Illude Me

This morning I woke to a sound similar to that of glass shattering..or was it a wind chime?

A hot wind blew through the house, that remained shut on all sides, unmasking it's origin to be an inside source. I stepped into the hallway, and headed towards the kitchen.  There lay a pile of pickled meatballs, reeking of live fish (Wait, is that a finger?) on the kitchen floor. Only the floor was now the ceiling acne'd with the footprints of something obscenely larger than me. The footprints were not of any living species I'd ever come across, and showed not one human characteristic. I climbed my way to the counter giving myself a better view of what was now out of reach. The refrigerator boiled the orange juice within, and the suspended coffee froze into a solid block of ice; which would have poured to the ground below if not for it's material state.. Until now I hadn't even noticed  the toilet flushing in the opposite direction earlier this morning, and there was an eerie ringing in my ears. Every other sound was drowned out by a mysterious bass drum. Something seemed out of the ordinary today, and whatever it was, it made me laugh .. I must have tossed the salt over the wrong shoulder. Funny; I don't remember sneezing.

By running out the front door, I thought I'd escape this unreal vortex, when really I had pushed myself deeper into an inescapable state of being, mind, or simply perception..? the steps descending off the front patio only led me through the rear entrance of the house, and I was now on the balcony peering in to the space where I just found myself standing in bewilderment. Tiny morsels were all that was left of the grotesque pile of meatballs, and a scaly trail led to the back of the house, possibly to one of the bedrooms, but i dare not follow. I anxiously grabbed the phone, and placed it to my ear, hoping to reach someone, anyone, who could drag me back to reality. I heard nothing; not even a dial tone.

When i turned to scold the unresponsive telephone, it turned out to be the stapler used to blanket the walls around me with thousands of notepads. Every one of them bared wording, scratched with the most peculiar of handwriting. They read "Contempt"; every one of them.

Then the ringing stopped. 

I took a moment to anticipate what would happen next, if I'd be set free from the downward spiral bred from my entrapment, or whether my mind would continue to play these unusual tricks on me. The white noise subsided, and all was quiet for a brief moment. I'd have taken a step, if it were not for the inability to locate my own feet, or know whether they were even attached to my faint and quivering body. I felt no floor beneath me. My surroundings faded in an instant,into a scenery I was unable to recognize. Like the white fuzz seen on an monogrammed television, the space around me distorted and cracked in a uniform silence, and I drifted down a stream of thought, sinking into a perfect mind for contemplation. 

During childhood, we're surrounded by influences, teachers, and friends, who introduce us to new interests and ideas. There's always been a subconscious sense that we're expected to fit in, and conform to these influences around us. When a classmate brings a new toy to school, or is wearing the latest pair of sneakers, there's a sense of envy, a desire, to own these belongings and to share these pleasures with that companion. Or when an authority figure, or dominant peer boasts of how congenial they find a specific movie, song, or professional athlete, there's a pressuring temptation to succumb to their pleasures, and make it your own, thus conforming. It's when we start to drift from other's interests, and slowly find our own, that our true individuality starts to take form. This is when we begin to notice that, no matter how close the bond, or how well we advertise this interest, our peers are reluctant to show interest, and conform to our delights, and that a difference in opinion is beginning to take place. This often ends in criticism and negative reinforcement, causing us to mistake their difference in opinion for ignorance, and thus resenting their lack of compassion for yours.

As this builds, we are drawn more and more into our own desires, no longer caring for what is whispered by our so-called "peers", or critics, while we stray from the pack and are now too preoccupied with that which is our own. We now have one goal in mind; paving our own road to happiness.  The colors with which we individuals choose to paint the background of our life, should be of no one else's concern. The stepping stones we lay down before us, on unmarked terrain, are destined to accommodate our stride, and that of no one else. 

This is where motivation is found. And in this motivation, we find pride. Proud of being different from the conservative and bland, we have created our own array of colors, with which we decorate ourselves, so that we may be unique, and any reproduction of this is not of genuine nature.

Our own unorthodox methods and habits, however inefficient and absurd, have been formed based on the knowledge of our inner self, for only that individual may truly know. What we see fit to use for our benefit, and own personal accommodation, we will take, mold, and put into practice, by our standards, which shall inevitably be met. 

  Seconds, minutes, hours, (who knew?) of crushing meditation came to a sudden halt as I landed on my feet with such force it felt like I had been thrown from a 20-story building. I was too weak to move, let alone pull myself to my feet. I lay there, allowing the trance to fade like an anesthesia slowly leaving the bloodstream. I was back in what I thought to be my house again, but whether I was truly here, or being made the fool of another illusion, I could not possibly know, and certainly didn't trust the possibilities. I made no effort to regain my senses any quicker than the time needed to try and explain to myself where I had just been, or what had just happened. I lay there, drowning in a deep confusion, with a singeing case of the chills. 

In the distance, a slow melodious tune played in strange intervals of high and low pitch tones. It drew nearer, reaching an unbearable volume that beat the drums divinely created inside my skull, now shattered by the singing mallet. My body suddenly came to as I realized what the shrieking, polluted sound was. It was the doorbell.

A sudden surge of adrenaline sent me careening through time and space, reshaped in the form of the humble surroundings I once called home, but was now the far too life-like setting of a dull nightmare. Through the halls I darted, past the melting walls, on which there hung a disfigured painting of a woman bearing child. I bolted in a full-on sprint, around two corners decorated with cobwebs, raping the beauty behind the artistic Feng-Shui. The wine-sucking arachnids spectated and displayed their humor, entertaining themselves and bringing a deceiving purpose to their uneventful lives. I ignored the laughter accompanied by the numerous fingers extended in my direction, and continued on through the living room, carpeted with guilt, in the form of cigarette butts. The intense echoing of the doorbell, relentless and unforgiving, continued to send shock waves through every cell of my body, taunting me; urging me to find the source of this chaos for the sake of my sanity. A part of me felt the need to assure the other that there was a way out of this dream. The insecurity in his tone left little  hope for his motivational bullshit, and I ignored the attempt to encourage.

