Written February 18, 2006

ASK
my heart is a glass candle
shinning in the sunlight
everytime you come around me
but please don't let it break
if you gave me one good reason
in each and every season
i'd journey through the darkness
to bask within your light
and oh, dont you know?
all you have to do is ask
i'd give up all my plans
just to fall asleep with you
but you'll never know
you're always on the go
but still i try to follow you
so just call me your shadow
i'll fight in every battle
to climb in through your window
and hear the song that's in your heart
if you gave me one good reason
in each and every season
i'd hold your life together
and let mine fall apart
and oh, don't you know
all you have to do is ask
i'd give up all my plans
but no, you refuse to see
the good there is in me
and its still too much to handle
so for now, i'll be your shadow
i'll fight against the moonlight
please don't let me fade
just turn around, i'll be here
i'll wipe away your fears
all you have to do,
all you have to do is ask.

Written April 29, 2006

The unrestrained wave of emotions was new to her. People were sobbing, wiping away tears. Or worse, they sat quietly with their heads down, a million things that should have been said dying unspoken. But she felt no remorse
She watched him soak up all of the emotion, and it made her want to scream with rage. He looked so peaceful up there, so unconcerned, so... surreal. She wished he would move, or do something equally unexpected. That would be more fitting for him. A bullet lay beside him, and some of the guests were apalled. She knew he would have liked it that way. What she didn't know, was why.
As she stared evenly at the corpse of Daniel E. Freedman, a man she knew nothing about, questions hurled themselves through their mind. Had she known him? Had they perhaps shared a coffee, gone on a date? Did they work together once? Attend high school together? He seemed so familiar... The emptiness inside her deepened. Some sort of emotion should be there, she thought, but what?
Largely ignored by the man's large family, she sat in the last pew of the church, wondering who he had been. A moment longer, and then, springly from her seat, she quietly slipped out a side door and into a dark alley. Who he might have been was irrelevant. It was who she was that concerned her. She stared into the blossoming darkness. She had not known his name. But neither did she know her own.
...............
That night, the girl slept on the doorstep of an old bakery. When the owner arrived the next morning, he was not pleased with the positioning, and she found herself being shooed to a homeless shelter down the street. As she arrived, they were just beginning to serve breakfast. She glanced around... but no, none of it looked familiar to her either. She turned to leave, but an elderly volunteer shoved a tray of food into her arms and bustled away to deal with the others who needed food. She sat and began to eat, barely tasting the food. It made her think. Maybe I don't like any of this food, she mused. Or maybe I'm allergic. That would figure.
She smirked at her plate, and a raspy voice asked, "What's so funny?" Startled, she looked up and was halfway out of her seat when she realized that there was no need to run. The question came from an old, portly man sitting a few seats to the left and across from her at the same picnic bench. She noticed a flowing white beard and twinkling blue eyes that reminded her at once of Santa Claus, but looking more closely she noticed that he had several teeth missing and wore an old fleece jacket covered in grime.
"Nothing," she mumbled back. "I was just thinking that I don't know if I like any of the food that we've been so graciously served today." The sarcasm bit hard, but ever since she had woken up, it had been inevitable. The man laughed.
"Ain't nothin' we kin do 'bout that, little lady. But I's inclined to agree wit yeh, t'ain't nothing special." He slid his tray closer to her position at the table, and reached out an old, mangled hand. "Call me Joe." She gave what she hoped was a winning smile and reached out a hand of her own to shake.
"Beth. Call me Beth."

