Transparent

You locked yourself up in that little apartment with that black notebook writing in longhand about all the broken promises that had been made to you. And the disappointment and hurt you felt, caused by lovers. You wrote about anger and violence, all your father's. You wrote about seeing what it did to your mother, your sister and eventually you.

You regretted all that public punishing you'd done. You fucked over a friend, you made the circle into a noose and then you told everyone on the outside they were disbelievers, whores, and junkies. You felt pressure and fear, alone and broken. And you locked yourself up in that little apartment with that black notebook writing in longhand about sadness and disappointment.

You didn't call me, but I came. I was there like always. You asked me how I knew, and before I could answer you said, "You can always see right through me." You said it like a compliment. You said it like it was what you needed, like I was the life raft that could always find you when you were drowning.

You wrote the best stuff you'd ever written that winter.

And when you wanted to be whole you called someone else, once I'd cleaned up the vomit was and you had something to offer again.

Two years later you sat on that plane and you talked to that guy. You behaved like you were interviewing him. Maybe it started out as some kind of test, matching him against your little ideas of the world. And you let your crew think that. But I know you soon realized he was kind, patient, and a hell of a lot smarter than you are.

You saved face afterward telling people that was the first person over 30 you talked to that had anything of value to say. You convinced yourself that was really how you felt. You didn't call but I was there. You made a face at me. I used to be able to see right through you. You believed I still could. And you looked at me like that was a shackle, a weight.

I don't know. Sometimes I can. Sometimes, I think I can still see through. But it's hit and miss now. You hit me with those stares, and I miss being someone that mattered.

Once upon a time you used to chase me around like a puppy. That's how it began. Many times I told you to go, that I didn't want you circling me. I told you that you were like some kind of shackle or weight. But you could see right through me. You saw how you mattered, you saw how I felt. I was drowning, despite what I said. You saw right through me, like a life raft. And you stayed.

I don't know when exactly it all changed. It was around the time you cut all your hair off. You made a lot of promises you couldn't keep. You got angry and quiet, and disbelieving. Some of your closest friends cut you out of their inner circles. Good thing you had some to spare.

You got on that plane, I waited in the wrong airport. I've been over 30 for 15 years. I wonder if you'll ever be. I got off that plane. You were no where in sight.

I read what you sent me. I didn't have the heart to tell you it sucked so I didn't respond. I thought it'd be easier for you to be mad at me for blowing you off than to hear me say what I really thought. And I knew I couldn't lie. You could always see right through.

Maybe Bernadette

She had to have heard. She had to have known.

There comes a day when your reality changes. It's not the places or the verbs, it's not the city or the weather. Something inside of you changes, irrevocably. And suddenly everything is clear and well-lit especially when darker than imagined.

At the time it was just a thing that happened. And then it was rather forgotten. Misplaced, filed away, who knows. And then it was as if I'd happened upon it again accidentally. And for the first time I saw it as it really was. I saw myself as I really was.

I remember the brass hooks on the end of those long wooden poles we'd use to open and close the tall old windows. And the cloak closet. And the lavatory. I remember a teacher that didn't, and a friend that wasn't. I remember the dust, on books I hadn't read. And I remember what may or may no have been soap. And tiny little dirty ears that should have mattered.

It took me a long time to realize that we're both. We are the before and the after. One doesn't exist without the other. When we become the latter we see through the former. That's when both are defined. And contained. And dissected.

The Christ and the cross.

The protestor and the executioner.

The wailer and the wall.

The memory and the removed.

The mentor and the meaningless.

The mask,

And I'm sorry.

The Power, The Presence, & The Passing

I wasn't quite there yet in my head, but somehow I knew enough in my heart. I knew enough. And what to do. And even when.

As it turns out it was the last time I saw him. He didn't know what to say or do. He didn't want to look at me but couldn't look away. He played the moment off as if it were common, or nothing, or funny. But something in his eyes said more.