With the front door now in sight, I threw myself forward in it's direction, in a desperate effort to welcome the uninvited guest, whom i prayed would  be my lifeline. Now at full speed, I reached out to grab the glowing, white-hot doorknob, which in an instant, swung open as if blown in by the gust of a hurricane. It revealed a bright blue sky, swollen with a thick and lush canopy of clouds seen only on the most beautiful of summer days; a puzzling sight for such a dark string of events. Caught completely off guard, I slammed my feet to the ground in a abrupt attempt to stop, sending the upper half of my body flailing forward towards the open doorway with incredible momentum. Instinctively, my arms shot out to grab hold of anything that would help slow me down, sinking my fingernails into the wood, carving through the paint until they met the constructed border outlining the entrance. The chipped wood dug it's way into the beds of my nails, causing them to bleed furiously down my arms; this was the least of my worries. Now, at the threshold, I stood only inches away from the first doorstep, which, to my surprise, was no longer there.

Hanging on for the sake of my own life, with all twenty appendages, crimson from the chase, gripped tightly around the threshold, I hung forward over a rocky cliff, peering down over miles of nothing between me and the earth's crust below. I froze for a second, still suspended, in a paralyzing shock, unable to believe the extremity to which this fantasy had progressed. For a split second, I imagined letting go, allowing the merciless surface, miles below me, to be the final deciding factor of my fate. Downward I gazed, hypnotized by the sincerity of the thought, calculating the distance and ultimately, the pain; I wouldn't feel a thing. Gravity began to suck me in, with the wind whipping around me with such aggression, I felt an unusual invitation to join the open air in an unchoreographed dance surely ending in poetic demise.

I felt my grip loosen, and the wood slowly slip through my fingers, as I lost my footing. Only to be swept off my feet in a graceful, romantic cluster of predestined steps, guided by my omniscient partner, I gave myself to her, who twirled and caught me with such ease, I surrendered my every move.

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I was taken back to a scene from previous years, a defining period in my life, forked with paths I'd have to travel, and decisions I'd have to make, in order to build the foundation for what would become my bright and successful future. A vivid collage of images, words, and faces flashed before me, some pleasant, and others certainly the opposite. We lived in a large colonial home, two stories, wooden, and in a rural community; a good hour's drive from the city. The yard was surrounded by pine trees and light brush, hiding the structure from the few who traveled these parts. My mother tended to the beautiful rose garden; two perfectly aligned, parallel rows along the walkway leading to the the front steps. They caught the eye of all who approached, stopping them in their tracks for a chance to truly appreciate them. Once past the steps, visitors were greeted by a warm and inviting setting, with a swinging bench on the patio, and numerous wind chimes hung strategically to catch the morning and afternoon breeze. I was particularly fond of these chimes. On a sunny afternoon I'd spend my time reading a book on the front steps, soothed by the sultry sounds floating throughout the air space. This was certainly my most cherished of memories, giving strong sentimental value to the environment in which I spent my childhood days. 

A familiar bark projected across the property, (which was exceptionally large; approximately 2-3 acres) and sunk into my soul with such a heart warming charm, even the most troubled of souls would find comfort. As I jumped to my feet, to better absorb the cry and from which direction it came, I felt the resent subside, and the grimacing expressions float slowly into evanescence.

I followed the barking around the front of the house, past the shed where all the tools, emergency supplies, and other outdoor items were kept. A trampoline stood to the right of the house, next to an enormous tree that towered mercilessly over the land, an ancient predecessor to today's perspective.  The vast branching reached out in every direction, adding to the awe of its colossal size, and blocking out the uncompromising Sun well into the afternoon. From one of the lower branches hung an old tire, attached to the end of a thick, braided rope. Approaching the old swing, I reached out to grab the frayed strand, and stopped halfway, hesitant. It hung there helplessly, masked by a playful and childish innocence, and knotted much differently than it was that particular night. I dug into my pocket to find the only thing that's ever been worthy of my hard-earned trust; my lighter. I held the open flame under the dried and flaking rope, and watched as it crumbled under the destructive heat. A sense of relief came over me as it snapped from the overhanging branch, sending the tire to rest on the ground below. If only this would change what would become of the makeshift child's toy, instead of its destined practice of human nature's strongest weapon.

I continued on, examining every detail of my childhood playground, my cave; a piece of paradise, turned labyrinth. I noticed a chewed up tennis ball hidden under a bush next to the house, and couldn't help but smile as i leaned over to pick it up; I knew exactly where it came from. AS my fingertips barely made contact, a familiar, light brown figure dashed by in a glimpse, and snatched the ball before I could grab hold. My teeth pried themselves from their fleshy coffin, finally exposed, as I took off after him. Pity no one could bare witness as the grin resurrected across my once pale face.

  I chased him into the brush (which I clearly remember being off limits as a child) dodging branches and leaves to provide for a clear visual of the hound. To a boy, this was unexplored wilderness, inhabited by the largest and most frightening of creatures, fueling the fire in a child's imagination. I can't even begin to count how many soccer balls and Frisbee were lost to the untamed jungle I now ventured into; I never dared enter beyond 5 feet.

After what seemed like 75-100 feet in, a distance I'd never imagined myself accomplishing, I found my childhood friend, sitting at the foot of a murky lake I never knew existed. He sat there, peering over the quiet water, still excited from the chase. I could tell by the energetic wagging of his tail as I placed my hand on his head, and muttered a 'Good boy". I looked up at the vastness of the lake, the darkness of the water, and the secluded silence. Something floating not 15 feet out, caught my eye, it was the tennis ball. Nonchalantly, I grabbed a near by branch to try and retrieve it, and as I reached out to push the algae-covered sphere through the water towards the shore, it bobbed, as if being toyed with by something under the surface. I froze, stopping only to get a better idea of what could possibly be underneath. In a split second, the object was effortlessly sucked under, spooking the K-9, who would not wait any longer to find out, and took off, disappearing into the forest behind me, tail pulled tightly between his legs. I dropped the branch into the water and stepped back quickly, still skeptical, but not daring enough to test the situation. A violent force pulled the branch beneath the surface, creating a disturbance not normally seen in the shallows, indicating a presence of some sort. The hairs on my arms stood erect, and I turned to run in the opposite direction, along with the curiosity of what should surface if I were to stay another moment.