Written March 05, 2006

You're standing in the corner of a dark room. Why? Why are you hiding? What have you done that is so horrible, so unforgivable, that you lock it away, you punish yourself. Maybe you think that if you let it out, someone else will punish you. Does that scare you? Well don't run to far just yet. Whatever punishment the world may have assigned to your crime will not beat the punishment that you burden yourself with. You're afraid? Yes, I see it plainly now. But you can't run from yourself, can you? Not that it hasn't been tried. All those people you meet, who are doing some soul-searching, who are "finding themselves"? They aren't looking for themselves. They're running away. Running away and fooling themselves, leaving themselves behind to find someone new, with new games, new lies. New demons. They stop running once they discover that all they've found is a new shell of the old self.
But you're not running. That's good. And yet you look ashamed... Let me guess. You are ashamed of who you have become, and although you haven't yet, you want to run. The thought of running, it comforts you, the way the most outrageous dreams always do. That sounds right, you say. But you're eyes betray you. Because you are not ashamed to run. Running is in your genes, in your bloodline. You know the sound, the taste, and whats more, you know the false sense of security that will eventually leave you breathless. No, you are not ashamed because you wish to run, you are ashamed because you want to stay and yet you don't know how. No one ever taught you to stand, to take responsability, and to fix things, did they? No. They don't. They never will. They will lead you blindly down the road, they will not guard your footsteps, they will not warn you of the road ahead. They call out to you, laughing as you stumble, staying just out of reach when you fall. And still you follow after them, because it is the only path you have ever known, and no one has ever turned back before.
But you're here now. That's good. At least you know the road is wrong.
Help you? Me? No. No, I can't. I can't help you because I am with them, I have been with them all along, beguiling you and twisting all that you hold dear. If I wanted to, and I do want to, I would help you. But I know little enough about the right path; only that somewhere beyond the reality that you now perceive, it is there, and it waits to be found.
You look horrified. You are talking to the enemy, and it frightens you. But you don't understand. You don't understand how alike we are, how much we have in common. Because I am on the same road as you, I walk blindly, I stumble and reach out and grasp the open air, the same way that you do. I bear you no ill will, not in the least. I am merely following the only path that I know, the path I have always known.
I am lost. I despair. I panic, and I run until I trip again and fall, and I get back up only to fall again. I cry out, and no one answers. I see the light, but the tunnel never seems to end. I give up, I let go, but before I can turn away, the light is back, the hope returns, I continue on. A vicious cycle.
Don't bother to mask your emotions. Not now. I've already seen the recognition in your eyes. I know what you will ask. What else do we have in common? And to that question, I can only smile sadly.
You see it now. You are just like me. I am just like them. You are like them too, you are them. You always have been them. You are your own enemy, yet you don't even know your own name.

So, who are you? If I know, maybe I can save you. We could save each other. Not that I have all the answers. I have few enough. But if you would take my hand, I would at least be glad for the company of a moment. We may save each other, maybe the world. Or we could save no one. But I would rather go the road with you than suffer alone. Grant me that respite, at least.

One Kiss

With just one kiss

'Till death do us part

Together forever

You've stolen my heart

With just one kiss

Our futures combine

My troubles are yours

Your worries are mine

With just one kiss

Through thick and through thin

I'll be by your side

I'll never give in

With just one kiss

'Till death do us part

I'll give you my soul

I'll give you my heart

Unfinished, Part three

The water glasses on the table were almost empty. And that was how they smiled at me too, those men. Like they were empty- kind of like it didn't really mean anything. And I guess they really didn't mean anything, when it comes right down to it. I mean, I was just a waitress, right? They didn't need to be smiling at me. Still, the point is that they did, and I guess it always bothered me that it never felt real.

Sometimes, when i didn't have anything better to do, i would try to clean near their table so i could listen to them talk. but don't tell anyone, alright? i know it probably wasn't the nicest thing to do, eavesdropping on them and all. But there was something about them... I don't know what, I guess. Just- something that made you want to know more. And I couldn't really ask them, could I? I mean, they probably wouldn't have told me anyway.

They always talked about money, and fiscal policy, and a lot of other things I didn't understand. So I guess I didn't learn much by listening in anyway. I mean, I could have told you they were businessmen: they always wore dark suits, and carried twin silver briefcases, and they always paid with a credit card, even if it was just for coffee.

I think they liked me pretty well, because one time, I dropped their tab because I didn't feel like using the credit machine. They always sat in my section, and they always left good tips. It was good that they liked me, because one time, I knocked over one of their briefcases. I felt so bad! They didn't come in for like a week after that, either, and I totally thought that they hated me! But they were back the next week, sitting in my section, so I guess it must have been fine.

The thing about that briefcase though: I think it was empty!

