#introspectivewriting

[fornoone-and-someone]

Not what I Want

I don't want to be desired—I want to be understood.

Not craved for a moment, but truly withstood.

To be liked for the things that my mind—not my mouth—can do.

And not have to compensate for doing it too.

I don't want to be sexualized—I want to be held.

To be appreciated for my feelings and depth.

For my curiosity to be cherished, even if the questions seem dumb,

that when I ask for your favorite color, you don't answer with a sexual joke.

I don't want to be rushed—I want to be waited for.

Through actions, not only words.

To be worth “taking things slow”,

Not for you to say it just to gain my trust.

Sorry, not sorry if I ruined your plans.

But I refused to be pushed to the side,

While you tore my heart apart.

—for no one and someone

[wiltedforgetmenots]

Sometimes, I wish I could turn into stone. Would I find peace then? Would my heart finally grow still if it were made of stone? Or would the wretched thing still keep beating? How I hate the sound of it.

Or if I were just a bird—would I gain the freedom I've always dreamed of? Would I be happy? Does happiness even mean anything to a bird?

If I were a bear, would I be strong enough to keep living? Would I be content just wandering through the forest, listening to the sound of the river? Or would I still dream of another existence when I looked at the moon?

I gaze at the horizon when there’s mist in the air. It looks so peaceful. For a split second, I forget my existence. I want to walk into the mist and stay there—to walk into nothingness, to become nothing.

Mountaintops, covered in snow and trees—oh, how I adore them: the snow, the trees. I wish to be with them. I wish to be them. What a simple existence—serene. Trees, unchanging; snow, cold, just water—a matter ever-changing, yet still the same.

I know it doesn’t matter as long as I have this soul of mine. I know she is the one who yearns. My heart and brain are nothing but pieces of flesh and blood. It is the ghost within me that keeps the fire burning.

My dear soul: calm as a stone, free as a bird, strong as a bear, cold as snow, lonely as a tree. You don’t belong here, dear soul. My body is rotting around you, and you know it. You keep my heart beating because you’re not ready to give up. And still, you make my mind wander. You know we do not belong here. But no—not giving up yet.

You’re like a mother bird, always hatching eggs filled with sickly little birds. You call them hope. But do you know what I do with them? I learned it from my father, you see. When he found a bird with a broken wing, he snapped its neck and fed it to the cat. I do the same. I feed the beast within me with those frail, sickly attempts called hope.

Isn’t it enough, my dear soul? Aren’t you tired of existing? I will not let even a single one of those hatchlings become a phoenix. I refuse to let myself burn over and over again. Once I burn, I will be nothing but ashes—nothing more, no rebirth.

[silentscarsjournal]

The Journal that made me emotional....

[emotionalghostown]

The undoing (TW)

When I first wrote this, I was trying to remember who I used to be—the girl I lost somewhere along the way, buried under trauma and bad choices. She was someone who used to laugh freely, who had dreams that soared beyond the walls of this city. I can still picture those late nights, holding myself together as best I could, whispering that I’d be okay. Back then, I believed in love like it was a fairytale I could write myself into. I stayed up late reading fanfictions and Wattpad stories about impossible love, love that could break boundaries and conquer anything. I played Lana del Rey, Cigarettes After Sex, Marina on repeat, as if those songs were spells to summon the girl I wanted to become.

I was eighteen, naive but full of hope. I was barely an adult, just a child with big dreams and a heart wide open to the world. I thought I could live out the stories I read, maybe save a damaged soul or impress someone untouchable. I wanted to be the heroine, blissfully unaware of the dark corners lurking in real-life romances.

And then, I met him, mere months after moving to this big sin city. The guy with the tragic past, the one everyone warned me about. I remember the rush of excitement, how his blue eyes seemed like portals to a world I wanted so badly to understand. He was my “tortured angel,” his blond hair a mess I wanted to untangle. I threw myself into him, believing I could save him. But instead, he broke me, shattering the wings I hadn’t realized were so fragile.

