Writings

One-Eyed Blink.

He came to the window to look outside, elbows tucked by his sides and hands gnarled together, constantly fidgeting.  It had only been sixty-eight days in the cell, and already his right eye began losing sight due to the consistent twitch in his left eye, an involuntary wink that had the unfortunate consequence of leaving his right eye drier and drier.  He needed his meds.  But which ones?  Valium, Xanax, a slew of other benzodiazepines waiting to be abused.  Without them, he heard more and more of the voices, echoes from past mistakes.  There were tantrums, there were roars, but the worst voices were the whispers.  He clutched at the back sides of his head, eyes squinted shut.  The disappointment in those whispers, reminders of how he lost himself for the sake of pleasure.  He let go of the window sill and keeled over on his right side, his sweat-moistened arm sticking to the ground and producing a sucking noise as he rolled onto his back.  It’s dark.  That’s all he could see.  That’s all he could bear to see.

Looking outside was a mistake.  It just filled him with jealousy, reminding him of the prison that he was trapped in.  He was so jealous of the liberty that the everyday mind indulged in, not need to analyze every single detail of his visible encounters.  Others were free to do as they pleased with their time, meet their friends, have a coffee, exchange pleasantries with attractive passersby.  They had no conflicts within themselves, no guards to put up as his own wary eyes passed judgment with every sentence, every word that proceeded out of eyeless mouths.  For them, it’s so easy to just take life as it is; for him, he takes life as he interprets it, distrusting the reality in favor of his own brand of truth.

He had fallen many times over the course of his life.  But the fall that ruined him most was when he had fallen in love.  With lies, he dug himself out of many a hole, but love’s web ensnared the factory of his soul, provoking a thirst that yearned eternal.  And so, he started a path that got more and more downtrodden, until he found himself part of the road, trod on by unseeing, unknowing feet, blind to the swoon of his soul, deaf to the beat of his heart, and numb to the warmth of his touch.  Pharmacies understood him best, as he began frequenting them more and more, becoming a regular visitor greeted with the thinly veiled disdain of pharmacists who had seen many a case like his.  He ground his teeth in frustration.  He was different, why couldn’t they see that?  He knew about great horizons, stretching onward until they became a point on a meaningless timeline projected in space.

He staggered to his feet, hands over knee to push down the burden of the earth below.  And he left his prison that day.  He saw that his room, littered with needles and empty orange bottles, may as well have had reinforced metal bars around all sides of it.  As long as he stayed indoors, allowing his mind to rot with blank comfort and security, he knew that he would never understand the moon and the sun.  He locked the house up, and walked, blinking for the first time as the repressed sigh of two months’ length escaped into his night.

Standard
Poetry

Shine On.

The sun rose today, as it always does.

It sees us for who we are, masks,

shadows, and souls.

Disappointment in our human track, racing

onward

to a brilliant death, yet it still shines on us all.

Frigid minds are warmed by rays of light.

Broken souls are mended by day’s delights.

Shattered hearts are made beautiful,

complex refractions.

Oh, that we could hide in clouds

and not see the sun,

our hearts would beat for none,

and tears be drowned in lack thereof.

The sun rose today, as it always does,

yet I rest in peace,

quite in my tomb.

Standard
Writings

Dyson Hoover.

Often, it’s the look back on how far we’ve come that’ll kill us.  The sense of progressing into the light and being in the light and having fellowship with one another, all of that gets replaced by a yawning chasm, reminding us of how empty we think we are.  It’s an insufferable frustration to have grown, only to wither and await the next spring.  However much we thought we progressed, all of the little encouragements that we whisper to ourselves just to make it past the suffocating nightfalls, it all just turns to ash, as if from a cigarette.  In the end, that desire to keep the tip lit, to keep the fire burning, only hurts us and those around us, and it reminds us of all the things about ourselves, private and public, that we fear and despise.  There is a feeling emotionally that can only be portrayed by the imagery of placing a vacuum cleaner with the tube extension around someone’s mouth, imagining the air from their lungs being sucked out.  The inevitable void, the suffocation of soul, the sound of breathless despair; that is what it feels like to have invested a heart into a cause it shouldn’t have been invested in.  When all of our assumptions, figments of our hope’s imagination bear a fruit, or better yet, no fruit, the slump into a chair – as breaths wane shallow in our heart of hearts  - becomes our reality.  Any dream of a wick still being lit is extinguished as the vacuum of unrealized expectation retrieves each breath until the last, when we ultimately understand our lack of understanding.  The sin is in the convincing persuasion of what we want to see as the actuality; the atonement comes through tears of wasted time and effort to create something that amounted to everything but what we yearned after.  And so this vacuum continues on for those cursed with artistic tendencies, dangling a piece of believable falsehood until that image expands itself in the vision of the beholder.  It is not the lie that has grown, but the proximity of the blindfold that has changed.  And into that darkness, we step forward, confidence embodied in us, before we realize that we need to reach our hands back and untie the handkerchief before we truly see.

Standard
Poetry

Sky High.

I’ve dreams retained from yonder times

beyond the sun and seven skies.

Of scrolls that stretch from east to west

and ink that fills whatever’s left.

Soft sheets of ice drift this way

beyond the time we call Today.

And soon they melt into love’s tears,

burned by nights of lonely fears.

Hearts split by shrill yells of crowds

as summertime pierces through the clouds.

Clouds, comprised of purest dreams,

engulf the final teary streams,

never to flow again.

Standard