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One Drop At A Time(Writing w/ Linda and Michelle)

It’s a distinct sound that shatters the silence. The sound of your breath suddenly becoming an echoing pulse that disorients you into pure self-consciousness. You know they’re coming. Your eye squints and you can feel the blood beating through your ears. You raise the little glass to your eye and the cold metal kisses your taut cheeks. For a brief second, your world is encapsulated within that small tube. That tube and the trigger against your finger. In that minuscule fraction of time, your breath stops. And then they fall. One drop at a time.

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Dream I Just Had

Writing here just so I don’t forget.

You’re with your SO at some event whether yours or theirs or mutual. Suddenly they say “Sigh...I really wish I was at ____ right now, wish I didn’t have to miss it.”. It hurts you for some reason, and why is that? “When you’re with somebody that you really care about and you plan little dates or outings for yourself, you’re setting out time for each other to be with each other. It’s like you’re making a commitment to them. I understand that sometimes there are other places you want to be at the same time, but when you plan things like this together, you have to stick with them unless there’s some type of emergency. Because when you say little things like “oh I wish I didn’t have to miss ___ for this”, it’s as if you’re telling them that being there with them is not worth it. That’s something that can’t happen if you truly do care about this person. We all have to make sacrifices for each other, and in that way, it’s one of the greatest ways you can love the other person.”

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Recover

You stare down At the shadow before you What trickles across your arm You know not if sweat or blood The rugged knuckle scrapes Against the width of your brow You've learned how to fight To scuffle, to bite, but It's but so long since so And you've laid dormant too long It seems impassable this block A wall of doubt and frustration But you get that glint in your eye A small smirk of a gesture Your feet dash in a charge Elbow bent back like a bow Flicking the wrist in a motion That proceeds the cracking blow Your legs come down as pillars And the silence echoes Leaving you thinking I'm back, I'm back Stronger than before

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The Wind Came Unexpected

    I had felt it against me before, just a calming breeze, never breaking through my jacket. But today is different and I can't quite put my finger on it. The winds have changed. Or rather, maybe it's because I'm standing outside today without a jacket. The wind is unexpected today because for once, my skin tingles. Because today, I've forgotten what it feels like to be alone.

    The wind follows me wherever I go. It is there with me in the park. I feel it rest upon my shoulder as I gaze at the fountain, thinking of the raindrops across the back of my hands. I shudder as I sit there, yet I don't feel cold. The wind wraps around my chest and lifts me away, far beyond the ground, floating just above the trees. It's always so gentle.

    When the wind follows me, I lose track of time. I wake up in the middle of the night, with the lights out, room pitch black. I look up, expecting to see stars, but I see nothing. I could close my eyes, but I would still feel the wind beside me. But it is then, when my lids shut together, that I realize that I can just close the window.

    Then wind leaves unexpected, like an accidental kiss.

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Flick Of The Wrist

They call me The Greatest Magician. At least I do. There's no long line of spectators to see my show. There's a performance in my mind's dome, and it's booked out to nobody. My head is a poor man's coliseum and it houses the empty cinema. Memories are mine alone and nobody can take them but time. I'll take my footsteps as slowly as I want. I'll walk with hands crossed behind my back, politely examining each piece. There's no critics here and no admirers, just myself. I can scream and let the echoes beat the drums of my ears, shattering the endless glass seats and balconies. The roof could cave in and I wouldn't even flinch, a rebel among the rubble. I'll walk offstage, walking through the rows and make my way to the back seat. I'll kick my feet up on the cracked chair in front of me and watch the show. Well then what is the show? Maybe I'll give you a glimpse. Just a peek. Maybe then, I'll fan them out for you for just a moment. Then just like that, they're gone. Yeah. Magic.

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Autumn

How did you find me?

There’s no connection

Between us from what I’ve seen

There’s no bridge

To mend the seam

Summer remains just on a ledge

If the leaves remain scattered

Then indeed, chivalry has not been battered.

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You don’t know how much someone is worth to you

until you sell them

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Seeing For What We’ve Become

I'll never know when I started becoming invisible. Its wasn't sudden, not an instant, but a process. My hands were still there, picking at themselves in worry. My face still looked back myself, searching for something in those frustrated eyes. Gravity still held me down, my feet continued to step heavily on in life. Nobody seemed to notice a change and maybe that's what made the worst of it. Nobody knew. I finally realized that the world could still see me. I was only becoming invisible to you. Talking to you became scarce as did emotion. Communication eventually stopped altogether. You never stopped to notice though, because you had others to fill your life. I was replaceable and forgotten in the margins, just scribbles in fine print. I tried to do something different, to change who I could be to you, but you stared right through me. I guess it's fine for you and at least you can still smile, but one day you'll fall too far. Only then will you maybe notice me again. Only then will you look at me for an answer. But by then I'll be dressed in silence, because dogs like us don't talk.