I fell hard, fast, and with my whole heart, and he dragged me back to reality. The painful lesson: broken romances don’t last. They leave scars that burrow deep, wounds that linger, and that take years to close. I wish I could’ve held on to the person I was before him, but survival meant leaving her behind.

I can still feel the weight of that day—the first time he raised his hand against me. I felt my heart shatter, piece by piece, as if the world I’d built up in my mind had been a lie all along. I searched for the girl I used to be, but he had chased her away, replacing dreams with nightmares. By then, I’d become a ghost of who I was, numb, broken, holding on to anything I could to stay alive.

And then, there was the day he shoved me down, and I realized I was carrying a part of him. The positive test was a lifeline, an impossible irony. I didn’t know how to survive him until I had to protect someone else. He shoved me again, knocked me down again, and with every hit, I felt pieces of myself stirring back to life. I was reborn, in a twisted way, as I lost that child. That loss sparked something in me, reigniting the fire I thought was gone forever.

It’s been a long, brutal road, and the wounds remain. I may never be who I was before him, but I’m still here, standing on my own. And that, I’ve realized, is more than enough. I’ve learned that surviving isn’t about forgetting the past; it’s about reclaiming yourself, piece by piece, from the ashes.

The song at the bottom of this entry was what he sang to me every time, and it will forever be associated with him. (The Lil Peep obsession is 100% the red flag in hindsight.)

[sunnyanddumb98]

The only reason I bought that iPad was to impress you. I've never been an iOS girl—Apple always seemed pretentious and overpriced outside the USA—but there it is, sitting in my new room, where you've never been and never will be. In your absence, it's helped me a lot. I've gotten jobs and lost them. It's travelled a lot—went to London and back, to Buenos Aires too. But I do wish I’d never bought it, that we’d never kissed, that I’d never talked to her or introduced the two of you. Maybe things would be different now; perhaps this room would have been a studio apartment for the both of us. But it’s not and never will be. Now that iPad is just a tool, an outdated, old tool I can’t bring myself to sell, so there it sits on my nightstand, wherever I go.

[elysianwing]

Panning

We often trick ourselves into thinking poems need be long and drawn out to extract some sort of truth from the stream of consciousness outpouring from our lips, pen-tips, and keystrokes... like prospectors sifting the earth searching for gold specks in dirt lifted from a river's bed. We must take great care to remind ourselves on occasion that the time we spend looking for golden truth is not nearly as important as where we start our search. written 9/1/2024 @ 7:58pm by Alexander Learmont https://www.patreon.com/Elysianwing

[dervishlatino]

Decay’s fractal sissonne

Rustling like the faded foliage of a waning yew, I sweetly slide off of my bristling branches onto broken bedrock littered with dead cut flowers.

Pale and powerless, I recount my yesteryears as the emerald enigma that embroidered crimson crowns of resplendent orchards brimming with virginal exuberance.

As I split further from my source, thoughtfully dotting these thickets like spots on a leopard, I ruefully release myself in this serpentine soil – a mosaic of flavors for shamanistic forays into fractal dimensions unrooted from the aridity that intermediates our initial infantile incision and our soothing swan song.

✦ @dervishlatino | NNF نشوان نازاريو فيريرا ✦

[versiqcontent]

The older I get, the more I understand what my father was fixing. Not the bike. Not really.

He never said much. But he always showed up. With a wrench. With silence. With love that didn’t ask for attention.

Some people love with words. Others love with presence. And sometimes, we only recognize it years later, in the way we care for broken things that never quite work.

If you know that kind of love, this story might feel like memory. Or maybe like a moment you never got to name.

[spanta2ra]

The Suspicious Case of the Blue Sock

I only went out for yogurt. Plain, mild, uneventful yogurt. But I wore two different socks. One blue like a bored Tuesday, the other... uncertain. Possibly beige. Possibly rebellious.

Five faces appeared out of nowhere— Like a jury summoned by the laws of awkward fashion.

One had curly hair that screamed in spirals. One looked like he hadn’t slept since 2003. Another stared like a disappointed art teacher. They didn’t speak. They simply... evaluated.

