A Letter To The Lost

You do this often, and it works so do not despair.

It is not an exercise at all, but rather how nature unfolds, or at least how it’s supposed to unfold. Like a flower blooming.

Live here. Live now. Breath.

See everything for what it is, see it with love if you can but never resentment.

You stray the path, like misguided sheep, and then play shepherd and bring yourself back. So it is. So it is alright.

On good days you accept most of yourself, of bad ones I do not wish to speak on such a beautiful morning.

A sign, a guide, a conversation is what you crave for, to beg clarification of your righteous path. But you forget, such divine synchronicity only occurs when you forget the self and stop looking.

Blessed are you with rationality, riddled with emotions, yes, but rationality it is, hence the last good king predicts your success. Do not doubt it. For no harm shall come from it.

How do I stress the utter importance of vulnerability?

To stay open, to be subject to ideas, emotions, people, events and perhaps in some contexts, even thoughts, all the time maintaining your position as a rational man. Alive and observing, strong and grounded, while still letting himself get carried down roads that he knows not where they lead.

Because that is life. That is how you grow. And amid security, self assurance and comfort there is nothing but old age and self loathing.

So live and breath and be, in this holy reality while you last. Even as we speak your time grows short.

So live. And let nothing take this reflection from you, for than you would be a failure. A human non-being.

So live. And breathe.

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A Practical Solution

He gave up looking for the pills and looked around the wrecked room.

He’d knocked most of the things around in his feverish frenzy. Trying to breath calmly, he focused on his heart pounding against his chest and ignored his thoughts and the rising anxiety. It was worth trying.

He gives in, and thinks of alternatives. One presents itself. Not very healthy. Not very practical. But there is the promise of effectiveness.

He steels himself, walks slowly to the wall and leans, resting his head against the cold plaster. Slowly lifting his clenched fist he begins knocking it against the wall.

Slowly at first, just a gentle knocking. And then faster, harder.

Before long he’s pounding with all his might. Over and over again, with tears starting to flowing down his face.

A muffled scream escapes even as he clenches his jaw tighter. The fist stops mid air and he lets it drop to his side. The blood slowly trickles down to the floor into a pool, next to a smaller puddle of tears from his face.

He listens for any thoughts that might pop up. But there’s no space for thought. The pain dominates everything else.

Pain kills pain. The irony is not lost on him as he chuckles through the tears. Pain, the painkiller.

And then it comes. A silhouette of a face. A scent. The essence of a memory. Vibrant, alive, breathing.

His body shakes as a torrent of energy takes over him. Anger. Self-loathing. Despair. Pain.

But mostly anger.

He clenches his fist again and raises it and throws it against the wall with everything he’s got.

A crack. Followed by his bellowing.

He collapses unto the floor, writhing in pain, and listens to his own repressed screams bouncing off the walls, clutching his broken, mangled fist.

 

LATER

He lights a cigarette and watches the city’s skyline through the rain, smoke rising up in disturbed patterns. Patched up hand still throbbing, he focuses on the twinkling city lights with moist eyes. They were seldom dry these days.

He leans out the balcony and stretches out his better hand to the rain, and the rain embraces it with cold droplets. He looks down, 15 stories down. A long way to go. He sighs and steps back, pulling long and hard at the cigarette.

Death was a solution he couldn’t afford yet.

 

The Downward Spiral.

Angel dust and blood flowing from my nose
fumes from my belly, oozing through my pores,
the darkness in my rotting lungs
a reminder of my date with the reaper.

kill thyself, lest thine be killed
father awaits my bleeding soul
regardless of the heathen I’ve been,
when am dying slowly, I feel whole

Angel dust and needle pricks,
numbing soul and killing thoughts
toxic spirits and suicide sticks,
ease my pain, take me quick.

All these vices, all these tricks
just to feel something else for a moment
can’t do it otherwise, no way slick
angel dust and needle pricks,
one last time, take me quick.

