29


Even still, I couldn’t help but always wonder to what extent each person’s story would go on, if –or when– they had lost all faith in it, or even entirely ceased participation in their own life.

I quickly thereafter found myself again back in the circular hut with the still nameless old man.

I immediately broke the silence, “I have to say that of these three times, none of those seem like what I want- or even think I would want or need.”

“well… I may or may not have mixed them up…” he grinned.

I was suddenly unreasonably irritated and impatient to leave and retreat back to my usual solitude. I was unsure of what the purpose of any of this was from the very beginning, and starting to really not care if there were any reason for the visions or other oddities.                                               Just like I had long since chalked everything up to: sheer meaningless, useless coincidence never culminating in anything more than an additional lesson in why one ought to not harbor any vain hope.  But that was just me, apparently-and to my absolute wonderment- many others felt differently, for whatever reasons had so deluded them. Or perhaps I was wrong- but it really never made any difference.

My mind was flooded and reeling again, as it often does with no justifiable trigger. I never needed a reason for a sudden crisis however- it always filled me with an irrationally insatiable rage just trying to not think about everything that had happened- or not happened- throughout my multiple, fleeting lifetimes. So much time, so much trying, for fucking nothing.

Every. goddamn. time.

I knew I needed to leave right then, or risk treating this hospitable man undeservedly cruel. I stood abruptly and pushed back the chair with more force than intended, which fell backwards to the floor with a crack. I whispered a likely unintelligible apology under my breath, grabbed the bag from the red table, and headed for the curtain door.
“Thank you, but I’ll be leaving now,” I stated with again a much harsher tone than intended. But it didn’t matter, everyone was just a stranger anyways, and I needed it that way.
He said nothing as I threw aside the tapestry and stepped outside into the night glow.

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1.27.17


I’ve been sitting in this same spot, beneath the streetlight for days, weeks, or months- my perception of time has gone away, along with my memory. I can’t even recall what I’ve taken; all I know is that I don’t feel right at all. It terrifies me everytime but I know that it’s not the prescription cocktail. It’s just my mind- having become a constant, violent onslaught of suicidal fantasy and it’s consequential disorientation by apathy and overwhelm. 
I’m here again, as always- I’ve been off the deep end many,many times before; though seemingly a little deeper of a plunge with every regression. So obvious, even I can see it now. 

It’s not even that I believe the pitifully cliche lies about being worthless, or that no one cares- I just don’t care if anyone cares. I know there is, and will always be beauty and light in this world.  I know that good will prevail in the end. I just don’t want to be a part of it’s torturously slow fruition any longer. 
I’m too weak to open my eyes again- even to the truth, of most often a cruel thing. I desire no pity, nor to waste the well- intentioned help of anyone more. I write for myself; to say that I claim the full weight of responsibility for where I have inadvertantly brought myself, upon myself, or done to myself. So I’m here again- tired, but this time I don’t want to come back from it.

 And that’s just fine. 

28


Just beyond the vultures I noticed a single crow hovering effortlessly above on the breeze. With more holes and tears than wings, it was a marvel the ease with which it glided along in the Winds, occasionally diving and sharply sweeping back upwards, appearing as though he was making a game of it. 
An odd chill traced down my spine at the sudden remembrance of something my grandmother used to always tell me. When I was a child I used to go out and spend some weeks with her each year, in her little house at the foot of a midamerican mountain range. with an unabating repetition she would recount to me about the differences between the eagles and the crows.

“Never cease to observe with wonder the way of the eagle upon the winds, traveling great heights and distance with little effort and reserved strength. He soars and excels above all those around, and does not grow weary or heavy from the journey because he depends solely on something far greater and more expansive than himself. Meanwhile, the crow constantly beats his wings against such forces, often to only stay in one place.”

She would persistently tell me that I was meant to learn to become like the Eagle, that I might conserve my strength for better things than just the traveling. I hadn’t thought about this in many years, but had never stopped jealously watching the eagles soaring above me.  I never understood why she chose the crow to pick on by comparison, when I didn’t see why one couldn’t learn to fly however it so pleased. I knew it was true, but somehow in all my years had never managed to actually see one do such.

Now in retrospect, I would have to say I that became more like the kind of crow she used to talk about than even the clumsiest sort of eagle.                                                    Yet even if only subconsciously- I had given up on the silly dream of ever becoming anything more than just another one in the slow murder of a sad, nameless thousand. That spark had indeed been extinguished within me. 