Unfinished, Again

"Well, uh, do you think I could get some water before I start? I'm pretty thirsty.
A voice responds: No. Please tell us your story.
"Well, Okay, but I'm pretty thirsty. And my throat's pretty dry, you know? I could probably tell it better if I had some water."
A voice responds: Mr. Adams, you can have water later. Please tell us your story.
"Well, okay, so after I got off work on Thursday, I went straight to the bar 'cause I already paid my rent and my girlfriend Molly- she's twenty-three, and she works downtown at that one place on Greene Street-
A voice responds: Mr. Adams, is this relevant to the story?
"Well I mean, I don't know, do I? I mean, ain't I just supposed to tell you everything I know, and then you decide what's important and what ain't? I mean, I already told you that I don't really know nothing about this murder or anything. So I mean, how am I supposed to know if it's relevant or whatever? Ain't that your job?"
Mr. Adams waits for a response which never comes. After three or four minutes of what he considers to be a very uncomfortable silence, Mr. Adams rolls up the sleeves of his flannel work shirt and continues to talk.
"I'm still pretty thirsty," he reminds them pointedly. "Anyway, what was I sayin'? Oh yeah. So Molly said she was gonna pay the electric bill this month, so I figured I could go out and throw a couple back, you know? So I went to the bar and bought myself a beer, and I was just relaxin' and tryin' to have a good time, you know?
"So anyway, about an hour later, these three guys come in- big dudes, you know? I bet the guy right next to me must'a weighed at least three hundred points, way over six feet tall, and his buddies were about the same. Big guys, right? So they sit down next to me and they start talkin' about some dude that owes them money, and it sounded like it was kind of a lot of money, you know? Probably like... five or six grand. Yeah, I think that's right. And they were talkin' like they were gonna hit this dude up- I mean, literally, right- when he came into the bar later that night. So I turn to the guy next to me, right, I turn and I says 'Hey man, I don't wanna be involved in no trouble, okay? I just want to enjoy myself, okay.' But the guy kinda got pissed, right, and I thought it might be a good idea if I went home, so I get up and put my money on the counter and I says a goodbye to the bartender, cause I known the guy since high school. Billy Smith's his name.

That which I choose not to lose

The following is, quite obviously, an unfinished story. I didn't really want to post things that weren't complete on here, but i also don't want to lose them, and with my tendency for losing things... well. read on =)

It was late and the sky was dark. The houses on either side of the street were broken and depressed: no one lived here anymore. A single streelight in the exact center of the block flickered miserably on and off, on and off. There was no wind, but the trees rustled unnaturally anyway, as if to express their discontent with the stagnant air. The street was almost silent.
Almost, except for the faint click-clicking of a pair of strappy black heels on the sidewalk. They didn't click all the time: as they crossed over the piles of dead, wet leaves on the walk, the sound was muffled and barely audible. Each low tap echoed across the empty street, coming more quickly as they neared the streetlight. Halfway.
The tall, pale woman in the high heels stopped when she was directly under the flickering light and looked up, shivering. There was no moon in the night sky and the clouds obscured the tiny, twinkling stars which science told her were there. The streetlight was the only light, a fake light, and the woman hated the glow.
Very suddenly, the woman was almost overcome. She turned, heart racing, to find only her shadow behind her. She knelt quickly, setting the bundle which she had been carrying at the base of the lamp post, and then stepped away. Her hands flew instinctively to her head, covering her eyes, shielding her face. She rocked slightly back and forth, back and forth, whispering and moaning to herself. Oh God. Oh my God! What have I done?
She stood and watched the bundle, intently observing as it moved before her eyes. The bundle writhed and trembled slightly. A soft, plaintive cry rose through the air, reaching toward the woman helplessly. Why had she set the bundle there? She picked it up again, pressing it quickly against her chest. Tears streamed from her eyes and froze on her cheeks, burning. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, stopping the tears and the world all at once. When she could bear it, her eyes opened again and she continued down the street. Halfway there.

The last house on the block was old and diseased. The paint peeled off the rotting sides, and shards of glass littered the ground in front of two black holes where the windows used to be. Half of the second story was missing, scorched and charred away by some devastating fire that had gutted the rest of the house and forced the inhabitants to flee. The front yard was overgrown with weeds and heavy with dusty piles of ash. She stepped carefully through all of this, toward the house, but her dainty steps stirred the ash and it drifted off the ground and swirled around her, staining her clothes and tainting her lungs as she breathed it in.

Enough

Casi Butts
10015 32nd Ave. Pleasant Prairie, WI 53158
(262)818-1587
Mainstream/Literary Short Story
Word Count: 2,368