Every step I took through the dense layer of trees and bushes, overhanging vines, and over every fallen trunk, I got the overwhelming feeling an unwelcome entity was not far, certainly too close for comfort. I pushed through, not stopping to remove the thorns sinking into my feet, or to examine the gashes carved into my flesh from the broken branches peering out from all directions, hindering my desperate escape. with no sight of the clearing, I looked around me, hoping to see a familiar tree or log that would lead me in the right direction. I had to be kidding myself, I was surrounded by nothing other than leaves, branches, and undergrowth precisely at eye-level, corrupting my vision and distorting the little sense of direction I already had trouble harnessing. The lake was within 100 feet from the edge of the yard, yet I still managed to get spun around, how foolish could I be. Still, I pushed on, determined to find an exit from this uneasy setting. 

Walking for what seemed like half an hour, beaten and battered by the merciless surroundings, I came to a path covered in fallen leaves, leading up a hill I could not see beyond. Second guessing myself, I chose to turn in the direction of the hill, succumbing to my intuition to choose right over left. So far, my luck was not working for me. Gazing up through the canopy, I could tell it was getting late; the sun was setting in a red glow illuminating through the openings in the tree tops. Exhausted, with an appetite to prevail, I wiped the sweat from my brow and slowly began to ascend the hill, occasionally slipping on the loose rocks under my now torn and shredded sneakers. 

With the summit now in sight, a wave of hope came over me, and I increased the crawling pace into which I subconsciously slumped. Finally at the top, I hung forward, resting all my weight on the shaking thighs that still managed to hold me up. I threw my head back and took a deep breath of relief as I looked over the rough terrain I had just overcome. With no intention of stopping, I turned around to continue my seemingly hopeless trek. Before the first step, I was confronted by a small wooden shack appearing out of nowhere to stare me down, startling me to the point of levitation. I investigated the old building, run down, and abandoned, with an appearance certainly induced by it's age. 

Up against the side, there leaned a shovel accompanied by an ax similar to those used for chopping down the oldest and most stubborn of trees, ripe for the fire. The ax had certainly been put to good use based on the jagged edges of the face and the wire binding it onto the long, wooden handle. A sudden gust of wind blew through the trees, and made acquaintance with a stinging cold not friendly to the perspiration covering my entire body, and soaked through my clothing. I neared the door, closed with what seemed like a padlock, unrecognizable from the rust, certainly caused by the humid weather native to this part of the globe. I picked up the ax, took aim, and swung with such a force, in combination with it's excessive weight, that almost sent it flying from my hands. With one solid strike, the lock deteriorated into tiny granules of rust and metals, causing the door to swing open in the nearly unbearable wind. Fighting to keep my balance, applying all the weight and pressure my tired self could produce to keep me on my feet, I heard my breathing stop. My heart pounded like a slug exploding from the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun. I felt my eyes swell. There before me, sitting firmly at the edge of the entrance, unaffected by the raging wind, was the tennis ball, mocking me. Without thinking twice, I bolted in the direction from which I came, whispering what should have been an hysterical cry of panic , but traded for a pathetic whimper. It was at the last second that i noticed the tree root, protruding from the damned earth below. It was too late to dodge the hidden curse and the next thing I knew my feet were flying over head, and my body slammed onto the downward slope, snowballing over the rock and hard ground that made up this god forsaken hill, until I rolled to a stop.

Face down in the mud, my entire body ached and my right ankle throbbed heavily inside what was once a sneaker. I lifted my head from the puddle it came to rest in, spitting the sandy grime that found it's way into my mouth. I pulled myself to my feet, brushing the debris and dirt from my favorite leather jacket, now ripped and punctured from the jagged terrain; great, just f*****g great.

The sun burned through the trees, melting the jacket to my skin, and causing me to sweat like an old man trapped in a sauna. Not 25 minutes ago I watched the fiery ball drop through the trees and disappear into the horizon.. 

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It's in the darkest of rooms where we find the dimmest trails of light, whether a flicker catching our eye from a nearby crevice, a ray cascading off of a lamppost from outside our bedroom window, or a reflection from an unknown source revealing the deepest corner of our imagination. It's here that we notice the smallest of things, that would normally go unnoticed when the sun shines it's brightest, distracting us with all that's visible under such illumination. Only in these moments, under these conditions, do we realize the possibility of the tiny, minuscule, detail grasping our imagination and dragging us away in thought.

How is it that these radiating follicles, never-ending and abundant, evade our senses, and are taken in vain the scale of their significance. 

It cannot be, that only the large in size, the brightest, most flamboyant, and attractive may be all that appeal to us, deceiving our perception of what deserves seniority and is that of highest priority.

As the largest and most colorful of flowers may appeal to our eyes, the smallest may smell the sweetest, giving a new reason to drift away from a set thought pattern. As nothing is cast in stone, neither is an ideal belief system, whether political, fundamental, recreational, and surely spiritual. It is a wide-ranging, and immeasurably varying decision, that can only be made and judged by the individual who must make it.

Of course the larger in size, flamboyant, and colorful, may benefit us in some way, and by trial and error we have slowly come to figure this out, over the course of human existence. Yet these cycles of dissatisfaction lead us to follow a specific path hoping that some of this fluorescence may rub off on our imperfect selves (as well as our insecurities), making us the more attractive, confident, and successful. This is the most deceiving of paths; realistic, yet deceiving. Although, a life lived purely in the small, sweet smelling, "content" part of our soul, where our dreams and ideas alone seem to satisfy and please us, in itself can too be harmful. A balance must be found, for in being too content with the reality of our existence, size, flamboyance, or nature, we simply sit back and accept our imperfection, thus providing for ourselves no chance or motivation for growth. The small but sweet, and truly content, will never stand confidently next to the large and flamboyant, for the colorful and intimidating, show no sign of weakness or compassion, and continue on to be the most radiant and successful, yet will never reach a true state of satisfaction and enlightenment.

