his name and reinventing himself in another place and time, untouchable and free for once. Deep down, he’s still that kid with a dream and a fistful of coins in his piggy bank standing outside the house at 2 am searching for a reason to go back inside and stick around.

And he’s running dangerously low on reasons.

What really blows his mind, is that she doesn’t appreciate what she has. Instead, she focuses on what she didn’t get.

Mother’s Day 2016 is a prime example of this fact.

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“On Mother’s Day, which is today I listened all day for a call from all my children. Guess What?

Nothing!

At 4pm I received a phone call from you and after talking for 45 minutes I received a “Enjoy your Mother’s Day” at the end of our conversation. I quickly responded with a “Thank you” because I was in shock. There was no “Happy Mother’s Day”. No -love you mother you’re an awesome mother. I guess I’m dreaming with the thought that I am a good mother. Guess what? I am now awakened out of my dream and its reality.

At 6:30pm, I went on the computer, do you know why? To see if there was a card; handcrafted that you wanted me to guess was there. Guess what? There was nothing. I have got it!!! While at college, you would buy me gifts that I pay for. I asked you to delay that till you’re working. Now you’re working, I’m totally forgotten. I’ll cherish the thought.

Just telling you how I feel.

Not upset anymore since I’m giving you this card on Mother’s Day.

So Happy Mothers Day!!!

Even so…Love always, Mother.

 

Yeah… she’s lucky he calls at all (doesn’t bode well for her birthday). Better save his money and intent and just don’t bother.

Because she is his mother, Gunter won’t get up and retort in kind. He’ll just say that he doesn’t care, that she’s lucky he attempted. And he’ll save the energy next year.

Happy butt-hurt Mother’s day. Mother should go adopt some kids who will do everything she says. Go buy some robots that will obey her commands. Go find a puppet she can manipulate.

Cuz he doesn’t give a shit.

Gunter can never win. And this is not a game he even want to play.

Being his mother doesn’t mean he owes an immeasurable debt. He’s done his time, she’s gotten all she can get from him. He has nothing left for her here. Just a hollow ear and an empty mouth.

A mannequin head immune to her call. Happy chatting.

“You don’t have to like me, go love someone else.”
The Truth by Kevin Gates

Proof

The sky never looked so empty. I never felt more alone.

I brushed back its hair, his crystal sharp blue eyes met mine in acute astuteness. Past the facade, I saw it’s savage grin feasting on my flesh. I could no longer feel my broken body steeped in the swamp where I had fallen.

“Surely, if there are devils, there must be a god…”

My mutterings breached his nostrils. My heavy arms clasped him tightly- the moonlight filtered through the willows. The stench of death seized my lungs with a final crushing exhale.

His teeth jab ice into my veins.

~Story in 100 words, prompted by Preacher (2016):

After a supernatural event at his church a preacher enlists the help of a vampire to find God.

-Unoriginal…

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Ugh!! I wish I could just be original without having to worry about being unoriginal.

So often, I feel like a copy of a copy. In the most real of senses.

After overcoming the standard childish narcissism, I swung into the complete opposite spectrum. I’m merely a plagiarism. 

Continue reading -Unoriginal…

Coffee #9: (Psycho) Delic

balls-748448_1280Psychedelic: 1950s -formed irregularly from psyche1 + Greek dēlos ‘clear, manifest’ + -ic.


Ice. Cold. Welcome to the four seasons.

It’s the season when “hot” cups of coffee is demanded at scalding temperatures.

So, I’ve lost feeling in my tongue from burning it all week. I have nooo idea how this stuff tastes.

I hope you made good tea. I’m trusting you, here.

 

Clear, Manifest

The year 2015 was a time of much reflection. The first time in many years that I slowed down. Stopped frantically hoping from project to project. Test after tests, hurdle after hurdle.

Never thinking. Reflecting. Contemplating. Expanding.

So I finally did.

And now, in 2016, I’m still reflecting, unpacking, dredging up stuff I thought I had forgotten. Things I have forgotten.

May I make an allegory?

There is a house, with many rooms. You spend time in some rooms more than others. But there is one closet, deep in the wing, way back in the corner of that one room you never enter anymore.

You made it off limits to yourself. You wanted to forget it was there.

But now you’re back.

You open the door, and the must and dust kicks up and makes you sneeze. You snap on the light, and the grey cobwebs sketch against the pale walls. The closet is crisscrossed with chains and locks. You hold a ring of keys that jingle as you cross the room, past the table and chair where the light hangs above, and approach the door. The keys grate through the locks, one after the other, the chains slam to the ground.

The last one falls away. You reach for the doorknob, and give it one final twist-

And stuff explodes out everywhere.

That’s what it’s like for me.

Disorganized stuff erupting all over, and now I’m pick the pieces up and trying to make sense of it all. Understand how all of this is me.

Eggads!!