Finally, someone said, “You again?” I blinked. “I... don't think so?” Another leaned in. “Didn't you once laugh in an elevator... alone?”

I wanted to explain, I wanted to say: The elevator played a trumpet version of ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ What choice did I have?

But they huddled, mid-sidewalk, like referees. Whispers. Nods. One pointed at my shoes, as if they held answers.

Then — verdict time.

The leader stepped forward, snipped the air with imaginary scissors, and said:

“This time, we’ll let you go. But next time, bring matching socks… or at least a sense of direction.”

And I, still sock-confused, walked home with my yogurt, and the unshakable feeling that perhaps I’d just stood trial in a dream written by a sock.

[libellulas]

Mensaje

Algunos segundos se convirtieron en minutos, luego, sin percibirlo, los minutos se transformaron en horas.

Mi mente no callaba, seguía pensando, redactando, borrando mi respuesta.

Estaba en blanco, y como siempre, intentando armonizar mi sentir con el cuidado hacia él.

Otra vez fallaba, otra vez me silenciaba para no incomodar.

Quería ser yo quien barajará el juego, pero nuevamente era solo una espectadora, ni siquiera jugadora, ni siquiera opción.

¿Será mi actitud?

¿Será mi forma de ser?

¿O simplemente mi rostro?

Ninguna mirada, ninguna palabra, ningún gesto confirma que mi buena voluntad es suficiente, que es válida... o al menos, que es.

Apagué la pantalla y volví al vacío, donde lo dicho no cambia nada y lo callado pesa lo mismo que antes.

Será una noche larga, será un mensaje infinito.

(07/02/2025)

[virtualbestie]

I don’t know how to feel this feeling. What if I take too much, only to lose it all? What if I abandon the dream, only to find myself wishing on dandelions for one more chance?

I look into your eyes and see a little heaven I never knew existed. You took me into your arms and promised to calm the storm—not just for me, but for us. Us. And that alone gave me a reason to fight, to hold on through the tempest, through the wilderness.

Like rain tapping against my roof, I will dance—imperfect, missing steps, but dancing still. I will move to the rhythm of that December night, even if I stumble, even if the music fades.

[renegader3d]

Writing Sample #2

This is the first chapter of my 2nd published work, and 1st full length novel "Get Happy" which is releasing in March of 2025 on Amazon.com and Kindle

The dimly lit room stank of stale liquor and sweat. A crumpled pile of mismatched clothes lay at the foot of the bed, a fitting metaphor for the man who wore them. Harold Cervos, better known as Happy the Clown, sat hunched over a cluttered desk, his reflection in the cracked mirror a haunting caricature of his former self. The vibrant colors of his once-beloved costume were dulled by years of neglect, and the painted smile on his face was now more mocking than cheerful.

The laughter had stopped long ago. The Ringley Brothers Circus, his home and livelihood for nearly two decades, had closed its doors, leaving Harold adrift in a world that had no place for a broken clown. He had tried to find solace in children's birthday parties, but the children's laughter only deepened his sorrow. Each gig was a painful reminder of the joy he could no longer feel.

Tonight, the emptiness was too much to bear. Harold's gaze shifted to the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the desk, its amber contents glowing faintly in the light of a flickering lamp. Next to it, an open bottle of sleeping pills lay like an invitation. He reached for the bottle with a trembling hand, pausing to glance at the photograph taped to the mirror.

It was a picture of him and his old circus troupe, taken on the last night of their final show. They were all there: the wolfman acrobat, the strongwoman, the ringmaster, the magician, and the clowns. Happy was in the center, his painted grin wider than anyone else's. He remembered that night vividly, the thunderous applause, the roaring laughter. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He poured the whiskey into a chipped glass, his hands shaking so violently that some of it spilled onto the desk. Harold didn't care. He threw back the glass, the burn of the alcohol momentarily distracting him from the crushing weight in his chest. He followed it with another, and another until the bottle was nearly empty.