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Curator

What’s a silence if it isn’t comfortable? When there are two people, enjoying each other’s company and not a single word is spoken, that is silence indeed. Why is it so that one must break the quietness, is driven to bring up a conversation of nothingness? There is no greater act of condemnation than proposing the discussion of the weather. There’s no need to look for something to say or to muster up the courage to ask a question that had not needed answering. The comfortable silence is recognizing that another human being had taken the value of their existence and measured it on the scale of judgment and finding it to be equal if not lower than yours. You have received the privilege of obtaining the physical company of somebody who has a different life than yours, with a different perspective, story and mind. From that in itself should you bloom the feeling of an altering of presence and the human desire to escape loneliness. Embrace it with all earnest and sincerity, for if you want to acknowledge the acquaintance who is with you, then there is no greater respect than that of being able to enjoy the masterpiece sitting beside you in silence, words not needed to show appreciation.

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“Thoughtless Thoughts”

Sometimes we just stare at the drain. It’s just a part of showering that happens. The water swirls down, trailing from our fingertips. At that moment, with your hair hugging against your skin, you can feel each individual drop breaking against your back. There’s no real reason for it, but we take a moment to freeze in time, a solitary statue, enveloped in rain. Our heads tilt down, hanging like the shame of a child. There's nobody to impress, no world to please, standing naked among tiles and half used soap. There's no clear thought that comes to mind, only listening to the sound of the water hitting your ears like on an umbrella. There's only watching the water fall into the depths of the drain's empty holes, little holes with unquenchable thirst. Sometimes it's mere seconds, but often it's long minutes of silent unbroken gazes at the drain of life. Eventually, the water seems to turn colder and our eyes must look up again and we blink, turning the handle off and stepping out.

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One Star Constellation

They say that you can’t see the stars in the city, but I have one. It never moves and blends into the background during the daylight. Nobody really notices the old rusty streetlamp but me. Or maybe they just don't appreciate it. It seems that I’m the only one that is mesmerized by its heartbeat flickers, pulsing like the wings of the moths that dance beneath it.The streetlamp looks like an upside down spoonful of golden glowing honey and I'm the only one waiting with my tongue stuck out. I don’t really quite know why I keep coming to this certain light, staring down at my worn out hands. I can spend hours sitting beneath, just thinking. Sometimes I’ll bring a book and the words blink with the lights, staring into me as I read into their stories. Soon, the rows of text imitate the cityscape before me, those blinking buildings and skyscrapers, turning page by page. It makes me wonder why people look for the night in the sky when I can see it from the shadows of my hands, soaring over the pavement, the twin night eagles searching for the best place to moonbathe. As I soak in the soft light that envelops me like a cloak, I can’t help but to look back up at that dirty lightbulb. I wish upon that star to grant me another sleepless night.

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Arizona

She stands in the middle of a small kitchen, surrounded by bowls, knives, and vegetable shavings. A pot rumbles on the stovetop, like a rusting volcano. From far away, it seems to be lifted by wavering blue spirits, hissing a breathless gas. Her face is focused, stern like the carrots she chops, but her hands tremble as she scoops the pieces. Finishing the stew seems automatic, just another few minutes of waiting. She raises a small spoon to her lips, hinting just a taste. It is satisfactory, but she doesn’t smile. The woman sighs with each spoonful ladled into an off-white bowl. The rim is veiled by faded vines, flowers systematically imbedded. The stew laps at the flowers, swishing back and forth as she walks to the living room. The woman stops by the couch, his bedside. He is frail beneath a blanket, eyes are half open, as is his breathing.

  “I brought you some soup,” she says, lifting the small spoon expectantly. He musters a weak smile, trying to shift himself up. He groans. She knows he means to thank her, if he had the energy. She has to be gentle, tipping the spoon into his cracked lips, dipping back into the rippling bowl. She wipes off his stubbled chin with a folded napkin.

  “Is there anything you need, dear?” She brushes her hand across his cheek, then moves the strands of hair away from her eyes, tucked behind her ears. She doesn’t expect an answer.

  “Arizona,” a labored whisper dissolves through the room. The woman does not understand. Her mind wanders to the fact that they had only lived in Michigan since they moved to the United States. She kisses his forehead.

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t go there, honey,” She picks up the and spoon, placing the soaked napkin neatly inside. “Get some rest, I’ll bring some more when you wake up.”