Enough
He was sitting in the kitchen, alone when I found him. He had a towel in his hands and there was blood all over the floor. And glass too, which was odd because I couldn’t see anything that was broken. Except for him.
The house was dark except for the small yellow light above the kitchen sink. It was pouring rain outside and the rain drops battered the kitchen window, each one a tiny fist demanding attention. I stood in the doorway for a second, dripping on the linoleum and thinking that I should probably go straight into the bathroom to dry off. I couldn’t though; I had spent so much time looking for him already, I couldn’t just walk away from him now. If I let him out of my sight, he might disappear again, and then I might never find him.
As I struggled out of my jacket, I watched him smile. It was a half-hearted, sad little smile that years of misery hadn’t wiped off his face. The kind that breaks your heart. And you would think I would be used to it by now. It was a long time ago, but there was a time when that smile didn’t leave his face. Now, days would go by without it, and sometimes I could almost pretend that it didn’t even exist. But it always came back, and every time I saw it was like shoving a knife through my heart and then twisting to worsen the sting. It was a wound that never really healed, made worse because I know that my pain paled compared to his.
“Tom?” It wasn’t so much a question as a request for some acknowledgement, other than the smile, I mean. Standing in the dark like that, I don’t think he could really see my face. I might have been anyone, in his mind. I guess it seemed important to let him know that it was me. Just me.
“Can I turn on the light?” I asked, having gotten no response the first time. He shook his head now, an almost imperceptible movement that few people would have noticed. Anyone who spent less time with him probably wouldn’t have noticed; anyone else probably would have turned on the light. But the house had been dark on the night we got the phone call from the sheriff’s department. He never turned on the light after that- maybe he associated it with happiness, or ignorance, or something. I never asked. I guess I was afraid of what he would say.
“I think I need help.” His voice cracked a little at the end, and I could tell that he’d been crying. He chuckled, maybe like he was embarrassed, and shook his head again. “I’m sorry this is what you had to come home to.”
Crunch, Crunch. My rain boots softly smacked the glass as I made my way carefully to the closet next to the fridge, looking for a broom. I wanted to tell him how happy it made me just to find him at all, even like this. He hadn’t come home last night from work- not the first time it had ever happened, but I knew it wasn’t a coincidence, considering the date. I had skipped school to look for him, knowing what it would be like to be alone today. To be honest though, the other days weren’t much better.
“It’s alright,” I said. “It’s not that big a deal.” The lie came easily to me, and he swallowed it down without comment. A long time ago, he would have called me out on it, but I guess he didn’t really care anymore. No- that’s not the right thing to say. He cared. . . . But I guess the lie was easier to believe, easier to live with than the truth. Because he knew- I know he knew it wasn’t okay, that he wasn’t okay. Tom’s life had ended years ago, but the world kept moving. He wasn’t okay: he was barely surviving. He was doing his best though. I had to give him that.
I tried to be careful with the broom, but it smeared blood all over the wooden floor anyway. I sighed and continued to sweep the glass into a small pile in silence, hoping that the mess hadn’t been there for very long, and that it wouldn’t stain. Once it was piled up, I grabbed the dust pan and crouched down to get the glass off the floor. I saw then what I had missed before, the little black square lying face-down on the ground beneath the table, alone and dejected but hardly forgotten. A black triangle stood up from the middle like a shark’s fin, screaming damnation. I wondered which one it was. Which was silly really, because of course I knew.
Ignoring the picture frame, I stood and dumped the blood-stained glass carefully into the garbage can under the sink. My eyes scanned the room warily as I moved, looking for whatever it was that would now be missing. There had been so much glass: it wasn’t possible that it had all come from the picture. The cabinet door next to the sink was slightly ajar- of course. I should have known it would be the crystal wine glasses that she had loved so much. I only wondered if any were left.
I felt him watching me from the table, and I turned, wondering if he had something to say. He looked at me in silence for a long moment, and then looked down at his hands again, as if ashamed of the mess. My eyes naturally followed his, and seeing his hands stopped my heart. It wasn’t actually his hands that I found alarming- it was the blood-soaked towel he held, and the long gashes in his forearms that were distracting.
I walked quickly to the wall and flipped the light switch to get a better view of the damage. He flinched like a wounded animal, making me wonder again how long he had been sitting there. I grabbed another rag from the sink and walked quickly to him, taking his hand and flipping it palm-up before he could protest. Only one of the long gashes was still bleeding, but another had a small piece of glass embedded into it. I swore under my breath and hoped he didn’t hear.
“It looks like you cut yourself.” I paused, trying to breathe. “We should probably go over to the hospital.” I looked at his face, trying to remember if he had always been so pale, or whether he had lost too much blood. I hoped my eyes weren’t frantic because he was looking at me now, serious and miserable.
“I didn’t do this to myself,” he said softly. “I was going to… I was going to….” He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what I was going to do. But you know I wouldn’t do this to myself.” I nodded, half believing him. For years now, he had endured his pain silently, a living member of the dead. He was grieving and defeated, and he probably would not fight hard against death if it tried to take him now. Still, I think he would have felt guilty if, after all this time, he were to leave me here alone.
“It’s okay, Tom,” I said again, calmer than I felt. “But I think a doctor should take the glass out, okay?” He nodded in response, and I breathed a quick sigh of relief.
I stood up from the table and walked to the edge of the kitchen; my boots left bloody footprints behind me. It was an ironic picture, looking back at him with the bloody footprints leading away. I didn’t laugh- it wasn’t funny, not at all. But, considering what had happened….
“Never enough.” Tom muttered the short words quickly under his breath, and I almost didn’t catch them. I stood barefoot on the living room carpet, thinking that we didn’t have time to have this discussion for the thousandth time.
“It wasn’t your fault, Dad,” I whispered. “There was nothing either of us could have done.” I knew I had his attention then, because for all the times that we had gone back and forth with this argument, I had never used the “D” word. I rarely used it, not anymore. I know a lot of people think that’s kind of strange, or even rude, but after everything that happened, that wasn’t really the relationship we had anymore. And it brought up other words, ones which were better left unsaid.
“Look, she made her choice, okay? She was stupid and selfish, and we’re better off without her. She took everything that meant anything and she broke it to pieces and left it lying on the floor.” Just like the glass.
“Don’t talk like that,” he commanded sharply, startling us both. “Don’t you talk about your mother that way.” Thinking back, I don’t ever remember another time when he used that tone of voice, and I doubted that he ever would again. Bitterness never really suited him.
“Twenty-four years ago today, she made me the happiest man alive. There were flowers in her hair and she smelled like roses.” He sniffed the air in the kitchen, as if talking about it could bring back the smell. “We had been dating for eleven months and three days. I knew from the very first day that I loved her.” The tears were forming in his eyes faster than his eyelashes could catch them, and they rolled slowly down both of his cheeks, hiding in the stubble of his beard.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I whispered again, wishing that I could do something to make him forget. The pain on his face was all too familiar, an embodiment of everything that I had pushed deep inside myself, had kept there behind iron bars of rage. It killed me to see him this way; it was the knife again, bringing a fresh twist of pain to my side.
“She left. She was unhappy, and there was nothing I could do. I wish I could tell her…. I would give her anything to make her happy- But she’s gone. She’s gone, she left, and now I can never….” The words were tumbling out of his mouth now, so quickly that they barely made sense. He never did finish that sentence- not that it mattered, because I knew what he would say, how he would feel. I mean, I didn’t know exactly how he felt, but it was close enough.
So I didn’t know what to say, but I was crying a little bit too now, and I could tell that he hadn’t meant to upset me. He stood up suddenly, holding the fresh cloth to his arm, and stepped carefully over the blood stains to the back door. Slipping on his old tennis shoes, he swung open the door and then turned to look back at me.
“We should probably head over to the hospital, then,” he said gruffly. “Do you want to drive?” I nodded, and followed him out.

