Character
September 1997
He was beautiful with glowing innocence that would blind the experienced eye and damn the unfaithful soul. How could you be nervous in the presence of such a gifted spirit that projects love and childish antics in such a frivolous manner that even I could not begin to explain with unimportant, ink-filled words? There was something else to be seen but as human nature regrets to let us see past what is not told we focus on ourselves and let allies take care of themselves. There was something else needed, but again, we regret to see what exists and behave like sheep in a field. Let me in. It sends shivers up my spine but I relish it like the morbid freak that I am. Off track again and unable to find meaning in a page that was meant to have a point, but it got lost when the hand had the ignorance to take a break knowing what effects a simple pause has to offer. So many times written that the power of thought only complicates the creative mind as spontaneity is obviously the way to go. What happened to the main topic once an inspiration to this very making of art? Maybe enough was said, maybe it is all too much, maybe we truly are to blame.
The Continuing Story of Foxwood
September 1997
Yesterday when I woke up this dream was still planted in my brain like some off the wall movie I didn’t quite understand. I witnessed myself staring through different eyes. A common day in the life of reality, only better.
I can remember these care-free days of sitting around the television involved in an intense game of Street Fighter. Before passing over the control we interrupt the tournament for a smoke break outside. Conversation went into overtime on that pitch black porch, but the ending comments were usually about how cold it was until we ventured back indoors. In a few months we will be complaining about the heat. The fighting continues as we laugh at common mistakes and realize how enjoyable it is to play the fool.
Later that night separate groups have been formed by you, me, her, and him causing a temptation for practical jokes. The opposite party bangs on a closed metal door as the perpetrator runs away. Water is poured out of the second story window causing the sound of splashing water to sound like an outside intruder to the downstairs party. We loved to be scared. The early morning hours creep into this sacred bond of nightly rituals but goes unnoticed as stories about ghostly figures seen by the human eye in this very house echo in your ears over a great game of Canasta. You catch your opponent cheating and sock them in the arm. A frogging match breaks out but the winner will be discovered the next morning by who has the biggest bruises. A sound is heard in the vacant room across the hall causing speculation to rise to a maximum high leaving us in a state of wondering what the possibilities are of a well-known spook making chaos. Now the garage is making noises. Blood streaks still remain on the mechanical door, but it is still a mystery of how they got there. We notice them after the boxes are unpacked and it was then that the legend of Foxwood was born. This house still exists but long ago abandoned by the likes of our company. We still drive by but it looks like a stranger now, as we do too.
Reflection
September 9, 1997
My only consolation reflects back where the sun was high, the tide low, and age younger than a new day. Choking on salt water up past my neck and looking back to see you with a grin, I was at last content. Remember my first view of that oversized hill and first time to set foot on foreign soil? The air was crisp and fresh, the earth would shine with red tones, and I promised that someday it would be mine as I looked back to see you with a grin, I was at last in peace. Driving past an Indian’s home set back in the valley of pleasure we ventured on taking in the sights and letting out a breath of freedom, I was in love with life again. Remember feeling suffocated by the confines of loneliness hoping that retreat would occur? The Year was upon us again pushing for action where laziness once existed. A visit here and there was nothing more than a tease as I looked back to see you with a frown.
Poem of all Poems
November 6, 1997
Time is mine to fear in the eyes of serene nights filled with playful antics and a loneliness that now seems to be missed. Almost half a moon has passed since our last encounter. Meaningless pages come before you but this is the poem of all poems. A forced existence now serving as a blanket where careless sheets of faded prints used to cover. When the sun lets you return to an age of the present’s past, it is not he who plays the fool, it is I, it is we, it is you. Indifference thrives in experience as only the purist of pure can relax in the mind of the knowledged for this contains importance, this is the poem of all poems.
Irony
November 1997
Once when vulnerability existed, an idol stood before me in a blind state of happiness. Years later the tables turn and I’m not sure where happiness ends and misery begins. It seems that under the same roof we would rather kill that bond in nightly rituals cherished. In that time I loved you more than I thought I could. After everything we went through I thought you let me know what “we” was worth. With the wave of a hand it was gone just like in the beginning, only a different soul was erased, but I have always stayed the same. Almost a year ago plans to evolve where freshly planted in my brain, but now I seem to be standing alone as you found your own ground. To be stuck here in the confines of everyday knowing that I was the one who wanted out and you, you wanted to stay! Here, I sit under this all too familiar roof with you among strangers, and me? I keep moving backwards.