1.22 Free Write


Don’t know what my issue is

I’m either sleepless or sick

Perhaps it’s imbalance

Or maybe it’s madness

But I’m probably just a bitch

I’m sick of my own shit

With all of these excuses 

Despite that they’re true

I get real tired of them too

Of all of it- all the fucking time

I think that I should just pack up

And quit my life

I’m running out of options

But not wanting to be so obvious

Dejected, always a bit nervous

When again I’ve had enough

I get just a little bit more fucked up

I know deep down

I’m trying way too hard

Just to end up in the same place that I started

Or maybe further behind than before

But I’m no longer qualified to determine anymore

When everyday feels the fucking same

I’m sitting with a book of matches

Just one toss away  

I’m either twisted or manic 

But I’m probably just a bitch 

Who’ll admit

It’s as good as it gets

And I’m sick of my own excuses

In all of this hopeless uselessness.

27


I remained still and silent beside the man to watch the remainder of the sunset that he would never see. The intrinsic sadness hung unsettled in the air, but death had ceased to any longer unsettle me. I sat waiting for the sun to hide itself away behind the skyline, but soon realized that it was now higher in the sky than it had been before, though around me it didn’t appear to be getting any lighter. I briefly contemplated if it was of any meaning, but concluded that perhaps now the sun simply rose in the west and set in the east- really nothing surprised me anymore. 

The sun continued its unexpected ascent into the sky, and within the half hour disappeared above the dark blanket of clouds concealing the firmament. Taking with it all light, It never did get any brighter; The clouds choked out the light from breaking through- but I knew the Sun was up there somewhere. 

I peered up at the ominously looming clouds, marveling at their sheer lack of permeability- and the four vultures now circling methodically over me. 

Jump or Burn


Locked up, a danger to my self health

Meanwhile denied the feeling

Of A death so appealing

I had a friend instead who chose to hang from the ceiling

And we cry; but most of the time I think that I 

know what he must have felt inside

On that night

Having tried 

Everything for fucking nothing

As The time ticks and life slips by

stealing the years gone by sick

Along with the all the locusts

Being so desperate

So done with all of this shit
But I wonder where do we go?

So do you really wanna know 

what’s going on?

Behind the worn thin, old Visad?
I’m was gonna stop the clock

A quick fall A swift stop

To let it drop

Once and for all

But then I saw…
Guess that’s one thing we got to look forward to 

Born to pay your way once but more is still due

So very much to fail to do

And I think they know my name

I think they own my face

Though Pain has its place 

it’s one thing that’s can’t be sated
Flames at your back, or jump from the ledge to death

It’s jump or burn
Jump or burn so slow

So you wanna know 

the truth, do you?

Behind all the stupid things I do?
I was gonna stop the clock

A quick fall, A swift stop

To let it drop

Once and for all

But then I saw 

That hell never stopped

At the bottom of the fall.

26

To the East, the Moon was also set in the sky, reflecting a transparent white, and a single flickering star shone prominently from the grey of the North. 

The display was altogether unsurpassed in its spendorous beauty, rendering my skin with chills that permeated throughout, leaving me humbly enamored. I reached up to confirm that the sensory dream about me was not simply another projection of a voided mind. All things again in their assumed places, I then observed fragmented shards of remembrance reappearing in my mind. I was not sure if they had truly been mine before, but they were now all I had to know or look upon. I searched but still could not gain any understanding of who I was. 

I more carefully surveyed the peaks below to notice someone lying hidden amidst the illuminated grasses, only a rock face below. Slipping a couple times in the vehement Winds, I caught myself on the various rocks jutting out from the mountainside, and slid my way down to the narrow ledge. 

Now upon the plateau, I saw him to be a lean, youthful man of his twenties; with short ash blonde hair and bold features, he had fiercely stern eyes fixed on the beaming horizon. I was somehow surprised to hear his voice break through the shrill, calling gusts.

“You know, this place fucking sucks… the skies are always grey and heavy…as if all of the dark clouds in the world have themselves settled here.” Eyes still locked to sky’s edge, he flashed a smile that looked as if the relief of it it had been a very long time coming.             Countenance bathed in the Sun’s golden rays, his eyes softened and he continued, “The storms never stop scourging their way through here, and it’s ugly. It’s dismal, it’s cold, unforgiving, and it’s lonely…” he paused as if to catch his breath; of which I noticed was increasingly shallow and rapid. 

“But every great, great once in a while…” he sighed slowly, “it’s absolutely beautiful…             Though I never could figure out,” he closed his eyes, as to reflect upon something,                               “If it was worth it.”

I observed a small, steady stream of blood running from an extensive gash tracing down his forearm . The blood gleamed an otherworldly red again the florescent greenery. 
He did not speak again.