Harold fumbled with the cap of the pill bottle, finally managing to twist it off. He poured a handful of the small white pills into his palm, their cold, lifeless presence a stark contrast to the warmth of the whiskey still lingering on his tongue. With a deep breath, he raised his hand to his mouth and swallowed them all in one go, chasing them down with the last of the whiskey.

He leaned back in his chair, the room spinning around him. As the pills began to take effect, his thoughts grew fuzzy, and a strange sense of calm washed over him. For the first time in years, he felt something other than despair. It wasn't happiness, but it was close enough.

His eyelids grew heavy, and he let them close, surrendering to the darkness. As he drifted off, memories of his days with the circus played out in his mind like a comforting dream. He saw himself juggling, performing pratfalls, and making the audience laugh until their sides ached. He saw the faces of children, eyes wide with wonder, their laughter echoing in his ears.

He saw himself as Happy, the clown who could bring joy to anyone, even if he couldn't find it himself.

As the final curtain began to fall on his consciousness, Harold smiled a genuine smile for the first time in years. He whispered a final, slurred farewell to the world that had forgotten him.

"Goodnight, Happy."

And then, there was silence.

Harold’s descent into unconsciousness was abrupt, plunging him into a surreal, nightmarish carnival where reality and fantasy twisted into a grotesque tapestry of madness. He found himself standing in the middle of a vast circus tent, its interior bathed in a harsh, almost painful array of colors that seared his eyes. The air was thick with the overpowering scents of stale popcorn, cotton candy, and the metallic tang of blood, mingling in a nauseating miasma.

Happy stood in his full clown regalia, the costume unusually vibrant and fresh. His face was painted in garish hues, exaggerated features mocking his misery. The crowd’s roar surrounded him, a cacophony of cheers and maniacal laughter that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. He looked around, his heart pounding, and saw familiar faces—the acrobats, the strongman, the ringmaster—but their features were twisted into grotesque, nightmarish parodies of their former selves. Their limbs were elongated, eyes bulging, mouths stretched into horrific, unnatural grins.

A booming voice echoed through the tent, shaking the ground beneath his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the greatest show on earth! Feast your eyes on the incredible, the unbelievable, the terrifying… Mutant Tomatoes from Outer Space!”

The crowd erupted into wild applause as the tent’s fabric walls seemed to ripple and undulate like a living creature. Happy’s heart raced as he watched giant, menacing tomatoes roll into the ring. They were massive, nearly as tall as he was, with faces carved into their glossy red skin. Their expressions were malevolent, eyes glowing a sinister yellow, and their mouths bristled with rows of razor-sharp teeth that dripped with a thick, greenish sap.

The tomatoes moved with an unnatural agility, bouncing and rolling toward the center of the ring. With each movement, their insides squelched and shifted, the sound echoing through the tent like the wet crunch of crushed bones. One of the tomatoes, larger and more menacing than the others, stopped directly in front of him. Its eyes bore into his, and it spoke in a deep, guttural voice that sent shivers down his spine.

“Happy the Clown,” it growled, its breath hot and fetid, “you are the star of this show. Will you entertain us, or will you be our next meal?”

The crowd’s laughter morphed into a sinister chant, “Happy! Happy! Happy!” Their faces blurred together into a nightmarish sea of monstrous grins and leering eyes, their skin stretched tight over their skulls, revealing grotesque, skeletal features beneath.

Harold, now fully embodying Happy, felt a surge of panic. He looked down at his hands and realized he was holding a set of juggling clubs. With no other option, he began to juggle, the familiar motions providing a brief sense of control. The tomatoes watched intently, their glowing eyes tracking the clubs as they spun through the air.

Just as Happy started to feel a sliver of confidence, one of the tomatoes lunged at him, snapping its jaws inches from his face. He stumbled back, dropping the clubs. The crowd roared with laughter, their chant growing louder and more frenzied.

Happy scrambled to his feet, only to find himself surrounded by the killer tomatoes. They closed in on him, their teeth gleaming and eyes glowing. He could feel their hot, rancid breath on his skin, the smell of decay and rot filling his nostrils.

