Between

I know space can be cold and dark
a vacuum scarce on particles
and when you’re in the black
it might feel like death
the misery expands from you
with nothing to hold it back
and at the same time you can’t breathe
trying to gasp but there’s nothing
only your rising, then fading, heartbeat
to make the slightest semblance of noise
in your ringing ears
that burst from the pressure changes.
But before you give in,
let me offer you this lunar landing module:
if you must die,
wouldn’t you like to walk on the Moon first?

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Love Language

I hold your wrists
so you can’t slit them;
if I bathe you in pleasure,
maybe you’ll forget the
jangle-glass hounds
that dog your croons,
and if you can’t forget
maybe you’ll just swoon.
They call it love language,
how affections express,
and my love language comes
by dermal caress:
if I make you lose count
of little deaths now,
perhaps the big deaths
will be eased somehow.

Socialite

Three days,
for three days I have chosen to be social;
tomorrow makes four,
there may yet be more.
I have dragged myself from the depths of dim Thule
And hibernal slumber into the hinterlands
To find my friends still waiting
– still friendly,
still waiting –
for my emergence from darkness
from thirty-one years of winter.

A funeral hardly phases me now, my aunt’s passing
Seems so nearly prosaic and predictable
That I haltingly stammer to a stop to study
myself;
What am I
thinking?
Doing?
Being?
Will I follow in her footsteps,
Struggling and striving
for mere normalcy, a few nights now of escapism
While I walk like a wound weaving between wastrel
and tragedy; can I take this cup, father?
Would that you could take it from me,
but I am not so naïve
and my worldliness wearies me even as I realize
so many have it worse
than
me.

Yet I push,
I push back the pall and palpitations
the embarrassment and blushes
and gather up my failures
to drag against them jangling like Jacob Marley
as I stubbornly refuse to sink into the saturnine
once and for all
(and all for one),
and strive to be happy as Desiderata decrees
as I hope against hope
I can beat me.

Night in the Valley of Dinosaurs

Depression can come like dominoes sometimes. One thing goes wrong, and before you know it, a cascade failure takes effect (cascade failure being: a situation where each defense that is breached increases the likelihood of additional breaches leading to system failure). Interestingly enough, I’m not talking about myself right now, although I admit that I am at low tide. I am talking about my friend that I am visiting.

So, we went to visit Dinosaur National Monument today. Even from this locale it is a long drive (round-trip about 10 hours) so it has been a long day. The trip itself was generally fun: we saw lots of beautiful mountain terrain, listened to all kinds of music along the way and the park itself did not disappoint. Besides the monolithic excavation of dinosaur fossils revealed in matrix, we also saw some Native American petroglyphs from about 1000 years ago (lots of lizards, and people with horns). Despite being exhausting, it was fun.

Arriving back though, a series of little things proceeded to stress out my friend though, from not finding the Earl Grey to the dishwasher malfunctioning. He has a tendency to take on tasks sometimes that he could just as easily pass the buck on, or that are someone else’s problem entirely (like getting a buzzing phone to its owner). Being empathetic is not always a blessing, because I sometimes feel the stress, confusion, frustration and depression of those around me.

Excavation:
I unearth the influences
Dust off reasons
Etch out with acid the flawed moments
And hindsight opens a window to a time
When these fossil bones were vibrant
With life and struggle
And you never knew
In your happy affairs
That soon would be coming
Extinction.

Keeping It Together

Whew. I don’t know what it is I want from life, but I’m not getting it. I know, I know, probably because I’m not putting the right things into it. Can’t bake a cake without ingredients.

I’m trying to face depression head-on, and I don’t know if I’m making headway. Psychologist, self-reflection, and I feel like I’m working a 2000 piece puzzle where a piece is going in every month or so. I’m so terrible at being normal, at dealing with all the typical things. I’ve had to clean up three big piles of doggie diarrhea mess today, and it takes all my energy to deal with it. You’d think they might bark to let me know something is wrong, I walked them at the normal time.