I dug my hands into the bottom of my pockets, and marched through the downpour of insults, dodging some clown on a bicycle with a second pair of handle bars, similar to those on a double seater, only there was no second seat. He wore an orange raincoat, was barefoot, and stared with the largest, most unnatural smile, baring all his chipped and rotting teeth.. His body rocked from side to side as he forced the pedals down, projecting him forward through the flooded street. With our paths intersecting, his full attention was directed towards me, and my limping stride. He somehow kept a perfectly straight line, and just stared, smiling so aggressively, that I turned away, and refused to acknowledge him.

I hopped over a small traffic cone and as I passed, turned around for a second look, watching it float down the darkened river, before sinking into the drainage system below the asphalt. I decided to pick up the pace, in order to get to my destination as dry as possible. I kept my head low, as to avoid the stinging rain from stabbing me in the face. The sky was blacker than usual, surely from the clouds overhead, blocking our view of the lunar reflection that lights up the nights sky, and hid the few and only stars ever seen in this part of the city. The yellow streetlights bounced off the surplus of water, covering everything in sight, which now glowed a dark citrus. It was a mess. I was a mess. The only thing I could think about now was a hot shower, and a cup of coffee; no cream, one sugar. Scratch that, make it a Scotch with a shitload of ice, and a cigarette. Two cigarettes. 

Peering down at the first 5 feet in front of me, concentrating on the area closest in proximity to my step, I caught the glimpse of something running next to the sidewalk, to my immediate left. It was something small, four legged, and surprisingly quick, almost undetectable. It took cover under the waist-high row of bushes parallel to the walkway. I was more concerned with getting out of this weather, and paid no attention to what I thought to be a stray cat, desperately trying to escape the hot rainfall. I jogged across the street to be closer to the small, one-story buildings, mostly convenience and liquor stores, hoping to meet an occasional awning, where I could take shelter briefly. The streets were empty; who would ever want to be out here driving at this time of night? And then there's me, on foot, in the middle of this monsoon. 

I came to an intersection, and contemplated crossing without waiting for the pedestrian's light post to grant passage. The stoplight hanging over the center of the intersection, meant for oncoming motorists, shone all three colors simultaneously; green, yellow, and red. No flashing, No changing of the lights, all three simply burned over the deserted street corner. I took this opportunity to cross hastily, certainly not waiting any longer in this terrible weather.

 As I lifted my head to calculate the distance remaining till my arrival, what appeared to be the same small creature merged across the street, now on the same side of the road as me, some 100 feet in front of me. How could it have gotten so far ahead, and why did it choose to cross, abandoning the only decent form of shelter. It was dark in color, and unfamiliar. It had no tail, cancelling out the option for a frenzied feline, dog, or even raccoon. Either I'd just come across another unexplainable illusion, or was keeping myself from seeing the logic behind a mischievous cat falling victim to an irritated homeowner, who could no longer put up with his destructive behavior. Hell, I'd shoot the f****r, hack off his tail, slice his stomach open and let him loose, just to see how far he could run before his organs plummeted from his body into a bloody pile beneath him. The thought lingered deeply for as long as I could remember, yet I never found reason to bring life to this ogreish fantasy, or excuse, for that matter.

The desperation brewed until an unexpected burst of confidence came over me, as I pushed on, with an agitating curiosity for how interesting the night would continue to become.

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Greeted by a room full of empty chairs, huddled around their wooden counterparts, each topped with an ash-stray and a dark blue candle, I walked on, and took place at the edge of the bar, in the corner farthest from the door. Wiping the glasses atop the shelf, one by one, I got the feeling his night had not been nearly as eventful as mine. He glared at me, as if I came in just as he was about to close down, and head home, and was now trapped between that and making an extra dollar. He threw a short glass onto the bar in front of me, and jerked his head up in a quick, wordless, question. 

"Scotch" I announced, hoping to spark some sort of hospitality, and possibly, a conversation.

still speechless, he stepped back to the racks, turned, and reached out to grab the only whiskey bottle in the house.

"Bourbon". he demanded.

The surrounding walls chuckled, and the winding row of bar stools sprouted hideously crooked, bony legs, and ran out the front entrance in a single file line, leaving me and the gray bartender in each other's presence. The candles scattered throughout the room, burst into flames, letting loose a dark candescence, as the bulbs behind the counter, at the entrance, and leading to a door at the back I assumed was the restroom, exploded in their sockets. 

As he raised the bottle to my glass, his scarred and wrinkled face, melted into a horrible dis-figuration of skin and hair. He grinned as the thick slop trickled into my glass; i mistook this for a rotten jello shot, and demanded he poured another. This must have angered him, and he did everything but take it lightly, as he sent the bottle flying into the concrete wall across the room, sending shards of glass in every direction. The wall crumbled as if made from Styrofoam, and a lighted room peeked through the cracks, combining both segments of the building. A cluster of bats flew through the demolition, and joined me , all aligned at the edge of the sticky, wooden bar. Trying to keep my composure, I nodded out of politeness, and offered to buy them a drink, but their dead silence answered my question quickly. I stood up form the bar stool, and cautiously walked over to get a better look at the room adjacent to this one. Uncomfortable with the audience watching my every move with such curiosity, and possibly malicious intentions; I couldn't help but get the feeling I wasn't welcome. 

I poked my head into the other room, that glowed with vibrant red lamps, reflecting off the red curtains separating the interior from the world outside, and red furniture decorated the otherwise empty space. 