“Dance, clown!” the largest tomato commanded, its voice a terrifying blend of anger and hunger.

With no other choice, Happy began to dance. He performed every trick and pratfall he knew, his movements becoming more frantic and desperate as the tomatoes closed in. The more he danced, the louder the crowd’s laughter grew, a mocking symphony that filled his ears and drowned out his thoughts.

The tent began to warp and twist, the vibrant colors bleeding into each other in a sickening swirl. The tomatoes multiplied, their numbers growing until they filled the entire tent. They circled Happy, their eyes gleaming with predatory delight, their teeth clicking together with an ominous, rhythmic sound.

Just as the darkness began to consume him, Happy heard a distant, echoing voice. It was soft, almost tender, cutting through the madness.

“Harold, wake up. Please wake up.”

But Happy was trapped in the nightmare, unable to break free. The tomatoes advanced, their teeth snapping and gnashing, their eyes burning with a malevolent hunger. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing a nearby frying pan to fend them off. With a wild swing, he sent one flying across the ring, its pulpy insides splattering against the tent wall in a grotesque explosion of green and red. But more tomatoes took its place, their numbers endless.

Exhausted and terrified, Happy tripped and fell to the ground. The tomatoes were upon him in an instant, their teeth sinking into his flesh. He screamed, the pain searing through him as the world around him dissolved into chaos.

The scene shifted, and Happy found himself in a twisted version of his kitchen. It was a battlefield, the counters and floors covered in a thick layer of tomato pulp and blood. Happy fought with every ounce of strength, smashing and stomping the relentless tomatoes. They bit at his ankles, their sharp teeth tearing through his skin, drawing blood. Panic surged through him as he realized he was losing the fight.

"WAKE UP, HAROLD!" the voice screamed, almost deafening now.

The tomatoes' hissing grew louder, their eyes glowing with a malevolent light. They leaped at him, sinking their teeth into his arms and legs. Pain shot through him as he thrashed and struggled, desperately trying to shake them off.

The room started to spin, the colors blurring together in a nauseating whirl. The voice was a roar in his ears, shaking him to his core.

"WAKE UP!"

With a final, desperate effort, Happy forced his eyes open, the dream shattering into a thousand fragments as he returned to the waking world.

Harold gasped for air, his body trembling as he bolted upright. Sweat soaked his clothes, and his heart hammered in his chest. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds. He was alone, the only sound was his ragged breathing. Harold realized that he was no longer on his chair but instead had fallen on the floor.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The memory of the killer tomatoes and the twisted circus tent lingered in his mind, a nightmarish haze that refused to fully dissipate. He could still feel the phantom pain of their bites, the echo of the crowd’s laughter ringing in his ears.

As his breathing steadied, the reality of his situation began to sink in. The empty bottle of whiskey and the scattered pills on the floor reminded him of what he had done. The darkness of the room seemed to press in on him, suffocating in its silence.

Harold buried his face in his hands, the weight of his despair crushing him once more. He had wanted to escape, to end the pain, but even in his drug-induced stupor, he couldn’t find peace. The dream had been a cruel parody of his life, a twisted reflection of his inner turmoil.

He glanced at the photograph taped to the mirror, the smiling faces of his old circus family now seeming like a cruel joke. He was Harold Cervos, a washed-up clown with nothing left to live for. But as he stared at his reflection, something deep within him stirred.

The voice from his dream echoed in his mind: “Harold, wake up. Please wake up.”

It was a plea, a call to action. Perhaps it was his subconscious urging him to fight, to find a way to reclaim the joy he had lost. Or perhaps it was a memory of someone who had once cared for him, a faint glimmer of hope in the darkness.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Harold stood up. The world spun around him, but he steadied himself, gripping the edge of the desk for support. He couldn’t change the past, but maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to move forward.

As he cleaned up the mess he had made, a new determination began to take root within him. He had hit rock bottom, but there was still a part of him that wanted to survive, to find a reason to smile again.