People are So fricken complicated…

 

New Leaf

So, I’m changing myself. On the outside.

Say hello to the diet. I’ve been on this diet before, and it worked out great. Then I got stressed, shut down, and stuffed my face. For the billionth time.

I was so angry afterwards. I’d fucked up and it was my fault entirely. I did a lot of planning and thought to ensure it doesn’t happen again. Now is execution time.

I appreciate that people say that I’m fine, and look great without a diet. But let’s get real, I dress well, so I can hide how bad it is. And I know my body, and what is normal aches and pains, and what is a slow death by fat. I love that people are supportive, but that’s almost counter productive for me.

I need to do this, I need to be better, have better control of myself.

Exercise some fucking discipline for once.

Nothing worse than personal failure.

So, I’m not giving myself up again. I’m not giving up on myself. I’m the only one who can get myself where I need to be.

But diet isn’t just the end, it’s only the beginning.

I implement exercise shortly. It’s a gradual thing, I’ve never exercised seriously, without being forced in gym class or otherwise, ever in my life, and I’ve never had a good example in my life, growing up, for consistent exercise regimes. Not my father, not my mother, nor anyone else.

So will be me, starting from less than scratch.

I’ll learn, I’m good like that.

Thank kakarot for Google.

 

Disjointed

If my dialogue here isn’t as smooth, it is an accurate reflection of me lately.

Equilibrium will return, I’m sure.

Once I can sleep.

Oh, yes, my sleep, or lack thereof. I haven’t gotten much sleep this week, but I’m working on that too.

 

Failure

I hate Arrow (2012) now, and I can’t take it seriously. But one thing does echo in my ears.

The part when Oliver shouts “___, You have failed this city!!”

My inner dialogue eats it up. Like it’s sugar frosted sin.

Now, everywhere I go, I have this inner dialogue of “You have failed”, cycling in the background. My inner soundtrack.

Sometimes I enjoy torturing myself too much.

 

So, yeah, no HE – happy ending

I’d rather be honest than forced to lie.

Here it is. And in conclusion, I am human. I have good days and bad. This just happens to be, not such a good day.

So, just give me a hug. And let’s finish our tea, and stare out at the skyline covered in snow. Let us sit in silence with our thoughts.

Let nature do it’s thing and wipe the day clean.

Let’s start over.

Tomorrow.

A Shepherd

Through the lens of internal interpretation, this is how I had perceived the day.

She spoke, words blasted beyond pain. Hollowed from repetition, her fragile facade an onion skin away from crumbling into nothing.

Her words lacked passion. Spark. Vitality’s chamber a dry echo of a long empty well.

I wondered how many times she has been here. On this stage, before this crowd. Saying these words.

These… empty words. Words so meaningful, yet barren of life.

This is not a call to action. This is a funeral.

We remember the smile of a man we never met, the words we never heard him say. We relive his moments, moments that we’ve never seen.

Experience his life, we’ve never lived.

She does a  decent job at resurrection. But, it’s zombified. Distorted. Jerky motion of a smooth existence. Recounting words, through the echo of grief, a skewed mirror of reflection.

Did no one see it? The wraith in her shadow, faded in the spotlights, but still present. Tracking her movements, a forlorn creature of tortured physique.

Could no one see it?

The line stretches away. Shuffle step, shuffle step. We wait our turn to approach. To pay our respects. To pay our money.

Soulless ghouls.

I watch her hands, worn and beginning to wrinkle, as they flow steadily across the pages. Tens of thousands of hundreds. Page after page, I can see her fingers inking the pages, word after word on a sea of white. As I get closer, I spot the weariness in her bearing, like a crushing weight on her once strong shoulders. Her hair has begun to fade to gray and wisps of white interlaced the remaining blond.

I watch her with morbid curiosity, staring with an acute fascination. Is this… is this what suffering looks like?

So vacant. Absent.

An automation.

I’m surprised when it’s my turn, feels like forever in the brief span of time. Taking the book, I slide it onto the table in front of her. She doesn’t even meet my eyes, her hands already moving to begin the ritual engraved into muscle memory.

“What do you want it to say?” The false vibrancy is gone, stripped away. Enamel worn away.

You poor soul. “Write ‘_________________________________’.”

Her hands move upon the page. Mechanical.

I see it now. The wraith. A ghost of her.

She has been climbing that stage for years. Saying word after word. Writing page after page.

Falling on deaf ears. Ears of stagnation, rather than activation.

She’s been carrying her son, all these miles. Bandying him in front of the world. At first, because it felt right. Then, because she was told it was right. But now the conviction’s gone. And she’s tired.

Tired of carrying the corpse of her dead son like a banner before the masses.

Pen stroke complete, Mrs Shepherd hands back my book, her eyes staring past me, to the line of endless book signings, eternal struggle, constant battle.

She will not rest.

Nevertheless…

Her son… is gone.