Fading West
November 8, 1997
Fresh into town away from all that stood to be everyday burdens that weighed me down so many times, but out here I can forget all the petty little things that seemed like the end of the world as I awoke each morning with that unbearable knowledge of such hated events bound to occur in the next twelve hours. Take my hand into the west where the air is clean and the ground is fresh, among everything we are all that’s left, swallow high in the fading west. There’s a broken bus just up ahead parked in the shade of a better promise calling out for a buyer that will someday regret the purchase of a lie, but there she waits faithfully growing old in the shade of the sun. Take my wheel into the west where a faster speed defeats the rest, and dance and sing before the best into the night the moon is crest and mountains hide the fading west.
Identity
December 1, 1997
I’m through with words and meaningless faces that look before me with bitter lies. Tonight my body shakes, my eyes lack the power of sight, and my once charming voice finds pleasure in practicing the art of silence. I’m sick of second guessing and being led astray into the crowded room of half-wits and rejects that now share a common interest with me. The resulting thought always remains to be that one superficial word that crosses my lips so often…whatever. I’m tired of trendy persona suffocating a white face, seemingly vacant when the play comes to a complete halt. Once I thought that my stereotype of a nobody was by far the worst way to be, but night after night we come together and after an hour of babbling on about something relatively and all together stupid, I realize what a joy it is to be alone. I’m missing my cause and the company that shall never vanish no matter how old age is, or how far gone the day is. If I am the stepping stone for another vast cathedral reaching the sky, I must retreat before the base collapses.
Rejected
December 2, 1997
Nobody can know how bad it really is. Words are a far cry from the truth, all they do is lessen the importance of the situation and mislead the ear. I can no longer trust, or love, or feel anything except bitterness and hate. My friendship is selfish and deceiving just as I have been taught by others, in the end I gave in and followed. All is fake with me tonight, and as I wallow in my own self-pity it disgusts me even more when my own pathetic-ness is revealed. Three months and almost a year I welcome my long-awaited vacation that has been put off since adolescence. Youth is my enemy as fear becomes my breath.
Untitled
December 14, 1997
The sky appears purple tonight as the moonlight reflects through the clouds. The air is crisp while wind blows dry leaves breaking the silence. It’s only my voice that is heard speaking, the sound sends shivers up my spine, and thoughts are even louder than vocal words tonight.
Untitled
December 16, 1997
This is what I’ve always wanted, so it’s no wonder I’m terrified at the very thought that my time for farewells has finally arrived. The original plans have changed, but it is still you and me, just like always, two of us.
Partners
December 19, 1997
If I could swallow my pride for just once maybe an understanding could be reached. I have this idea, this belief that coming together could mean greatness. With my talent, love, and dedication combined with yours the result would be absolute success I just know it! Proof has already been exposed so why should it be this hard to connect again, I just can’t believe that false statement you can never go back, it’s just not true. So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I miss you, and I don’t like taking the backseat in your life. You just seem so out of reach sometimes and my patience is short. But as I have been told by many, I have the habit of blowing things out of proportion and seeing what really doesn’t exist, then again, all I know is all I feel. With the intentions to actually give this, shall I say, letter, to you, it occurs to me that maybe you will have no idea where I’m coming from. Staying up late every night waiting for the chance to bust out the alcohol and role play until the sun awakes and the drink is gone. Laughing uncontrollably to ourselves as onlookers just stare wondering what the punchline was. Understanding and appreciating company that was all too often denied in the past but maybe it’s just me.
Repeated
December 22, 1997
This is yet another verse for you, for her, and for me. Everything feels as though it has already been said. There is nothing left to draw from, all has been felt and experience is gained but resented. I touch a spirit from long before and it follows like a shadow, lingering with the light of a candle, dancing. The only answer was to accept, and it came without realization at first, after that is was second nature.
Dream #8
December 29, 1997
Gwen and I were at my old house in Atascocita, it was just the two of us. We were getting ready to go to some party or club. I went from the bathroom into the living room and looked out the window. A tornado could be seen in the distance (suddenly my neighborhood is a farm) making her way up to my house dancing that familiar groove while following a fixed path. I run into the bathroom and calmly tell her that a tornado is about to hit and we’d better take cover in the bathtub. We’re both hunched over with our arms covering our necks waiting for the funnel to go by. I look up and the ceiling starts to crack and you could feel the walls shaking as if they were about to collapse on top of us. “We better go hide in the closet!” I yell to Gwen and we run for better shelter. After we arrive I give Gwen my regrets for not having a bigger closet space and suggest that I could have sworn we used to have more space. The tornado makes her way over my house and Gwen and I stay intact. The place was a wreck, almost in ruins. We finish our faces and leave. This was probably the most realistic tornado dream I’ve had up to date. It actually hit this time, there was actually damage done. I remember I kept thinking in my mind, “Wow, a real tornado!”