Harold was still gathering the last of the scattered pills when his phone rang, startling him. He fumbled for it, nearly knocking it off the desk. The screen displayed the name “Diego,” his manager. Diego was a tough, no-nonsense man who had stuck with Harold through the ups and downs, always managing to find him work, no matter how small the gig.

“Hello?” Harold’s voice was hoarse, a mix of residual sleep and the effects of the night’s excess.

“Harold, it’s Diego,” came the brisk reply. “Got a gig for you today. It’s short notice, but they’re paying well. Can you do it?”

Harold hesitated, glancing around his disheveled room. Part of him wanted to refuse, to sink back into the darkness and let the world pass him by. But the faint echo of the dream’s voice urged him to take the chance.

“Yeah, I can do it,” he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.

“Great. It’s a kid’s birthday party over in Oakwood. Be there by two. And Harold… clean yourself up, will ya?”

“Got it, Diego. Thanks.”

He ended the call and stared at his reflection again. The man in the mirror looked like a ghost, a shadow of the vibrant clown he once was. But he had a job to do. He needed to be happy, even if just for a few hours.

Harold moved to the corner of the room where his clown gear lay in a battered old trunk. He opened it and took a deep breath, the familiar, slightly musty smell bringing back a flood of memories. The costume was old, patched together with mismatched fabric, and its colors faded from years of use. It had seen better days, much like its owner.

He pulled on the oversized pants, fastening them with frayed suspenders, and slipped into the baggy, striped shirt. The fabric felt rough against his skin, a stark contrast to the smooth, tailored suits he had once worn in the Ringley Brothers Circus. He laced up his clown shoes, their worn leather creaking with each movement, and finally, he donned the bright red wig and the battered top hat that completed his ensemble.

Standing before the mirror, Harold began to apply his makeup. He painted a broad, exaggerated smile over his weary expression, the red and white grease paint blending to create the face of Happy the Clown. The transformation was almost complete, but as he looked at himself, he couldn’t help but notice the sadness that lingered in his eyes.

With a sigh, he gathered his props – the juggling clubs, the balloons, and the old, reliable squirting flower – and packed them into his worn leather bag. He took one last look around his room, the shadows seeming to whisper of the night’s dark thoughts. Then, with a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and walked out the door.

The sun was bright, the air crisp and clean. The world outside felt like a different place, full of life and possibilities. As Harold made his way to his car, he felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time – hope. It was fragile, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

He drove to Oakwood, the miles passing in a blur of suburban streets and neatly manicured lawns. As he pulled up to the familiar house, he saw the colorful decorations and heard the excited chatter of children. For a moment, he hesitated, the fact that he knew these people, one of them very well threatening to overwhelm him.

But then he remembered the dream, the voice that had called him to wake up. He was Happy the Clown, and for these children, he needed to be their source of joy, even if he couldn’t find it for himself. Harold took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, and stepped out of the car.

[silentscarsjournal]

Are you brave enough to write on this page?

[sunnyanddumb98]

Ambition

Running shoes, thin layers of clothes, mittens, headscarf, socks, seagulls, the moon setting on the shore.

Virtual, abstract, clear, firm warm wood floors, sun-dried linen, a full fridge, chamomile and oatmeal.

They close my tabs, get me through the motions: folding clothes, client service smile, sunrise journal, and class.

Open books, then close them up, sitting in front of a blank page. I stare; I cannot lie or get around. Another yearning aches, another yearning makes, leaking from my eyes, my mouth, my ears, from my bleeding fingertips.

Every word I hear, a song, a whisper, a scream of what it could be. What once hurt now types for me.

What once paradox, orthopraxy toast, ink wasted none, make every word count. Ink running out, clock ticking nonstop.

Just one more word, and someone finally hears, finally sees, what I so dearly hold, what I have long known.

[naomimoorewrites]

Rumination

Torturing yourself is fruitless. When you fall, humble yourself. Do not torment yourself with thoughts of forgiveness and lack thereof. With the same trust and daring on your thousandth time as on your first, offer it up.