I looked right into him and told him, I forgive you. Even though I hadn't, not quite. But I would. And it was important to do this while I had the chance because I may not have it again. And so it was. I never did see him again.

I don't know what happened. I was there for that moment, I remember the crash and the ambulance and the broken bones. I remember the power of it, and the presence. And the passing.

I've done that a few times. Not for this lifetime, just during it. I don't even know what the transgressions actually were. I don't think we're supposed to. All I knew was that dream of the ocean, the whales swimming through the sunlight in the water. I was an observer. I watched the power, the presence and the passing.

I don't know who's done that for me or if anyone has, or should. I don't know if anyone ever fixed anything I told them leaked. I have paid tolls and handed out Christmas cards. I have forwarded packages and given money. I don't know that I have been as good as I could have been about the opportunities or the recognition or the effort. I know I haven't been good about the letting go. The walking away. Except for all the times I shouldn't have been.

There's the perception. The misunderstandings, the assumptions. The truth is they don't matter. I watch that in awe. I know it to be truth. But I don't learn it.

And what remains is the power, and the presence, and the passing of chances that get to become Moments. The kind that reinvent us, and define us. The moments that will matter. Forever and ever.

Paint

This will be mine again now.

I guess we all have a little demon or two. Or a big one. Or an old one. We aren't the people we want to be. We can try, but I guess it comes down to that fact. In the end, we're all flawed. And we forget to see our real selves when we look at others.

Who are you really honest with. Who knows everything. Who knows You. "Who do you love when you come undone."

I've never had a friend like that.

Until you. I have you. I get to spend my life with you.
And that has made everything whole.

***

For some reason, I thought she was a friend. I don't know why I believed that. I felt stupid and embarrassed when I discovered her truth. All of her mixed signals made sense as her child told me on the telephone. She had gotten what she wanted. She didn't need to be nice to me anymore.

The story of my uncle grew; his life, his lover, his career selling Christmas ornaments and his untimely demise. There was a beginning, and a middle, and then there was the ending. I guess I forgot to see myself as I looked at her.

She was one of many. I try too hard. Poor choices, showing off, inventing something meaningful out of the nothing. But that isn't it. The best person I've ever known says so.

Roommates and neighbors. Workmates and family. Acquaintances from vacations and fund raisers. Strangers that want to be strange. Three different nail technicians. And proximity. And children. And Christ, I can't take it.

And Bill Burr is right. I don't want to be that guy. Even though that guy's right.

***

I remember opening the door, and there he was, smiling brightly like a fool. He looked like Beetoven's slow little brother. There was a part of me that loved him deeply at that moment, right as I was saying good-bye. I thought I wanted someone different. Someone who brushed his hair and didn't leave so much meat on the bones. But it wasn't about the bands or the bitches. Or the angels. Or J Crew. It was simply that he wasn't The One. For all the reasons and all the godspeeds, I just didn't know that fact until I met The One that was my soulmate. And then everything began to make more sense.

Maybe other relationships work that way too.

***
I used to want to write. I used to want to figure out a way to be published and shared. To be out there. For decades I wanted to connect through what I love.

I have been writing this particular blog for 6 years. And a column, and a top ten, and some other random things. The cruel comments, the utter meanness possessed by so many people has drained the experience of everything positive. I'm tired. I'm done being plagiarized and ridiculed and attacked by angry lonely ignorant people. My over sensitivity didn't toughen up; it has gotten worse. I don't want to be this person; paranoid, sad, scared, hurt.

I tried limping. I tried jumping. I tried crutches and bandages and mind over matter. I even tried crawling. Nothing works. Sometimes I just have to go dark.

And so it is.

***

Together my husband/best friend and I are making a Xmas village this year. It's not like any we've seen before. It has a night sky, and the shape of a snow globe. It has no churches. It has several bars and snow mobiles parked outside them. It's lovely; serene, peaceful, quiet. Lots of snow, stars, and trees.

But no people. Because people ruin everything.