In the middle there stood a square table, blanketed by a pitch black tablecloth, covered with ash and poker chips between the empty shot glasses and beer bottles. Four lifeless mannequins sat, cards in hand, staring each other down, waiting for one another to give away their hand with the slightest expression. The stack of chips was immense, making this out to be a defining hand in their sleepless endeavor to steal each other's money; I could tell by the dark bags under their eyes. Two of them wore aviator sunglasses, hiding the direction in which their eyes wandered. A .38 revolver lay on it's side atop the pile of chips, and I pondered it's role in their contest. 

Based on their concentration, I could tell it was the end of the hand, two of them folded, and it was down to the final two, donning Aviators. As both threw their cards face up onto the table, the winner jumped from his chair in a celebratory dance, only to fall back in his seat to collect his prize. As his arms extended over the table to sweep in his chips, the revolver spun 180 Degrees in his direction, and let a single bullet loose into the center of his forehead. Unmanned, it spun back into it's original position, as if possessed by greed, and encouraged by a gambler's lack of etiquette. The plastic exploded from the back of his head, leaving a substantial hole between his blank and motionless eyes. I dropped to my knees behind the concrete, protecting myself from any rogue projectile that could accidentally head in my direction. I crawled back to the bar as quick as I could, pulling myself up the greasy bar stool, holding myself up on my shaking feet. Unable to make a sound, I pointed in the gamblers' direction, and faced the man behind the bar to make sure he got my distressed message, although he must have heard the thundering gunshot; who wouldn't. As i turned towards him, I felt my already faint legs fail me, and if not for the bar stool, I would have surely fallen to the floor, reeking of urine and vomit. The same .38 revolver that lay on the poker table in the room next door, was now looking me dead in the eye, boasting of it's shiny steel barrel, and perfectly spiraled interior. The cold tiles stuck to my left cheek, as my consciousness took a turn for the worst.

 

Every drop won't be enough 

to bribe a heart that feels so much.

with every well dried to the bone

I forget your face and can't find home.

You warm my blood you'd be my crutch

Just take her place with care or such.

Like rubbing salt into a wound

I pour the fire from its tomb.

And now my chances just seem slim

She watched this curse suck me right in

Your weightless lips pressed to my head.

Pushed me closer to my edge.

You filled me up then drank me down.

Half full of hope for a second round.

Unscrew the skull to find your prize

Then squeeze my neck and hang me dry.

Confide your troubles in me my friend. 

These walls will never speak again.

A sweetheart bittered by your taste.

Its all your fault but i won't waste. 

 

 

Your loyalty to a trusted friend

Who drags you to the rivers edge

Then binds the boulder around your feet

And watches as you sink beneath

To breathe your oath of self destruction

The light is bent, your in too deep

So wield the sword you left behind

And cut the shackles, restraints, and binds

To reach the surface and find your breath

This is not the way one should find death

Drop the glass, for hell it sent

You drown in all that will ferment.

Soothe the fire on your tongue

Or forever will your soul be numb

Soothing are the notes you hear

When desperation's drawing near

So strum a chord, or hum a tune

For music is what humbles you.

A racing mess, concealed in glass

Impulsive thoughts on which we crash

Intoxicate me, as sorrow drowns

You kneel before the melting crown

That exploits your truth, feeling content

Then chews your trust without consent.

Repulsive, wholesome, honest actions

Multiplied by numerous factors

Speaking without consideration

The vulnerable target for humiliation.

The symptoms sounding too cliche

Ounce for ounce, it seems risque

But I accept your challenge, yet another day

The road to freedom, faint and blurred

You ask for help, but your words are slurred.

I won't let you fool me friend.

I've fooled myself time and again

No need to let her see me so.

Without you i would never know

What's its like to want or envy

You've ruined all life put before me.

I bid goodnight to an empty shelf

Tomorrow anew, bring me my hell.

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I could feel the paper cringe as i sunk the tip of my ballpoint into it's dry exterior. The smoke fumed gracefully from its resting place, a small, clay ashtray, carved in a style typical to the numerous Amerindian tribes native to the region. A wooden cross hung slanted on a wall adjacent to me, watching over the empty room in which I sat; waiting to be called forth. I questioned it's purpose. It did little to deter the screams echoing through the halls, and the mysterious footsteps heard marching outside the glass window separating me from the roaming wolves.

The windows were barred, the doors locked, and sensors hung, suspended in each corner, alarming the keepers of our every move, as if we were being held hostage.

The sleeping pills began to wear off, as i stared at the awe inspiring layer of white paint on the ceiling above me.

I paid no attention to the NO SMOKING sign glaring at me from across the room, As i lit another beneath a resentfully defiant grin. Yet nothing could have been more insulting than watching the hands on the clock tip-toe past each other, almost as if at a standstill. I was accompanied by a sickly old lady, desperate for a glimpse of the world outside, as i watched her gather every ounce of energy she could afford, carrying her own blood in a bag, for a quick fix, soothed by the cold night's rainfall.. I lit her cigarette for her. Not paying much attention, I could have sworn I saw her swallow the poison ridden miracle once an a nearby nurse caught on to her intentions. She quickly dispersed.

Out of boredom I decided to venture through the corridors, observing the abstract paintings and wooden carvings decorated throughout the lifeless labyrinth. The flowers did little  to lighten the mood, or give any sense of comfort in such a depressing atmosphere.

I came across a door labeled "MEDICIJN KAMER", and with everyone fast asleep, my curiosity built an overpowering urge to intrude in to an area that screamed "off limits".

With uncanny stealth and finesse, I hastily rummaged through all drawers, cabinets, and anywhere else I though I might find something to help me sleep.

AS omniscient and all knowing as he portrays to be, I could have easily clipped Jesus's toenails while he read the morning newspaper, oblivious and unaware. Through aimless wander, I found myself in front of the room in which I resided once again. With little hope of finding any other source of entertainment, I chose to turn in for the night.

I quickly adapted to the system and manner in which this establishment was run. I knew everyone's whereabouts, which rooms they visited first, and which pills NOT to swallow.