Stream of consciousness… well, I tell myself that to justify sloppy writing. Maybe I’m too critical of myself, but I don’t want to let myself off the hook too easy. I don’t want to be complacent and comfortable as my radioactive half-life decays.

Keep it together. Get it together. Pay attention, Osaka!

It isn’t working, not yet. Will it ever? Hopes and disappointments, dreams and deferments. I’m doing something wrong. It isn’t religion, that would be escapism, pretending the problems are external in nature. I’m not saying God doesn’t exist, but if it does, it is completely and utterly beyond comprehension because it encompasses all of our positive and negative traits, everything. Heaven and Hell, good and evil, pleasure and pain, light and darkness, and all the stuff in-between those silly binaries, and off to the sides, and diagonal from, and in a coterminous dimension accessible from said point. I know, I’m not making any sense.

Bleh. You remember Sideways Stories from Wayside School? If you were a kid from my generation there’s decent odds you do. You remember the chapter about the kid who (spoiler alert!) signs a Faustian pact, offering the choice between freedom and safety, and the kid chose freedom? I feel like that kid, outside of societal norms, unprotected by the rules everyone else lives by. You get to be your own person, but there are consequences, social consequences. People are frightened because I’m different, so they hide that fear beneath disdain and indirect insults. If they get too forward, make themselves too known, and I confront them about it, they are scared shitless and back down like a bunny rabbit faced with a stray dog. Sometimes they say anything to apologize and get away, sometimes it turns out there’s a worthwhile human being under all that bullshit. You have to be ready for those consequences when you choose freedom. As it has been grossly ubiquitized, freedom isn’t free.

That’s the thing I hate about adults. They’re more subtle when they’re choosing to antagonize you. In school, you know who your enemies are, who the bullies are. You can opt to avoid them or to negotiate with them or to fight them, and the whole thing is pretty obvious and straightforward. Adults seemingly can’t handle being that direct so they won’t say anything to your face. If they did, you can bet that after I was done talking to them, they would shamefacedly never say such a thing again.

I hate these moments of negativity. Eventually they pass, but they make for a crappy day. Yeah yeah, you choose how you feel. Fine, I will try to detox this mood on some writing and romantic movies. Yes, as you guessed, the writing part is right here, these very words. All this venom I’m drawing out of my metaphorical wound has become a journal entry. They can’t all be pretty, they can’t all be insightful, they can’t all be creative. Once in a while I have to see ugliness in order to appreciate beauty.

I’m fighting back against the feeling of a rising tide of pointlessness. Oh, the moment will pass, but I dread that it sometimes returns. ::sigh:: This is just a bad moment. Breathe. I’ve been having some good days lately, don’t let a few disappointments and doubts ruin it. Don’t choose to have a bad evening, fight back, resist.

Music. I need music.

Ancient Heart

My heart is as old as the season we enter:
Lonesome and cold and bleak as December.
I kindle up flames to struggle for warmth
In the face of unending blizzards and storms.

I don’t want to be old anymore, that’s the thing,
But it’s what I had wanted ever since spring.
Now I’m not even there yet and I can’t stand the way
My body slows down and my feelings decay.

But I didn’t grow up either, it’s all paradox:
I can’t leave my old room and my mountain of socks.
I think about death but get crushes like a boy
As I disappear slowly, like sadness and joy.

I used to think I was smart, so why can’t I remember
Which door leads away from this endless December?

Darkness


Darkness.
unraveling void
spiraling tendrils
umbral fingers of guilt
collapsing
penetrating numbness
an ache of longing
abandoned building
empty rooms
Misery.
eyes downcast
shrinking posture
wincing thoughts
desperate attempts
hollow pursuits
Despair.
ripped into pieces
abandoned
betraying myself
cold
lonely days, and
lonelier nights
constricting down
until I am gone
across the singularity
of my event horizon.