Is.

I have been watching and I see nothing at last. I’ve been blessed with emptiness.

Everything on my mind can and will be dropped, leaving me whole and inspired.

My resistances, a seed to perversions. Levee broken, soul set free.

I am nothing, I know nothing, I don’t have to, I am.

Nothing has been solved, just a revelation regarding the lack of a problem.

I witness; my thoughts, my emotions, the fire rising from my belly through my spine to my skull. I am the watcher. I have the power to let power go.

I am nothing.

I am free.

 

Writer’s Block 2.0

Place Title Here

Dreams of an empty planet, grey and sunless. No signs of life, no breeze, no movement. abandoned cities and towns, waters and skies. the decay is slow to set but time has lost relevance if it ever held any.

If I close my eyes, the world ceases to exist and non-existent it shall remain till I let it be again. But if I close my eyes, and see another world, dream up another world, however I like it, and it exists in my mind. So real. As real as the one I see with my real eyes.

I read somewhere that everything you can possibly imagine has to exist somewhere in the universe for if it didn’t you couldn’t possibly imagine it. The idea being that everything is energy, including thoughts and emotions and energy cannot be destroyed or created. So if it’s in your head, it’s out there. of course it’s just an idea. a thought is probably exactly that: a thought. A figment of your imagination, no more, no less. but the idea is too good not romanticize.

I’ve always lived in my head, and sometimes it gets nasty up there. So the prospect of every single thing i can imagine actually being a reality in some dimension is not that appealing.

Of Old Friends Lost…

I’ve been loathing myself for too long,
in dark crevasses of my mind
shying away from light,
I’ve let these thoughts grow like a cancer

burning, consuming, eating away
at my fragile conscience,
an ever increasing void
that brims with your sickness

i feed on what you give me
and what you give me feeds on me,
your indifference makes my soul cringe
but longs for your warmth, now long gone.

Reflection

Your flaws irk me
Your imperfections magnified unbearably,
they outshine mine
i wish i could choke you.

i hate myself
but i hate you more.
i’d like to never see you again,
but i don’t have that comfort when it comes to me.

too fat, too loud, too crude
doesn’t matter who you are,
i’ll find your flaws and loath them.
there’s hate in me, but no blame
because in the end, it’s all the same

Because you and I, we’re the same.

The Last of them.

 

“What do you see?”
“The void. There is nothing there. I am afraid the emptiness has consumed him. I’m sorry.”

The high priestess looked away. She was a strong woman. She had to be, ten thousand looked up to her. The last ten thousand.

She gazed into the space. It has been sixty haze years since her brother was thrust into the void along with 12 others. A final attempt to save a dying race. The chose thirteen were shot out into the stars in a last attempt to salvage their species. A failed attempt.

She turned around and grasped the oracle’s hand, not too gently. “Look again old mother. Look one last time, I beg you. He’s out there. His essence calls to mine. One last time!”
The old oracle sighed heavily. She was tired. And old. Too old. Her own essence was running thin. “Alright child. One last time.”

She gazed off again and her eyes turned glassy again. She started into space foir a good ten minutes. And then she grabbed the high priestess’s hand. “I see him!”

The priestess gasped and barely choked back a cry. The old mother continued “He is in his chamber. His essence is strong. He will live child! His path is straight now. He heads towards life.”

Still not able to contain her joy the high priestess asked softly, “How far away from his destination?”

“Eight hundred thousand void years. He will reckon the emptiness of the void even though he sleeps. I am afraid he sees everything in his dreams.”

“Eight hundred thousand…I cannot fathom it.”

The old mother looked up now, her eyes the usual thunder blue again. “But there is hope. And hope is all we need.”

Yes…hope, thought the high priestess of the final ten thousand of the old race as she turned to gaze into the stars and the space from the floating chamber, just below the atmosphere. Hope.

 

The Pact.