The Matter & The Mean

In extraordinary circumstances, people tend to become magnified. It's not that the best of us comes through, it's that the real truth about us is revealed. Many people are good deep down, and in times of hardship that shines through.

In pain and fear we become the most concentrated, the most extreme versions of ourselves. Heroes were always heroes, they just weren't seen. And destructive people are always the cause of ruination. The Earth we share and the hope we have is forever compromised by those people that just don't get it.

Maybe the movie "Devil" got it right. Maybe forgiveness is the key. Maybe it's not enough to be sorry, maybe it has to be received, or at the very least perceived. Believable. Signifying something learned, something regretted, something that will never happen again.

Maybe it comes down to the interaction we make with others. Maybe that's what god actually is: the relationship, the mark we make on others, the matter and the mean.

Life handed him something horrible. And in return, he made something incredibly beautiful out of it. His true self shined, his illness didn't win. No matter what, that is the outcome, because that's how the world will forever remember him; as beautiful.

Life handed her something horrible. And in return, she handed every one in her path something horrible back. She lost. Even though she's here to tell you about it, the magnifying glass revealed something bitter and sad. So very sad, to be so. Very. Sad.

There is forever in the sunshine. But the Earth remembers.

And that's the matter. That's the mean.

Ensorcel, and the Little Ray of Sunshine

When you knew him, you still saw the world with new eyes. You were Johnny Wonder. You were ensorcelled.

And then came The After.

You can't return. That view is a one way kaleidoscope. Accumulative understandings erase the guesses. The him you imagined dissolves into his disproportionate reactions, his name calling, his pouting, his passive aggressive defense of alarming ignorance. He's not as bright as you are. He's not as civil as you are. He's no where near your level. And once you know, you can no longer believe.

It only takes one tantrum. One breakdown. One good crack for clear bright light to shine through on the inner asshole of him. That one ray illuminates all the other times, all the other idiocities. There's no more denying or pretending. It's as clear as a dictionary entry, written so any child or challenged adult can understand.

And then, you have to go. There's no unseeing it. There's no going back.

In some way you always knew. Something in you knew enough not to call him back in '83, or '88. Subconsciously you knew he wasn't OK. That's why he never even crossed your mind all those years in between. And now you know why.

In some ways it was better when your eyes were new and the world was possible. When you weren't clear. When you thought: maybe. You even forfeit your fee and helped him out, kindly.

In some ways, it was just plain nicer, to think maybe he wasn't such an ass after all. In some ways, but not all.

The road split. And the life I did not choose keeps going and going.

And this time, thank god. And thank you.

And, look it up. You fucking freak.


"This is a coming of the times.
You are a witness to the movement.
If all you're seeing is your lies,
You had your chance, but now you've blown it."

- Remy Zero

Salacious

It's hard to think about the forever of it. It's almost impossible. Artists and ghosts can do it, because they don't believe in time.

An eldritch prose about the demons in the walls and a picture of someone I can't remember.

And then with distance comes clarity. With time comes perspective. You sort through your memories. They have a shelf life. Some you keep, some have passed their expirations.

The forever of it is the thing. The moments you want are easy. It's the other ones that count. It's right now, when you want to be anywhere but here. It's driving hand in hand to the places you don't want to go. These are the graces that don't expire.

If I offered, if I said, here's my moment, here's my hand.

If offered, if I waited, if I remembered...

Would you forget.

Would I have to remind you that it's the forever of the thing?

Or would you be timeless,

like James Taylor in Two-Lane Blacktop.

"That Plymouth had a Hemi with a Torque Flight."

Compunction

I could

say I'll never forget that look on her face. But the truth is, I don't remember it. I barely even glanced at her.

I couldn't.

Him, with his body language and his ego.

Her, with her open mouth and full withdrawal, standing there blindsided.

Me, with the award I'd just won, out at night, moving through time.

I could

say that there's a balance to things. There was no award in the chest of drawers. Just a bad friendship that went down in flames. And that guy? I gagged and almost threw up. And others. And more. I didn't keep any of those things.