Hearing became the strongest of the five, catching even the lightest of strides and in which direction they headed. It made no difference anyway, for it was only a matter of time before they had my under their scalpel, helpless, and at their mercy.

 

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Like fingernails being dragged across a chalkboard, the pen scratched away furiously at the innocent notepad, pushing me to a point just shy of eruption, as gallons of hydrochloric acid poured into my ear canals. I lay reclined, gazing at the ceiling above, drawing figures onto the empty drywall, a fresh canvas. He looked up from his desk, crossed his hands into one another, and opened his mouth as if to say something, only to once again, with a click of his pen, return to his clipboard, as if observing the reaction of mixing chemicals in their beakers over an open flame. All that was needed to complete this picture was a long, white, lab coat, and the tortured rat running in circles through an endless labyrinth, for nothing but a piece of cheese. Mumbling to himself incoherently, pushing his glasses up against his face, he made little use of his pointless occupation. I noticed his perfectly creased shirt, ironed to perfection as if a minion of the service. He combed his hair over the more than obvious bald area on the crown of his puny, discolored head, evidence of an unattractive birthmark he attempted to camouflage. In a colorless, 2-D motion picture, I kept myself entertained with a mano y mano fencing match, between two gallant stick figures, at each other's throats for no apparent reason. With a spectacular display of sword-man-ship, and aerobatic footwork, I fell victim to my wandering imagination. 

The victorious pulled his pencil thin sword from his assailant's chest, and climbed onto his trusted steed, an overweight swine, impaled, stuffed with an apple, and left to roast over a raging fire. As the diced claws disintegrated inside the boiling cauldron, the acne'd witch gripped the torso in one hand, and severed the head with one clean twist, draining the bodily fluids into the over-sized soup pot. She placed the shriveled mammal's corpse onto the cutting board next to her, left to never take flight again. Onions, tomatoes, and the spleen of what's left of some poor creature under the tires of a semi-truck, mashed into one bloody mass of hair and ground meat, added to the recipe. The fluid boiled over the rim of the gigantic pot, as she cackled and grimaced over the fire, drooling into her own creation. The wooden spoon she used to stir the concoction, caught fire and melted in her hands, blistering her already hideous and welting skin.

A sweet smell drifted towards me, bringing a familiar taste to my tongue, that already watered and craved. It was a home cooked dinner, complimented by a medley of vegetables grown in one's own back yard. The table was set, the candles lit, and an open bottle of her favorite wine sat ready on the table. I sat in my elevated seat, across from her, with my spoon in hand, impatient and hungry for her delicious cooking. An empty chair sat adjacent to us, vacant, and undecorated; no plate, no utensil, no wine glass. That was his choice; yet dinner tasted better than ever.

The final click brought me back to the office space, filled with plastic plants and a voice even more boring than the plain, purple painting of a red box framed and hung on the wall to my immediate right, above the door. Had he been speaking all this time? No matter, it couldn't have been important. As he finally dropped the pen from his hand, I leaped from the elongated bench, swiped the prescription from his fingers, nodded, and made my hasty escape. As i turned to shut the door behind me, glancing one last time through the dreaded room, I noticed the standing ovation. A group of knights, witches, a damsel in distress, and the pen clicking know-it-all, held hands in a corrupted circle, swaying to the hum of a familiar tune. An antique piano appeared, next to a fireplace in the living room. It was my living room, where I'd sit and listen to her play. This same tune played itself back to me repeatedly over the years, providing comfort in a blessed memory. I shook it off, and let the door slam behind me, taking my leave with no interest to return to this crackpot, ever.

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I dropped my keys onto the counter, and slid the jacket off of my back, throwing it over a reclined chair sitting in front of the TV. The room lit up as I switched the lights on, and headed towards the quaint, simple kitchen. A cold pot of coffee sat under the maker, so I threw the old out, cleaned the filter, and made room for a fresh brew. A frozen dinner was all to be found in the freezer, a jug of grapefruit juice in the fridge, a jar of Mayonnaise, and a magnetic clipboard reading "Smile" stuck to the exterior. A news anchor rambled on about the crime rate,  the political race, and a missing person's case. I surfed through the 30-something channels till I came to a sports station, reviewing the previous night's scores and statistics. The kitchen appliance alarmed me of the sarcastic delight waiting inside. I dashed hints of salt and pepper over the microwaveable meal, adding some taste to the otherwise bland, plastic food, and with one swift roll of my fork through the steaming bits of beef and carrots, I lost my appetite entirely. 

There are days where your favorite song can't lift your spirits, or the company of a friend can't wake the true happiness that lies buried somewhere deep inside you, certainly there, only lost under a wreckage of insecurities, coated with the honesty of your mistakes. The real you strayed from what was thought to be your outcome, and has painted an unrecognizable self portrait, a mirror reflecting the negative imagery, and not what you truly wish to see.

There are only so many hairs you can pull before your naked exterior begins to surface, deepening the anxiety. If I had a list of all the things I would change, the thoughts I would rethink, or actions I could reverse, there would be too many to compensate for in this lifetime. The only solution would be to accept the way we challenge life's obstacles, for in the heat of such a moment, we are unable to come to a decision that would benefit us in the long run, and not end up a rash example of our foolishness. To witness our own faults, as they unfold, would be an educational and godly perspective, unrealistic, no matter how we may dream of such capabilities. As pawns on our own chessboard, we cannot see into the mind of the opposing plot, but only prepare for the hardships that may, and surely do, lie ahead. 

And then the phone burst into song, literally, with "Say You, Say Me" by Lionel Richie as it's ringtone. This was a malfunction of the phone's Settings, which I could never change back after spiking it onto the hardwood floor carpeting my apartment. Instead of buying another, I kept it, as a mockery to myself, laughing at the humor behind it's absurdity.

I raised the cordless telephone to my ear, and greeted with a simple "Hello". 

It was her, my lifeline, my best friend, the one person who knew every hair on my head, and every thought within, finishing my sentences with unsettling accuracy. I sunk into the love seat, relaxing every fiber in my body, and listened, mesmerized by the melody behind her every word.