  He lays back down, content and she watches his weary eyes close once again.

  ~

It’s been a few years now, and the woman is out at her local supermarket. She’s already made her way through the mazes of aisles, her cart full. She pushes the heavy cart towards the checkout lane, when a word catches her eyes. As she picks up the gallon carton of tea, her hands tremble as they did years before. Her hand grasps the shelf as she cries, broken by memory.

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Snowstorm (writing w/ Linda and Michelle

We stand outside on a summer night, with apple blossoms surrounding us.The cracks of the porch’s worn wood tickle beneath my feet and the air smells of moonlight. Your face is divided between white illumination and the aging yellow porch light. A slight wind covers your eyes like a wedding veil. You grab my hand, pointing out at the stars, tracing their linings. You stand there in awe, arms reaching for the sky. I can’t help but to expect the stars to fall into your arms, instead I find myself there. You lift your hair away with a single finger, the strands wrapping around like a ring. You’re so close, the first time I’ve seen my own face in your eyes. Suddenly the apple blossom petals are falling all around us. We’re enveloped in a flurry of white petals, like swirls of moonlit paper. I’m caught in a snowstorm, but you’re still here with me.

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Color (writing w/ Linda and Michelle)

People ask me what I see. They hold up their book or pinch their shirt. How am I even to answer? I see what I’ve always seen. They tell me that what I see is wrong, that my view is distorted somehow. I have found that they are merely asking me questions so that they can tell me what they think is right. These people need the constant reassurance that nothing changes for them. They need to know that they still have control over the chaos that consumes their lives. They keep trying to find the gods in the stars. They need to have explanation for everything, yet refuse to accept the solution. Everything is as it is, simply because it is. Nature is not caused by some pretentious leech who feeds on the proclamation of their correctness. The world does not grow and live by chains and vampirism, rather by growth and renewed acceptance of the unknown. They all think that they’re a Sherlock, masterminds of observation and deduction, all knowing in the path of discovery. It’s reeds that they really are, stuck in the muggy swamp, sucking off the sustenance from the very muck that they spew. Their thoughts are so clogged that they can never escape from the narrow passage that leads out of their minds. Yet they still persist. They absolutely must shove backpacks and gel pens in my face. What color is this, they insist.

Red, I’ll declare, because a revolution is coming. They just can’t see it yet.

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Where I See Myself In 10 Years (writing w/ Linda and Michelle)

He walks with a cup of coffee in his hands. Dark circles rim underneath his eyes. He stumbles through a crowded room, knocking over boxes and books. He collapses on a computer chair and surrenders his tired eyes to the unwavering screen once again. He takes a sip of his coffee and begins rapidly typing. His hands move like spiders across the keyboard, skittering digital commands like webs. Terrain becomes morphed at the click of a mouse. Characters are created, worlds twisted, stories written. His mess of hair is unable to cover his eyes, glued to the life on the screen. It has come to the point where he has forgotten which world is the real one. He loses contact with the outside, communicating only with his team. Somebody calls his name, but he continues his endless typing, his endless clicking. He takes another sip of coffee, the endless trade of creation for destruction.

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Cornerstone (writing w/ Linda and Michelle)

I'm walking into a field of rippling grass. The wind buries my feet in a wave of green. I look for an empty patch, a starting point, but my eyes waver. The swaying of the trees kill my eyelids, but I'm still wide awake. My skin is blistering in the heat of regret. Charcoal flies from my head like hair. My feet crumble beneath me, pillars of my past mistakes. I struggle to move forward, but my hands remain cupped together. I have to protect. I have to trust. There's not other option when I'm lost in a blaze. My chest caves in and my head collapses on the soot of my body. The seed falls, still clasped in my hands. It lands on the bed of my remains, purified and renewed. This is the last hope. This, this is our new cornerstone.

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Mail (writing w/ Linda and Michelle)

I write every day. Ink covers my hands, glistening gloves that leave fingerprints wherever they touch. Paper is my sustenance, each page replacing my meals. The table is scarred with eligible jumble of letters. Thousands of books could be written on there, but the words are merely in the wrong order, misplaced. Ink blots scatter across like constellations, guiding the path to my mind. I cannot help it, I am drawn to create, to express. Paper crumbles in mountains around me. It is all that I do now, I have become a machine, mechanical writing, and reiterations of the wrist and citations of the fingers. My life is on those pages that I send, driven by a purpose I have long since lost. I am alone in this room, my eyes squinting from the low light. The shadows only form more words and the reflections of more letters. There is nothing else left for me, it is my only hope. I write to you every day. I just wait for you to write back.