I couldn't.

I could

tell her these things. I could describe the essence of those moments to anyone who lived them and can't shake them. I could even tell her why. But she isn't the one seeking answers or reasons. And there are... so many reasons. It's just that none of them are good. I'd tell. But

I couldn't.

I could

say I learned from those years. I learned that I'm flawed. And this was my lesson. I think the circle comes around to the same place with different insights. So I don't really know if I'm any better or any less flawed. But I will tell you this: I never want to feel like this again. And that alone will prevent re-occurrence. If another moment moves through time, I'll just say that

I couldn't.

Miles of journey and years of change have passed. At the time none of us thought we'd one day move so far beyond those instances. And the farther we've gone, the closer we've come, to some kind of perspective that lends understanding. And regret.

The fester never fading,

the qualm I didn't heed,

and my penitence not withstanding,

the world continues to get bigger,

and smaller,

every damn day.

I couldn't

say that I was sorry then. It'd still be years before I finally got it. But now I know the lingering. Now I know the compunction that followed.
Now I know I'd do things differently if I could. If,

I could.

Asundered

I'm trying to forgive them. Not because they deserve forgiveness, but because he does. He who has done nothing wrong. He, who deserves more than any past can ever be.

He should be able to look into someone's eyes and see only the present. He deserves to see his smile returned, and to hear echoes of the possible. He should reflect what he creates, not what he's endured.

I'm not quite there yet in the forgiving. I'm not letting go a pained-hand grip on the childhood I know he's suffered. I'm trying. But once in a while something will remind me and I'll trip over it in the darkness inside my head. I'll catch the glimpse of a scar on his back or I'll hear his stutter. And I know the cause. I think the unthinkable of how hard they hurt him. The thoughts so horrific that they hide in mental basements like the one he described five years ago when he said, Ask your questions now. Because I won't talk about this again.

The thought that anyone put their hands in violence upon my angel is haunting. He's let go to survive, to flourish. To live. He's moved beyond this being the undertow to every tear, every vacant stare.

But he senses that I am tripping over something he can not see. And he looks at me, trying to know what it is... where I've gone inside of myself... where it is that I've gotten stuck. His big brown eyes dart back and forth between mine, from one to the other, trying to read me. And he shrugs with sincere innocence, What? What is it?

I don't want this. I don't want him to see anything but happiness. I don't want this to be the prelude to all his interactions. I don't want him to see the reflection in my eyes, of the scars he's absorbed. I don't want him to have to know any of it, again. In memory or failing. In darkness or loneliness. The fracture of his bones. The echo of his stutter. The glaring of mankind.

Years ago I wondered how he could have moved passed. How he could have forgiven. How. Anything. But time has shown me that the clinging is far harder. Maintaining it is toxic. Reflecting it back at him every time I look at his angel face has done nothing but drown us all.

I focus on not reflecting. I try every day to forgive and let go. And to let it go faster. To expel it from my mind. I focus on forgiveness, not for their sakes but for his.

Because I want this gone. It has no place here. He deserves more than reflections of unbearable moments he's long since asundered. He deserves his own reflection, not the one they cast upon him. Not the one I aid by clutching its haunt.

May he forever be his own voice, his own reflection.
May he find the peace in others he has found inside himself.
May he teach us all how to be better.
May he forever like the things we choose to echo back.

Rote

His care giver will tell you there isn't a lot of sense to it. That he gets caught up in one memory and can't seem to let it go.

They'll also tell you he can't remember some things at all. Ever.

He'll point a wrinkled shaky finger at the television and ask what show this is. They'll answer, "Nurse Jackie." And ten minutes later he'll point and ask again. And again. And tomorrow.

But almost every morning when he wakes up he's solidly inside of a different year, a different place. He'll ask if you can give him a lift to work because it's tax season and he has so much to do he doesn't want to waste time on the subway. Or he'll ask if you could put all his folders in his briefcase for him. He'll describe the briefcase. He'll tell you exactly where he left it by the desk underneath the typewriter table. He'll remind you they are very important, very sensitive papers. Don't lose them, don't drop them and don't get them out of order.