She did most of the talking, as this was one of her strong points; I didn't mind. When I felt the need to  intervene with her thoughts, or mention something of importance, only then did the conversation become mutual. she didn't seem to mind either, and frankly, I think she appreciated my silence, referring to it as " collective wisdom". The two seated couch on which I sat, bragged of the empty space next to me, still smelling of her. The distance between us is what called for our separation, the need for commitment and support from an unseen partisan was simply unreasonable. Yet occasionally, we'd find our selves giving in to our desire for each other, sitting on the phone for hours, as time passed us by.

The line was dropped, and the dial tone grew louder, startling me to consciousness and bringing me back to the empty apartment accompanied only by the voice of commentators ranting every play with an annoying British accent; as if we couldn't see what was going on in front of us.

The microwave dinner still lay on my lap, now cold and unappetizing; I set it aside.

The clock ticked away maniacally in a rhythm simultaneous to the pounding coming from within my chest cavity, pulsing throughout my entire body. I watched the hands spin in rapid rotations, circumnavigating the face in mere seconds, yet not a minute went by. I could feel my eyes glare sharply into the black screens pulled down before them, allegedly inducing relaxation. An uneasy emotion came to life, retracting the muscles in my forehead, raising the brows only centimeters from my hairline, and my eyelids shot open in discomfort. Immediately, I grabbed focus of a tiny spec on the wall in front of me, widened and uncertain of the cause. The wall bent and bubbled in a misinformed perception of depth.

The distance between me and the concrete was increasing, as if the corner of the room was being sucked into a spiraling black hole, with the ticking of the clock still exploding inside me. I slapped my right cheek, as an attempt to end the unwanted hypnosis and awaken a normal thought pattern.I flailed my arms and legs, and raised myself into an upright sitting position, then sent my body careening back onto the pillow below. The jolt might have sobered me up. No dice.

The blunt force of a serrated knife slices through the battered and bruised like a smirking jack-in-the-box dives into the purest part of a child's soul and crushes all sense of hope and security. It becomes an unforgettable fear, an eternal reminder of our mortality, thus the strongest and most potent. It's the imagery that keeps us up at night; the ones we round every corner with extreme caution in hopes to never come across again.

The notes bounced off the surrounding walls with such chaos, such aggression, the enclosed space played a simple game of "Catch" with an ultimatum of content insanity. Every fret conjoined with a finger gave birth to a new outlook, a new experience. The rumble of the lows swelled through the barriers intended to trap the polluted sound, unsuccessfully. If only it's exterior audience could feel such enlightenment. 

The high's pierced the steel minds trained and washed to reject the beauty behind a beast. Such is art. Shining disturbances grown from the gutter of our dissatisfaction, however disdained; the reality is genuine. No compromising, no conformity, strictly humanity, in its rarest form.

The resentment builds off such unreal piety, that it cannot be claimed a fallacy. An emotion expressed in a most extreme design, meant for those worthy of feeling what lies outside of their comfort zone. A mere generation of luxury, having not earned, but received, revel in what they find accepted, while a generation of hardship speaks through their instruments, writings, paintings; any source of relief true to their intentions.

The stench of royalty clogged the airways of the simple minded, influenced by their surroundings, and satisfied by a meager attempt to advertise. Has he not seen the truth behind justice? Or is it that he let his world misinterpret the meaning of integrity? The cleanliness of such a mind will eventually come across the distortion that molds the holy into the mortal, and the royal into the untouchable. Until then is he a waste.

It was then that I put the glass down, and let is fester the craving for an intoxicant, aside from the music that blared through the headphones; the infernal liquid the fed the hunger of my imagination. The glue that held me to my seat, stunk of a vile innocence, hidden from those who jived to a resonant rhythm. The upbeat and joyful sowed a thought I could not reap. The comfort one possesses can not restrain me, or confine me to its simplicity. 

I slept on a concrete mattress, blown from the lungs of a drunken demon yielding corruption and materialism. The white walls spoke of success; and the mirrors reflected defeat, yet the frozen interior blessed the nature of rebellion, which reeked of Ale. the fumes inhabited my surroundings, poisoning, aching, confusing the routine beat of a righteous heart. Despite an illusion, a neck never seemed longer than the submissive one. No matter, I wouldn't loosen my grip anyway.

It's on the wing's of a midnight's breeze that mystery soars through the unwoven wool that blinds us from the ungodly black sheep. Once the mist clears, and the wall of cloud is pulled from the crossfire that divides you and truth, a window is opened. One that reveals the desire that's hidden behind a curtain of censorship and oppression. In vain, every fire settles to ash, like an unattended candle melting over a flood of gasoline slowly seeping into it's surroundings; wanting

waiting, to set everything ablaze, impatiently. Peel the leather from life's jacket and feel it bleed out a love so righteous, only a fool would deny it. Everything else, a mockery.

Eventually, the ceilings collapse, mysteries unravel, and vision is lost. This is when we're blindsided by the faint, hidden star, finding it's own way through the fog, to expose itself and answer a cry for direction. There is always a hand on our shoulder, guiding us, hiding us, teaching us to birth trust from a womb of ignorance. For in that single, brief moment, destined paths will intersect, colliding in explosive harmony, only to continue on with lust for unexplored knowledge, that leads simply to another short-lived mirage of bliss. 

We rarely notice the withering leaf that tosses and turns across the landscape, projected by the hot breath of a child incinerating all susceptible life with a magnifying glass. The once organic symbol of life is now a mere pile of charred matter that lingers on God's porch as he reaches for the dustpan.