It’s above me now. I am what I am. So what can be expected of me. I'm a bastard. You're a bastard. We're all bastards here.

In the end, every tear will be wiped away. For you are good and pure, of that I am sure.

Oh Lord, I have done this because I am what I am. And so what can be expected of me. Such transgressions or even worse. I would like to find out where I die, and vow to never go there. I know my fate and I would like to never meet it. Those who are humble will be exalted. Who do you compare yourself to? I was so profoundly lazy. I am not a good person. I am a murderer. It's obvious in his stature. He regrets nothing. For he is dead. The dead do not regret and how in this moment I wish that was me. 

I will answer with truth even if I'd rather cut my tongue out. My soft heart hates to cause her pain. But I will. I have been secretive for a long time. I was not able To share my truth with another. Sharing my thoughts could have resulted in a merciless death. But I am trying.

Stand vigil. Push through the night, pray continuously. Midnight is the height of the spiritual battle. Then, wait soberly, and you will see demons running to the retreating darkness. Behold the bright, exposing light of day.

I had a debt To pay and so I found you. Exposed. Your illness. Your pain. Your loss. All in service of God’s entertainment.

We all have one life, but in you I wished to live again. To be with you, from the beginning. For I lived a thousand lifetimes in your eyes. Now your eyes have shut and now a thousand lifetimes you deny. Now you've closed my gates to eternity. Maybe I'll persuade you to open those gates for me once again, in the next life.

How does it feel to die? To be reborn? Does the novelty wear off after like the second time. It’s easy to be courageous when there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s impossible, actually.

Everyone dies twice, the day they stop breathing and the day their name is last uttered. And as you read these words right now, you forget. You are dying.

There is a soft knock at the door. It’s far too early for breakfast, so this must be about something else. Fear skitters through me. 

Hey, let’s be honest and brave now. Okay? And I do not reply, I cannot reply. And she sighs. A resigned acceptance. We take a walk. Look at the geese.

Some people are not afraid of dying. That’s crazy because it scares the shit out of me. 

And so we sit in silence.

You know, I never expected to find anything. 

She squints at the horizon and the sun falling into obscurity.

I look to her and think it might be nice for a fresh start. You are the answer to my prayers. I’m doing fine trying to topple my tower of self-doubt and pity. What a skyscraper I have created.

Bow before dishonour herself. And that is precisely what I do. I kneel at her feet. Rub my face against her pillow-soft thighs. There I beg for forgiveness. For solace. For peace.

Why did you do it? She asks.

Because he asked for help. To be in this existence, this experience, you must feel both the glory and the Cross. They joy and the pain. He had chosen to set his down. This is a fallen world. Already forsaken. Your God has left you. An absent father.

Pain is simply participating in the fight for moral redemption. Pain unites us. How to open the heavens to the earth? Suffer, and offer it up. God, use this. Father, unite my sufferings to your suffering. Pain makes a story compelling. There is no life without suffering.

“Please,” Her eyes scrunch shut as she whispers, “say it isn’t so.”

She doesn’t come to see me the next morning and I try to swallow my disappointment.  

If she can’t understand me, I understand that.

[bigfeelinghuman]

el amore

I find love so hard to define

I expressed it in a million different ways All with the same goal 

To find your soul intertwined with mine

Could you feel it?

in the gentle caress of my hand trailing across your face taking in every detail  of your finely tuned design stopping only to sear its image in my mind hoping I'd never need a picture, if I could see you behind closed lids

Could you hear it?

in my desperate rebukes  of your unhealthy habits not in judgement but of care and worry and in hopes of extending our fleeting time in this finite world

Could you decipher it?

In my restless desire to know you

Your heart Your soul Your mind

every fragment of who you are

the broken  the mended  the yet to be pieced together

Whatever you were 

I wanted, I craved, I yearned to nurture, to love, to accept

but what was our love, if not a violent act, a restless chase that leaves me weak as I pour out my love only to find you’re not  to be its destination 

for how could we intertwine if we were never on the same plane of existence  to begin with