When his care takers tell him he's been retired for more than two decades he will roll his eyes, "I'll give that excuse to the IRS when they call to verify something."

Sometimes the caretakers call it selective memory. Sometimes they tsk and shake their heads and say it's just random and unexplainable, that he'll remember exactly what his briefcase looked like 40 years ago with no prompting, but he can't remember the television show you've named ten times in the last two hours.

But I see. I understand it. He remembers the rote.

He remembers the things engrained; the things he repeated again and again until they were rooted and permanent knowledge, like speaking or chewing. Almost involuntary, completely second nature. These are the things engrained. They are part of who he is.

He can't remember the name of a recent television show because it isn't part of him. It's not a piece of his identity. It's not measured in years or rote. It will always be something new, something on the outside, something that came after the walls closed and the lights went off. He's in there now, alone, with only himself.

That's what it is. He can only recall the things he can still see in the dark.

I leave there thinking about the things that are rote, like having to get downtown for work, or putting all the folders into the briefcase. They aren't necessarily bad memories, but they aren't good ones either. He's not reliving losing his parents. But he's also not waking up every day to a birthday party, or a slow dance with the one he loved.

He's waking up everyday, to what he did, every day.

It's the things we know by rote. It's the things we do over and over that become part of us, and eventually define us. Once the lights go off we won't learn new smiles or hear new songs. We'll spend our time in the moments that made their mark through repetition.

It makes you want to engrain only good things, doesn't it.

E

There's a world of difference between trying but failing, and just plain failing.

You can only sin with your heart. You have to mean it, you have to intend. Everything else is just fucking up. Everything else is just something that broke, or didn't work, or got left behind on your road to redemption.

There's a story and a metaphor. There's a place where the sun can't stop setting and the horizon hallucinates you. Looking back I see all the mistakes and missteps. The misfires and the misanthrope. Looking forward I see the possible but I can never quite get there. And some things do come to pass, eventually. With a lot of hours and a good amount of tequila.

And this is the Earth. That inner grit, that place from which we launch, that thing that we don't mean to share. But it leaks out anyway, like urine when you're terrified, or secrets when you're drunk. This is the Earth of us. This is the effort, just before it fails.

I'm writing the story. And rewriting the story. And rewriting the story. And forgetting the end.

Failing and fishing, disappointed. "E" for effort.

Auditorius

His world is always silent.

He can't know the thundering roar of the ocean or the quiet tinkling of the snow. He doesn't hear the whispers of a lover or the laughter of a friend.

He has never listened to the piano. Or Led Zeppelin, or Bach. He's never listened to any song. And he never will.

He sees things most people never notice. He doesn't take for granted what you're saying. That's hardly a fair trade.

But he'll never let you believe that. He smiles. He shows you happiness. He lives with gratitude and wonder. He'll never remind you. He'll doesn't look for your aid. He doesn't dwell on what's not. He embraces what is. He doesn't even point at the robber that took so much from him. Instead he'll just show you that he has better things to do.

He has an inner beauty that outshines us all in so many ways, all the time.
And for me, he has redefined oceans and whispers.

For me, this is what courage sounds like.

Desert

It's different out there. In the desert. Alone.

I sketch the idea of the thing. I frame it. Then I go back in and I draw it out slowly. The painful little layers, the thinning and the fraying.

I made that. I wake that.

I can say the thing you want to hear. The thing that strokes your cock and makes you love me forever. I could also say what I want, what I truly believe. The thing that slams your back against the wall and makes you regret ever asking. But in the end I say something benign. Something inert. Something with which you can pretend to maintain your power while admitting it governs nothing.

We're both gods. Gods of a dead sea. Gods of no man.


It's different out there. In the desert.

On the side of the road as the sun is setting on the Mojave, it's all different. It changes when you figure out the friendships were just temporary treaties. No one stands beside you. No one sings your song. You're alone in the desert.

