appearances.

Beware of pretty packages

all wrapped up in a bow;

the calm and steady surface

holds a hidden beast below.

Flawless smiles will conceal

the very deepest pains-

but when the facade is ripped away,

the ugly truth remains.

Don’t let designer fool you.

Those appearances? Don’t buy.

Or you’ll get all wrapped up

in that perfect little lie.

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silence.

there is
[peace]
in stillness

Indeed,
content
are the hands
that lay idle

the gaze, in awe of beauty,
does not w.a.n.d.e.r

the heart, free of pain,
Does not /a c h e/

and yet-
in —-movement
there is life

in the
rushing,
seeking,
feeling-
there is living

they seek:
serenity,
reprieve,
quiet.

and in it, they find
[peace].

in the silence,
my fingers twitch.

don’t write.

water

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
―Ernest Hemingway

Don’t write because someone asks why you haven’t in a while, or because they tell you that  you should.
Don’t write because it’s been a month, or three, or seven.
Don’t write because you made a promise to yourself to do it every week or two.
Don’t write because you live for views, or likes, or shares or retweets.
Don’t write because someone else is writing.

Don’t write, unless…

Don’t write unless you have learned, unless you have grown. Don’t write unless you have felt, unless you have lived, somehow.

Don’t write unless you have discovered or reaffirmed one of life’s truths and you need to get it out through your fingers.

Don’t write unless it is release for you. For some people it’s music, for others it’s exercise, for still others it’s drawing or painting or dancing. Don’t write unless for you, it’s writing.

Don’t write unless the words are burning their way through your brain and if you continue to resist writing, you might just catch fire.

Don’t write unless you want to, unless you have to. Don’t write unless somehow, finding the right words makes life more bearable.

If it does, then make a cup of coffee. Or pour the whiskey. Take up your pen, or your keyboard.

In the journey to find the right words, remember for the thousandth time how frustrating and imperfect language is. Know that you will never get it completely right. Forgive yourself.

Write it out. Let it go. Move on with living. And then… Don’t write.

Let a week pass. A month. A year. Don’t write.

Let them write, blog, snap, chat, post. Don’t write.

Keep going on not writing until you stumble upon a word or phrase or feeling that will not give you rest, that haunts you both in solitude and in crowded rooms. A notion that lurks in the moments before you fall asleep and in the darker corners of your brain.

Continue on, not writing… until you can’t.

That’s when you write.

itching.

I itch.

it’s a twitch
I dare not scratch-
for that way lies
loneliness.

there was a time
my soul would
e  c  h  o
like an empty suitcase,
the open road.
Behold:

Connection, Affection
are far too tempting

and suddenly
I see
Life
unfolding the way all those
Coming-of-Age novels
warned us about
[with disdain,]
the refrain

repeating
 
over and over
again and again
before my eyes.

to my surprise,
I understand.

and yet, the grand
vastness of infinity
calls to me still

How to stand it?
remember:

Life is for Living
and when I arrive at my death,
out of breath
and late as usual,
and my soul finally
s.c.r.a.t.c.h.e.s. its way free
of this confining body,

I will           race
to that glimmer
at the edge of forever
and              embrace
the impossible echoes
of eternity

light prevails.

IMG_0729

“It’s amazing how a little tomorrow can make up for a whole lot of yesterday.”
― John Guare

I’m sitting in a diner, the light brown wood of the tabletop familiar under the standard placemat of bright squares advertising local businesses. No overwhelming feeling of hunger has gripped me, no feeling of anticipation of my order’s arrival has slipped into the corners of my mind. I sit, contentedly, taking in the slight hustle and bustle around me.

I glance to my right, and tilt my head, confused. A familiar face I was not expecting to see meets my gaze steadily, with a smile. I smile back uncertainly.

“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I respond hesitantly. “Is it, ah, is it okay for you to be here? Can you be here right now?”
“Yeah don’t worry, I can be here. How are you?”
I relax a little. “I’m great,” I say happily. “How are you?”
“Really good, I’m doing great,” he says, a tone of sincerity backing his words.

This response fills me with joy. We fall into the happy, comfortable conversation of two people with no walls between them. I couldn’t say if it lasted for minutes or for hours. If you ask me what we talked about, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.

Something gently warns me our conversation is coming to an end. I look into his eyes, mine suddenly welling with tears. I’m not sure why I’ve just been so overtaken with emotion.

To my surprise, I say, “I’m so scared I won’t remember this. I’m so scared I won’t remember that I talked to you.”

“Don’t worry,” he assures me. “I’ll make sure. I’ll make sure you remember.”
His words comfort me. Everything seems a little fuzzy.

Blackness. I realize my eyes are closed, slowly become aware that I’m laying in my bed, the darkness of night still covering my side of the Earth. I roll over, confused. I realize I’m crying.

It’s been almost five years since I’ve spoken to Chris, five years since any of us have. And yet, I feel it hasn’t even been five minutes. Maybe it hasn’t.

I think about the dream and am overwhelmed with a sense of calm, of comfort. I’ve spent the last five years like my entire family has- keeping my cousin alive in my heart, in my memories. Carrying around the medal of St. Christopher as a token of love, of luck, of protection, of whatever I needed it to be.

Who can say for sure what dreams are? Imaginations run wild? Doors to another reality? Neither of those? Both of them?

I am not sure what I believe about most dreams, but I believe that Chris is doing great. I don’t know why he chose me to share that with, and I don’t know what I think happens to our souls after we leave this world. I don’t think we spend eternity in diners where we never eat, but I’ve come to believe we can meet our friends and family there and tell them how we’re doing.

And although I’m unsure where or when or how or who I’ll be after I die, I very much believe Chris will be there to greet me.

That alone makes me unafraid. That alone makes me hopeful. That alone is enough.

To The One Who Loved Me More

To The One Who Loved Me More:
I am truly sorry for
The pain I put you through-
But, my dear, I knew
It was cruel to pretend.
And so I brought the end
Of you and me,
But I paid dearly
For the pain I brought you.
Because then I fell into…

The One Who Loved Me Less-
Who, I confess
R i p p e d    me right apart,
Properly abused my heart.
Thought love was a fun play
Until the curtain fell away-
And it all became much too real,
So he shut off how to feel
And no one ever knew
The loneliness he put me through.

But, to More and Less:
I wish you the best,
I hope that life is kind
And that one day you both find
The One You Love the Same-
It is an exit to the game.
Joy comes with loving equally,
I have finally come to see
And found myself, and so I pray
You will find your Same someday
It is an end you both have earned:
To be loved the way that your love burned