*****

I was sitting in the waiting room, alone when the doctor found me.
“He keeps saying, ‘She left, she left,’ and I just wanted to make sure you were still here,” the doctor said hesitantly. “Is there somewhere else you need to go?”
I shook my head. “He’s not talking about me.” I paused, taking in the doctor’s confused look. “My mom left, and he’s been pretty torn up over it. I guess with the fall and then all the glass…. Well, I guess he’s just having a bad day today. He has a lot of bad days.” I said the last sentence under my breath, too quiet for the doctor to hear. He rocked back on his heels and said nothing for a while, lost in thought.
“Do you think you should contact her? She might want to know what happened.”
I knew he meant well, but the suggestion still stung. “No,” I said slowly. “This was years ago. She was going out to California, where her parents live. But, well….” I let my words trail off, not sure what to tell him.
“She’s been dead a few years now,” I said finally, surprised that I could say it now with so little emotion. I didn’t like to talk about it, really, and Tom wasn’t exactly an open book. I used to lay awake at night and listen to him chanting “not enough” in his room, like some kind of perverted mantra or something. I couldn’t remember a night when he hadn’t cried himself to sleep; sometimes, I think it was his outpouring of emotion that made it easier for me to feel nothing. Tom grieved, cried for both of us. I was in charge of picking up the pieces.
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor mumbled. “Listen, do you think…. Maybe it would be good if he saw a therapist. I could give him a referral, if you think it might help?”
“Well…. No. No, I don’t think he would like that. I mean, I think he tried to see one once, right after. But he can’t stop loving her, and so therapy doesn’t really help. Nothing really helps.” I smiled sadly and looked away from the doctor, doing my best not to cry. There was a small mirror over his shoulder and the reflection distracted me. My surprise froze the tears in my eyes; I watched myself smile the same sad smile that had been forever haunting Tom’s face. It was hard to look away, but I needed to see the doctor’s face, to gauge his reaction. I wondered if my smile was breaking his heart.