And it's all desert.



It's different out here. In the desert.

Here, where you draw your picture and concentrate on the layers, when you shrink and you grow. While you remember the things no one else can recall. At some point, at some turn in the road, you have to decide just how much you can destroy. Will it be you, will it be them.

I decided it would be neither. I decided you didn't need to understand. Nor did I. I decided the bigger thing was to let us both leave undeclared but with our souls intact. I decided to let you go. And I decided to leave, to make this drive. Alone.

Shining

When he was hurting, when he was raw and still. That's when he shined.

When he was gently smiling and ordering coffee in Denny's, he shined then too.

He was shining when he had no idea how utterly beautiful he was. I loved him when he wasn't trying, when he didn't know he was so loveable. When he was telling me how the idea of a thing was better than the reality, the world became his whisper. When he sweetly explained how he missed something that never was, he became the moon.

When he was in anger, the shine was gone. For a big man he would seem very small; somehow stuck, somehow petty. He was lost when he was in rage, and I was scared of him. There would be no more moon and no more whispers. He was trying too hard when he was mad and that made all the love leave.

But that wasn't the real him. That was merely the result. That was just an unfortunate reflection. It was the happenstance of years of abuse. It was the learning of lies and the retributions he had decided upon. It was the drugs and the damage, the danger and the disconnect, the loss and the grasping. It was a hard cycle of justifications and rationalizations that never tied anything up in a pretty package, or made sense, or fixed things.

After the anger he'd whisper again. And he was the moon and beautiful.

It takes longer for some of us to learn how to shine. I think those that shine brightest may even take the longest.

And that's the thing about balance.
There is no light with out darkness.
There is no faith without doubt.

And there is no reflection without The Shine.

Tintinnabulation

And when you listen, when you let go and give in to those quiet moments when god speaks directly to you, and you trust the cosmos to show you exactly where you're supposed to be,

everything changes.

Forever, you're changed.

The storms and the cost were worth everything they took, nothing could have kept you from that small place in time, that soul you had the honor of knowing, that heart you proudly loved with everything inside of you.

And you will look back on it and know it was your finest moment, when you were loving him. When you surrendered, when you were above everything Earthbound and dirty. When you were pure. When you were with him. It was you at your very best. It was unparalleled, incomparable.

"This could be the end of everything.

So why don't we go

Somewhere only we know."

- Keane

My Little Man, I will love you forever and ever.

She Was

It was the moment we were dreaming. We were just fifteen when we knew we had to be. We imagined it was all possible, we believed in what we said. We slept with ourselves.

It was the start of our becoming. We were just ideas trying to find a different tune. We thought that there was time and timing. We thought we'd have the music of many years and many roads.

She was the backbeat in the rhythm. We didn't play their songs, we thought we'd write our own. We were smiling when we were scheming. We didn't smile for very long.

It was the changing of our hours. It was more than codes of honor covered. I saw it all blow away like paper cups across the parking lot. She played her drumline off into the sunshine. And I said, I'm sorry, and, good for you.

It was too far to reach The Best Of. It was too short not to forget the dreaming or the songs. It was the cover that was calling. It was the leaving that left her all alone.

It was the breaking of her spirit. It was the withering that the wind had left behind. She once pretended to remember. She twice attempted to forget for good. She was successful in that exit. She was once 15 never to be 44.

There is apparent, and then there's what's missing. There's certain anthems. And "there but for the grace of god." There are the bridges that we all missed, and there's acoustic sets that play without the drums.

It was a headline, and another. It was a shock, it was a diminishing. The rest is secret and forgotten. It wasn't how I thought this song was meant to end.


"We stare at broken clocks, the hands don't turn anymore."
- Bring Me The Horizon

Eldritch

She said, this lie is a forgivable thing. She said, this story helped to grow a person and a faith. She said, this is what we whisper in the dark when we're almost alone and the world isn't spinning. She said, this is me.

