Die alone.

The storm outside was blasting the life out of the ground. Something seemed different. The sky looked furious. The zephyrs seemed to snap at the sun. The storm called me to come outside. People were dying. The sun said to me, "You must be a masochist for thinking I could love you. Invest in some bandages."
I shut my door and went to sleep. Because who could ever love unlovable me?

Outside, the sky raged and fumed. It cast down angels and raised demons on high. Rifts split open and time melted.
And I began to wonder if love was alive. A lie.

The angels began to sing hymns of hate ad nauseum. Holy chants had never felt so blasphemous.
The storm began to fester and seethe like an angry wound that rolled in from the sea.
I woke up from my slumber and looked outside. People were dying. I laughed. But no one laughs at God. Not even angels.

I sat down at my desk and opened a letter.

A letter to my future self --

Your past self ripped down the heavens and tore the clouds asunder to fix you.
And though I can't know for certain how it all turned out, please remember, we were created with the intention of being happy. Not to watch the world wither away to dust. So please, be happy. For me. For you.

I tore up the letter and fed it to the sky. Maybe it's better if I die alone.

Untitled #8

I can't explain this state that I'm in. This state of existence, of terrible being.
You knew that I was broken pretty bad. You left me in silence.

And the reckless abandon that we had. You ran outside without your shoes and told me not to follow you.
Of course.
What a curious place we had found in that greenhouse in the yard. There were lights all around, silvery gray. Whispers of ghosts gone by. Small tendrils crawled their way out of a pot in the center of the room.

The petals unfurled, revealing a

fuck this shit.

What the fuck am I doing here? I hate this place. It's repulsive. The people are fucking pricks with no regard for anything except their grande no-fat lattes and their fake and bakes.
God, this place.

I can't explain this state that I'm in. I could tell you, but the telling gets old.
I fight with myself every day. I fight. I spar. Just jump on a bus. Go somewhere. It's not like you really need to do any of this --
NO. FUCK YOU. I DO.
This place doesn't allow for such freedom. Such happiness. No. It's a dark thing, a ravenous, hungry beast that sucks any scrap of anything less than superficial happiness out of you. It just doesn't lend itself to that. We aren't significant. Just little tin soldiers beating some little tin life, pretending like it matters. We're just floating in space.
I can't understand why we keep whispering when we mean harsh, brutal things.
You're not fooling anyone.
We should be screaming our lungs out all the time.

They say that no good art came from happiness.

No good art seems to be coming from anything anymore.

Spilling.

Hang on, help is on the way.

Untitled #7

There's a girl who passes me in the hallway every day. She nods at me. I nod back. We continue on with our business.

Fleeting human contact.

She seems to know me, and every time she nods, I wrack my brain, but I can't seem to remember. Oh God, who is she?

I can't seem to keep everything straight. I don't know whom I've decided to like or to hate.
And I'm just waiting for the day when someone will slap me or shake me and tell me that it's not real. That it's understandable to forget.

But it never happens. The day never comes. I forget which habits I was supposed to break or to show.

The girl seems to like me, but I don't know. I can't relate to her. I'd like to get to know her, but Jesus, all the time it takes.
And maybe that one day will come when she'll slap me and say "Hey fucker, who are you?"

And I won't know the answer.
So until then, I'll just smile and nod and pretend like I know.

Orchestration.

There are days, and then there are days like today. When it seems like everything is symbolic of my life and my entire existence, for better or for worse, and it makes me smile. Or frown. For better or for worse? I do not know. I don't think I ever will.

Walking, head bent, with my mind filled with thoughts to the brink. But managing. Somehow managing. And the wind blows, for the longest time. Watching the wind blow the leaves in little dances around my feet. Watching the world, in the cold, shivery way that it has, come alive. Watching as the trees sway, back and forth, like some kind of giant metronome. Watching as what I thought might stay, goes. Watching, watching watching, as my life happens.

Watching, doing, or making? And I wonder. My ideas are running around. I feel as though I could write pages and pages and pages of stories and plots and adventure. In my head. Onto the pages they would go, and make a masterpiece.

And I've been thinking. All throughout the night I thought, and drew mental images. Of people I know and people I don't. My head is full of strangers I've created whom I'm sure have interesting stories to tell if only they I would tell them. And people that would tell stories if only I could bring them to life. They are everywhichwhere. One of my biggest disappointments is that nobody will ever be able to see the things in my head as I do. I can never hope to create the art and the ideas I see and do them justice and make you understand that I think in colors, big and bold and loud and everything is Exciting. And you just want to stay because it it breathtaking.

I don't think I'm living up to my potential. Instead, I've found little potentials and I've been chasing them into the deep dark corners where they live and sometimes I forget to turn around and see where I've been going. Perhaps I am lost, but I am having an awfully big adventure. Shall I find my way back? What will I find? What if we could meet ourselves in the past and see how we'd changed? But perhaps that is for another day. Another day that isn't so blisteringly cold. So terrible and demanding. So fucking cruel.

Untitled #7.

I took a walk tonight.

It was frigid; probably the coldest it's been all winter. Up the in sky, the moon shone like a pale bone. A sort of humanity left in the inky black.
I smiled at the moon. As if I knew her.

I found a quiet stretch of grass at the park my house and laid down, despite the residue from the earlier cloudburst. I began my quiet mental ascension to twilight. To a place where religion hasn't taken root- of course, my concentration breaks. I look up again. The clouds are stains upon the sliver of humanity.

She begins crying for things that she sees others do without crying.

The stains try to cover for themselves by scattering away from the tears.
The clouds crack open and drip. The grass is stained with the moon's lachrymose.

And off in the distance, I spot a dark, yawning chasm.