Every Road,

Every road that I look down

Is another dead end

But then I get so turned around

I can't find my way back again

And all that I can do is ask

How we came to this

And all you do is nod and smile

Pretending that life is bliss

And i, i don't wanna cry for you

And i dont wanna cry because of you

But my heart is torn in two

And I dont know what to do

Anymore

So baby won't you take my hand

And help me please to understand

Cause I can't go on without you

But I know i have to let you go......

Crying till I sleep at night

And praying for no dreams

Wanting to give up the fight

Cause this is harder than it seems

And they say that if i let you go

Maybe you'll come back to stay

And then I'll know if what we have

Will last more than a few days

And I, I don't know what to do

Cause my heart is torn in two

And for every laugh we share

There's another moment when you're not there

So baby won't you take my hand

And help me please to understand

Cause I can't go on without you

But I know i have to let you go.....

23.Oct.05

With You

Id tell you now Its over but its been over from the start
Did you know what you were doing when you tore my heart apart?
Will all my questions go unanswered; dont leave me drowning in my tears
Though from the way that things are going, Id say theres nothing left to fear

I used to think I knew you, now I know its all an act
Im choking now on all your lies; my system's out of whack
I dont think I can swallow anymore you have to say
But you're leaving and Ill never have to listen anyway

You ask to say, you beg to go; I dont know what to do
And through all the pain and heartache I fall more in love with you

Please tell me, tell me that youll stay here with me tonight
Please lie to me, lie to me, and say it was worth the fight
Please dont leave me, leave me with no place else to go
Please lie to me, lie to me and say life gets better than I know

I stand here and I listen to the wind beneath the trees
But nothing that can happen now will set my mind at ease
I wish that I could pick up and move oh so very far
But I walk all night and drive all day and end up where you are

I try to find a rhyme to fit the mood youve put me in
But its a fight against my nature and I cannot hope to win
I wish that youd dismiss me and just let me run away
Instead you draw me to you as we go from day to day

I tell myself I hate you, but we both know its not true
Cause through all the pain and heartache I fall more in love with you

So please tell me, tell me that youll stay here with me tonight
Please lie to me, ,lie to me, and tell me it is worth the fight
Please dont leave me, leave me here with no place else to go
Please lie to me, lie to me and say youll never tell me no

I sit here in the pouring rain and cant help but think tonight
It doesnt matter anymore who was wrong or who was right
I stand here on the very edge of all I thought I knew
And I realize the lies you told were more than just a few

I tell myself I hate you- we both know that its not true
And now through all the pain and heartache Im still so in love with you

So please tell me, tell me that youll stay with me tonight
Please lie to me, lie to me, and say theres more than we can do
Please dont leave me, leave me with no place left to go
Please lie to me, lie to me and tell me that you love me too.

Two short pieces

The days are getting shorter

The nights are growing cold

Time is getting shorter

The earth is growing old

And who, who will cry

Now, now the earth is dying

And who, who will mourn

in the flower beds a-lying

And oh! Sweet sorrow

When the morrow's at an end

And oh! How the earth

will cry without a single friend.

**********

Will you come with me?
We could sail away
We could leave this place
We could be everything
When we're everything
We could leave this place
We could sail away
Will you come with me?
.
.

When i first wrote this, I considered putting it into a dedication page of a book if i ever got published. the whole idea of reading being a journey that you take with the author, you know. i still kind of like it.