And it's OK, she said. It's all OK. If you write the book. If you keep Your Word.

She said, there's a reason we connected. She said, there's no untruth when you give real love. She said, loneliness is a painful place. She said, do whatever you can to show someone the way. She said, your intention is what sustains you. She said, the vultures can't eat this, it's not decayed.

I said, you can only sin with your heart.

She said, he has a relationship with his daughters now. She said, he feels good about himself. She said, he was trapped inside alone and left, and the greater of lies was the one he was living. She said, this light showed him the way. She said, anyone that fails to understand has to be forgiven. She said, some people don't want to be saved. They just want to steal your computer and go to the movies.

She said, death is hard. Real, imagined, decided and scripted. She said mourning is personal. And the thunder in the distance is the crying you have yet to do. She said she was right there, at the threshold, underneath him, on his bed. She said she hoped you'd make the right decision, but she anticipated your failure. She said she's smarter and caught you a few times. But she'll never forget that trip to Mexico, or the gnome on your lawn. Or the candle. Or the wolves. She said she made you mix CD's for your long drives through New York State. She repeated, death is hard, and the last breath you take isn't yours.

She said, he has you to thank. He has you to blame. He has you to imagine, invent and remember. She said, you couldn't have changed the course of history more if you'd traveled back in time. And all will be forgiven.

It's OK. It'll all be OK. If you write the book. If you keep Your Word.

That Place

He was at that place. That place where you leave everything you've ever known behind. That place you'd never choose, you'd never volunteer to go. But all roads seemed to lead there.

He was at that place. That place where you can't hang on to anything that was warm and safe. The world has exposed you. Or, exposed itself to you. Either way, you'll never see anything the same way again. You'll look at the world with new eyes.

He was at that place. That place where those little kisses fade away. One sad cry in the dark, one final smile. He took her face in his hands and he said, I did the best I could.

He was at that place. That place where it's more than motions and necessity. He was more at that moment than most people can ever be. He was more. But that place is bigger. Letting go takes an infinite amount of strength. More than holding on. Courage is highly overrated and misunderstood. He was alone when he left that place. He was alone in a way no one should be. No light should know this loss.

It's not the breaks and blessings that test the honor of a man. It's not the moments of glory or the celebrated accomplishments. The real honor of a man is found in his silence, in his darkness. In that place where no one sees and no one knows. And no one wants to.

Some things are too powerful to handle. In these little human hands, in our great big human hearts, some things are inconceivable. Unthinkable.

And I can't look.

"Don't be sad, I know you will." - Daniel Johnston

Moment

We've all thought: I just need to go back in time for a minute.

If I could just undo this one thing, this one thing, that happened only a moment ago.

It's as natural as fear of falling. We don't share the same flaws or fantasies, we don't share the same acceptance of the unknown. But all of our minds have uttered that same instinct; going back just one minute, to look up, to let go, to refuse to get into that car, to tell someone I love you.

Unintentional

I sift through the emotions with my fingers trying to read the pebbles and the fragments like brail, trying to decipher cryptic pangs of anger that I've somehow managed to hold on to. I've buried them inside of my stomach so well that even I don't understand what they mean any more. Moments long since forgotten that birthed emotions never ending, encased in the amber of my soul. Stuck forever. Our minds troubleshoots away the things we can't consciously handle, like murders, betrayals and suicides. Huge mistakes, and a war I think I won. I hate that you don't remember the things I refuse to. And I can't blame you. Sometimes I still love you like a ship lost on the ocean loves the siting of land, even if it belongs to the enemy. I didn't come this time to declare war and bloody you in another battle. I didn't come to call you out on your transgressions or tell you that your penis is showing. I came to watch. I saw you hit the jackpot over and over and I have to wonder why fate chose to smile quite this way. Maybe it was my fault after all. I was your savior, I was your conqueror, and you'll always be my baby sea. I may have held you longer than I care to admit. After all the burned ships and dead horses you asked me if you could give me something. Anything. Anything I wanted.

I want you to miss me.