The open road harbored a freedom for opportunity as the steel tip of my boot caressed the worn down rug beneath the the gas pedal. A single suitcase can only carry so much before the seams begin to tear under the stress of an entire lifestyle compacted and compressed within. The engine rattled furiously in a high speed chase involving yesterday's tribulations and tomorrow's triumph. Every second that passed, every foot of ground left in a traveler's wake, made way for another page in an ongoing compilation of memories and cornerstones. Never before have I truly been able to understand and incorporate the term "journey" into my own definition of living and learning. A typical, cliche case of one's own epiphany, and how the coming years will ultimately be affected by it. The rear-view mirror disintegrated, and an uncomfortable feeling of strength came over me. I shifted to 5th gear.

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As the crimson marvel sunk into the line of trees at the river’s bend, It reflected off the surface in a puzzle-pieced mirage of light and energy.  My toes dangled just inches above the brackish accumulation of water and sludge, as my hands sifted through the dirt, in search of stone to throw aimlessly into oblivion. That stone, like the millions surrounding it, played a minuscule yet defining role in the sculpting of the land on which I now stood. But like any, would be lost in the dark abyss of current and tides, never to be seen again, and its entire existence will be forgotten. Divinely, it’s been moved from its initial resting place, and thrown into a swirling uncertainty, only to find its new home at the bottom of the muddy river bank, to serve its new purpose there, and to continue the inevitable cycle of evolution and life.

The water raged furiously downstream, as overlying branches cracked violently from their steadfast, to be swept away in the merciless vacuum. It was an omen of the oncoming storm. The native feathers cowered into their nests, to shield their young and escape the divine mother’s boast of strength, displayed through electric instability and relentless rainfall. I held my ground, however reckless and unaware of her perils, to simply watch the stones sink into non existence. A heron swooped down, and took place not 20 feet from where I sat, and glared, cautious, and untrusting.  But I was no threat.

It was at times like these, in conditions like these, that I always felt as if I was a  subject of observation, closely watched, or simply being sent a message. What kind of message, I could never interpret, but the consistency was just too suspicious, I had to wonder. Maybe it was merely a sign of companionship, and that no matter the location, time, or circumstance, I was never alone. That there were always eyes everywhere I went, watching, waiting, and prepared to step in if necessary. 

It was a warming feeling, one that came at the most unexpected and unappreciated of times. But now was different. It’s almost as if I had predicted his arrival, and welcomed him, to share this moment of chaotic beauty with me. I took one last drag from my cigarette that had burned through to the filter, softening it between my fingers, and singeing the tip of my lip. I turned to dispose of it, crushing it into the sand beneath me, and took a gasp of fresh air, staring off into the breathing canopy across the river.

“So what are you still doing out here?” I asked, as I turned my head in the Heron’s direction to spark a friendly conversation.

He just stood there, motionless, refusing to break eye contact as his feathers began to shed from his wet, pale body. They fell like the leaves of an autumn-ed spruce maple, encircling him like a family standing around an open grave as the coffin is gently lowered into the ground, where it will remain. The skin started to peel and decompose before my very own eyes, exposing his fleshy interior. He still stood, strong, and willing, prepared for the worst. His eyes never left mine. I sat there watching helplessly and unbelieving; the 5-o'clock shadow scraped away at my bare chest.  If I still clenched that cigarette between my teeth, it would surely have fallen into my lap, and gone unnoticed, to burn slowly through until the searing heat startled me back into awareness.

His beak crumbled into a dark powdery ash that melted from his skull and fell victim to a single gust of wind, dispersing into thin air. I blinked.

He was now a pile of dust, quietly settled at the edge of the river bank. In stunned disbelief, I slowly lifted myself from my seated position, shifting the weight up onto my knees, then feet, to result in a fully erect stance, towering over the mound of feather and cinder. One swift wave crashed onto the shore, elevating the remains from the ground on which they lay and dragged them out over the warm, succulent, mass that harvested his death. Would I now try to interpret this? A mockery? A contradiction? Or was it still a genuine message of needed companionship through even the darkest of trials?

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The withering petal, blackened and frail, surrenders its hold and floats morbidly to the same earth from which it discovered life.

A flower grown out of its own determination to find success and resolution, is now the victim of abandon as the ground on which it stands suffocates all chance for flamboyance with its dried humor. Despite all prayers for the coming rain, hope sinks slowly into the overpowering sponge that drains the very blood from one's veins.

A single cloud, darkened by it's massive content, will hover over with all the wrong intentions. It will show no compassion for the single body below that begs for it's mercy. The one thing that harbors its need to prevail, the one thing it wants more than anything; it can not have. The overabundance of (REVELATION/POWER/CONTROL/EMOTIONAL WEALTH?) cannot be contained, as single drops of rain drizzle out over the landscape, showing short lived signs of sympathy and chance for survival. It stands erect to better gather the love it hoped would feed it's appetite for beauty; in vain.

It is not enough to spark growth or prosperity, and the floral being wilts again in a tearful image of defeat, framed within treachery. The overhanging cloud then continues on to supplement another life form, somewhere else, ensuring their own magnificence after a much needed, and heavenly relation, between two partisans. Through the decay of one, another blossoms.

It's turns coldest as the reality of solitude smothers the flame one would give anything to protect from being extinguished. With no other source of warmth, frost begins to blanket our personalities, starting with our sense of value for others' well being. How do they leave? A single ember from the eyes of desire sets our world ablaze, starting an uncontrollable heat that chars our hearts and leaves nothing but ash behind as that same ember uses the wind to find a new life form in need of its warmth. In its wake, a scorched trail of confusion an uncertainty lead to that single ember. However, in its determination to burn the trust of all who stand next to it, it dies alone. Eventually, all will evade, with no life left to incinerate. Such is passion. Passion is destructive. The meek fail to harness such power, and in this, will only kill the ones they once cherished.

As the engine chugs it's last sip of gasoline, and the controls are no longer accessible in their comatose state, I roll to a stop. Alongside a deserted road, my boot sinks into the loose sand as I pull myself from the wreckage. I grab the lighter out of my left pocket and dig into the opposing one to find my cigarettes. They're all intact. I lift the blessing to my lips to listen to it crack and crumble over the incendiary flame as i take a drag; color found its way onto the pages of death's shopping list.