Waiting to Live

Ting, Ting, Ting.
My heart rings like a church bell chiming through empty streets, proclaiming hope and the magnificence of life. I sing along, or try to anyway, but the fragile glass body in which I am encased is impenetrable. No sound escapes, and beyond the glass is silence: the deadly kind. I celebrate alone.
Ah, but to be so alive! My brain is working overtime, processing a million thoughts a second, hating, loving, fearing, rejoicing. It is more than enough to drive anyone insane, and yet I bask in the knowledge that I am awake, I revel in the understanding of every thought. And I cherish every chiming of proof that I am alive.
I shouldn’t be so. So alive, that is. Of all the world’s unsolvable mysteries, this one is greatest to me now, this quandary of my own being. I don’t know much about life, other than I am glad to have it; I wonder if this is how an unborn child feels right before it leaves the womb. That seems right, and familiar in a way. Am I about to be born? Am I capable of such a feat?
No and yes, I answer myself. A spiritual birth or a rebirth, maybe . . . but I am already awake, already alive, somehow. Somewhere . . . . Where? A light, a flicker of thought from that night- Night! Darkness! Headlights! Oh no, nooo!
We crash and someone screams in terror- my scream? I couldn’t say for sure. I doubt I ever will be able to say, even if I live to be a hundred years old. It’s just one of those things: it all happens so fast, and you never meant it to. And you don’t really understand, even though you never stop trying. Nothing makes sense anymore. I feel like if I said it out loud, I could catch it somehow: I could understand. I want to say it, want to hear it spoken out loud, as if then everything will be real. I open my mouth and I scream, I scream and scream and scream until the sound dies in my throat, and then the sound slips from thought, as deadly silent as if it had never begun.
It’s no good screaming in my glass skin. I am alone.
Ting, Ting, Ting.
I imagine that the sound is actually the slow, steady drip of an IV into my bloodstream. They would put me on an IV . . . right? Sometimes, I wasn’t so sure. I know they love me- at least, they say they do- but they were angry more often than not, and after that night, they would have been fuming. I can almost see the smoke rising from my father’s head, and my mother- well, my mother loved me, anyway. And I loved her, too. It occurs to me that I should tell her that, and I try to, but the glass is too thick, and the sound reverberates through the empty shell. My empty shell.
I feel bad, really. I know she’s worrying about me: she always does. I can’t say for certain- I can’t see anything, including myself- but I feel another presence in the room with me. I imagine that it’s my mother, sitting quietly next to me in my imaginary hospital, crying and fumbling with her idle hands, balanced precariously between hope and insanity. My father isn’t here, and I guess that he’s with my other siblings somewhere, taking care of them. And so we sit here alone, my mother and I, she in her worry and I in my glass case, each unable to reach out when we need it most. It makes me crazy, to sit here like this, and my swirl of emotions is immediately renewed, a million thoughts race through my head every second, loving, fearing, hating . . . hoping.
And then suddenly the raging torrent ends and I am drowning, drowning, drowning in a sea of darkness. I am crushed, I am swallowed, I am abandoned, I am scorned. And now, more than ever, I am afraid. Am I dying? Is this death, this unwholesome blackness that has taken even my mind away from me? Am I doomed to haunt the shadows of my own existence without even my thoughts to console me? Some say the dead wander in shadow- but I don’t even know where I am! I barely know who I am! Am I lost in oblivion? Is there nothing more? Is there-
Ting, Ting, Ting.
The bells immediately cast aside my hysterics. It’s so strange, isn’t it? The one sound I have spent my entire life ignoring is now the one thing keeping me sane. Alive. Such a soft, sweet sound, more pure than anything I know. . . .
Or maybe I’ve been dead this whole time, and any hope is futile already. But even so, I can take solace in the absence of some twisted in-between. There are only extremes: I am alive, or I am dead: there is no half-way point. I cannot be partially dead, after all, or half-alive- not really, anyway. If I am alive, then maybe I will wake; if I am dead, then at least I am not . . . gone. But anyone who could feel as alive as I feel must be anything but dead. Oh, to be so alive!
I wonder if anyone ever felt as alive as this. I linger over even my most insignificant thoughts, awestruck by the simple process of understanding. I rejoice in every heartbeat, dancing to the sounds of existence- and why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t everyone, rich and poor, young and old, crippled and whole? Why can’t everyone feel so alive? So alive! It makes me sad to think that so few people see their lives this way. So many poor, unfortunate souls, so many blind fools going through life, looking for life, not realizing until too late that they’ve lost what they already had: what had been there all along. There are a million things I want to change, a million thoughts per second, raging, loving, fearing, rejoicing. . . .
And suddenly a flash like lightning, a flash that is lightning pierces the glass, and I can’t feel it exactly, but the lightning pierces all the same. Death! I shout, laughing wildly, rejoicing and screaming and crying with relief. It’s not that I want to die, because I don’t- but at least the flash is something I can understand. I freeze, wild and waiting for the rush of memory to come and flood my senses, waiting for all the long years of my short life to fly by. This fast-forward, silent picture show is the one part of death I have waited for eagerly, ever since as a child I first learned that it would be. If I can’t live any longer, at least I can live again, at least I can whisper the words “I love you” one last time. But nothing, nothing ever comes.