It was just one lousy beer. One lousy fucking beer. Usually it took about four for the underlying stupidity to surface and make me do something…well, stupid. Or reckless. Or a lethal combination of both.

I was with a friend S. It was one of those super boring evenings where you really have nothing to do but you just don’t wanna binge watch some crap on the screen. So we just decided to grab a few beers and kill the night. College huh.

About an hour later I and S are half way down the first beer and maybe it was just the beer (maybe that particular batch had a little extra something) or maybe it was just us, but we were really fucking buzzed. We were on the rooftop and it was a full moon day and the soft breeze carried the salty scent of the ocean.

So we start talking about life (surprise surprise) and S tells me how he is anxious to stop leeching off his parents and get a job and go out on his own. The dilemma being that he doesn’t want to work at a job. (who does?).

“Man, fuck a job. Fuck all that slave shit, go do something on your own.”
*sigh*
“yeah but…where the fuck do I start? What the fuck do I do? I have no idea. And all I get from people is this vague bullshit like “Follow your passion” or “chase your dreams“. Chase this (grabs reproductive organ) bitch. Gimme something helpful. Fucking clowns.”
“Hahaha yeah. Get a job. get a wife. Have a dozen kids. Retire when you’re too tired to do anything else”
I laugh. He laughs. The moon just watched.

I finish my beer and sit up. “You know what dude? I am never getting a job. I promise. Not to you. but to m- *burp* me. I am never getting a job. I am never settling down. Fuck the staus quo. I am going my own way, Fuck all this manufactured reality. Fuck the guy who got a job. I promise. I will not bend.”

I guess that fired S up. “You know what?……. Yeah. Fuck all that.”
He drained the bottle and smashed it against the other side of the wall. “Fuck a job”.

I grabbed mine and mimicked him. “Fuck marriage!”

He grabbed one of the many empty bottles lying around (it is a popular drinking spot) “Fuck adults!”. SMASH.

I fished out a whisky bottle. “Fuck social conventions!”

I let out a howl and S joins me.

SMASH.

SMASH.

SMASH.

S bends down and looks at me with a goofy grin. “Down to the last two bottles dude. Lets make a pact.” (I know…corny. But we meant it and we were drunk so fuck you.)

He hands me one, and clears his throat “We fucking swear on our balls that we will never bow down to society, social conventions or ever give a lovely flying fuck about what people think or say about us!” (I know. pretty colorful huh?) With a war cry he smashes the last bottle against the wall.

Me still laughing, I follow suit. Except instead of throwing it against the wall, I smash it against the wall while still holding it. Still laughing I hi5 S.

There is a wet splash. I guess there was still some booze left in the bottle. But as I held my hand up I saw the bone of my forefinger in the pale moonlight.

“Yo come check this out”. Still laughing.

FAST FORWARD MODE:

S sees the blood and completely loses his shit. Drives me to the university health center on his motorbike. They don’t have an X-ray so they call an ambulance.

Never been in an ambulance before. Am still buzzed and pretty calm but S is shaken up by the blood and he doesn’t want to look at the bone.

At the hospital. Doc smells the booze and makes us confess before stitching it up after the X-ray.

3.A.M in the morning when we finally step out.

NORMAL MODE:

S lights 2 cigarettes and passes me one. (My hand is bandaged too heavily).
I pull hard and release a cloud of smoke and watch it float away. Dreamy. Never gets old. “My lungs are so happy”.
S laughs. “You’re fucking loco man. Crazy motherfucker. The only thing I want right now is my bed.”
We puff away, the same moon above us.
I chuckle. “Hell of a pact though right?”
S glances at his watch. “Yeah man sure. I wish these fucking ambulances did return journeys or something”.
“Hmm. Let’s just get an auto”

As we ride back I glance at my hand. The whole thing probably meant nothing. And S and I never mention the pact whenever we told the story over the next few weeks. I am pretty sure he forgot actually.

But not me.

The 9 stitches will scar and be a reminder for the rest of my life.