Instead I find myself standing in a grassy meadow dressed in white, and my momentary disappointment is quickly replaced by relief. So I am alive. The meadow is so out of place, compared to the rest of my strange existence so far, but it’s a dream I remember having many times before, for as long as I can remember. Knowing what to do, I start to walk, and then impatiently, to run. I run through the meadow and up a hill, stopping suddenly when I reach the craggy top. And then I wait, confused, having never gotten past this point. Should I jump? Normally, I just woke up.
I wonder when I will wake up. I wonder how much will have changed. I wonder how I will cope, if I will cope, if I am blind, deaf, paralyzed. If all my friends are dead, and-
No! The thought is too repulsive to me, and I wrench myself away from it, and away from the meadow, forcing the dream to end. Desperately, I invoke the deafening, unwholesome darkness and allow myself to drown. I control it now, I mold and bend it to my will until the darkness soothes instead of suppresses, comforts instead of crushes. The darkness is a tool, a companion, a respite from the chaos and-
No! I shrink away from the complacency, more dangerous than hopelessness. Go toward the light, I remind myself. There are no other options for me: this is not a choice to be rationalized and thought out. This is my life! My life!
I think of all the people out there, walking around with sunglasses and cell phones, walking here and walking there, walking as if their lives depended on it. There is so much- SO MUCH! And it all goes unseen, until you lose your sight. What about the heartbeats? I shout, and the shout fills the glass walls like helium fills a balloon, and I am suddenly bursting with life, unable to contain it, and the glass frame is shaking, convulsing, twisting in impossible ways.
My heart flutters and the ringing stops.
My body convulses again.
Lightning runs through my veins again, lashing at my now-frantic heart. I wait for the meadow; I wait for my life, and suddenly I am breathing in as pain sears through every part of my being. Was breathing always like this? I am born again; I remember nothing. I struggle against reality as it closes in, longing to go back to my glass sanctuary. I can’t think, can’t concentrate. . . . The world is fire and pain, and pain is all I have ever known and dear God, please let it stop, let this inferno burn out before it burns my soul. My body cries out for more air, but I can’t breath, can’t even force myself to move.
My heart flutters; the silence is deafening.
My body convulses more harshly this time as the lightning crashes through me again. I breathe, inhaling pain, but my eyes are open now, and the sudden rush of vision is distracting. I take another breath, wide-eyed, and Oh! The color!
Were florescent lights always so bright?
Were the walls always so white?
Were my parents always so gloriously pale?
It strikes me that I don’t know where I am, or who I am for that matter- except that I am in pain . . . . But maybe that was not always the case?
I breathe again; my body shakes; my eyelids flutter. Why is it so quiet? Am I deaf? Was I always deaf? Nothing makes sense anymore: is any of this real? Maybe I am dreaming- and so vividly! There are other people in the room, and they flutter around me like falling pieces of a blue sky, in and out of my vision, vaguely important in some unfamiliar way. I stare straight ahead, unable to move, and everything I see is light. And my parents: they’re standing there too, in front of the light, standing and crying. They clutch each other tightly, as if afraid of being torn apart by some invisible force. But they won’t be- I see this more clearly than anything else. They are so strong, so strong to hold on so tightly. And nothing can tear them apart.
I reach out to them with immovable arms, whispering silent comforts, frustrated by the cold glass. It’s going to be okay, I want to whisper, you have each other. It’s good that they’re not alone. I like that. I hear my body crying out for more air, but it’s not a call I have to answer anymore. My body and I are not the same: the glass is no longer a prison, but a work of art, and I study it from the outside like a wizened collector. It’s good that they’re not alone. I like that. It makes it easier to let go of the pain. . . .
Such fair skin, I think objectively. The purple bruises that lace the arms and face give the body a melancholy, ethereal glow.
Ting.
The heart is sluggish now, no longer the clear sweet ringing of a bell that had sustained me for so long. So this is what it’s like to say goodbye. It’s so beautiful, after all.
Ting.

True Love's Embrace

Whistling through the stone cold trees

Light fainter than a memory

Softly, softly, sing to me

Of love, true love, true love’s embrace

The water rushes, ringing, home

Past mountains to new lands, unknown

Through chasms white as whitest bone

To win, win love, win love’s long race

You softly say goodbye again

I mourn, weep tears that haven’t been

Your bitter words poke holes and then

My heart, poor heart, heart loses pace

But like a phantom creeping on

After twilight, before the dawn

I hear your soft, seductive song

I touch, touch soft, your tender face

And whistling through the moonlight trees

Voice faint as memory can be

You softly, softly sing to me

Of love, long love, true love’s embrace.

written May 8, 2008

An Introduction

I have another, private blog, which tends to get crowded with famous quotes, the lyrics to popular songs, diary entries, blog entries from the past, and my own creative writing. I thought it might be nice to have a separate outlet for my own creative writing, somewhere where i can keep my completed poems/songs/stories without having to sift through hundreds of entries.

I'm a very imaginative person- and I can say that, and you can believe me, but I don't think I could ever really explain the extent to which that's true. I know sometimes I might sound depressed, and sometimes just plain crazy- I'm not. Promise =)