Late Nights
December 29, 1997
From my bedroom window I can see the Big Dipper straight ahead, a cluster of stars resembling a kite to my left, and somewhere behind me the moon lurks over my roof.
Dream #9
December 30, 1997
Had another dream about Eric Griebel last night. There’s something else I have a lot, Eric Griebel dreams. I was staying over at his house with a bunch of other people. We were just sitting around watching movies and had been for the past three days. I was sitting on the couch right next to Eric and the only thing I could think about was the fact that I hadn’t showered in three days. I was thinking this in my head but Eric turns to me and says that I’m welcomed to take a shower over here, so I did. It was a pretty normal dream except for the fact that Eric and I were apparently friends, I mean close friends, and we both had a liking for each other but nothing ever comes of it. Well, the last part sounds kind of familiar. In another part of the dream I’m riding shotgun with Julie at the wheel and some chick is in the backseat but I have no idea who she is. We’re driving down the freeway at a high speed and suddenly I’m hanging out of the car about to plunge to my death. Julie reaches out her hand and is just barely able to touch the tips of my finger. The dream moves in for a close-up and I’m only able to see my hand and hers trying to make contact. A little closer, fingers attached, then our hands make contact, finally Julie has me by the arm pulling me in. “I wouldn’t of let you go, we know what death is like,” she says. “We sure do,” I reply, and looked up at Julie who was smiling like an angel.
Role Play
December 30, 1997
I made you up so I could be what isn’t me, and live a life that is intriguing. My hand holds all control, you are my puppet but strings are not needed for you follow like a shadow. There is beauty in all I create and we have come a long way since the beginning. You I hold closest to my heart and made you the main when you were cast as an extra. An invisible sculpture yet I can see the faces clearly as if I possess glossy pictures from a Kodak. This is my reality, this is my dream, this is myself. There shall always be pain, loss, and suffering but in this manner I find happiness, peace, and accomplishment instead.
Occurrence in Sleep…
1998
The other night I could feel myself scratching my neck hard, I mean I could feel the excruciating pain. I don’t know why I was scratching myself up so bad but when I woke up and went to the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and had four scratches going down my neck with dried up blood.
Day Dream
January 1, 1998
I let myself become attached knowing that I would be denied. Tonight I want to play, and sing, and laugh. I want to forget about all that stands in the way and exist where freedom and happiness have always been one.
Nameless
January 8, 1998
I can be everybody in just one day. There is comfort in acting out a role that only you see, but there is also isolation that is too deep to acknowledge.
Therapy
January 20, 1998
Separation is therapy when dependence is out of control. I place importance on making a connection and bonding and experiencing what is private but this all fades and unfortunately forgotten in the long run. My cause is you. I speak of love and understanding all the while despising the very thing that brings you happiness. I am a hypocrite, but only because of pain, if the table was turned it would be you suffering what I know only too well.
Inspired By
January 20, 1998
I’m cold and tired. I’m sick of caring, sick of you. I’m sick of looking like a fool and coming home to find the same old stuff that never seems to go away even after daily discussions. This happens all the time but I always put myself in the same situation chasing something that no longer exists. We cannot be one and I will not be third. Life is growing old as distance becomes a sidewalk for the party left behind. Everything in the past turns to nothing today as I refuse to play the part. I can see paradise in an empty room but there always has to be something more with you. Why can’t you grasp satisfaction? My words are wasted without an eye and an ear to see and hear what this world is all about. I don’t want to be a topic in some meaningless conversation. My voice is forced to be heard but tomorrow I will find the strength to disappear and give a cold shoulder instead of a phony smile. This was a time for happiness and carelessness but anticipation betrayed as the living truth haunts me every day. My verse is not for you, just inspired by.
Watching
January 21, 1998
I can still taste it in my nose sometimes, like a bad memory that can’t be forgotten. I want things to be perfect and done my way. So much passion goes in to what I believe and I guess that my expectations are far-fetched. This so-called game is my life but there is constant change and soap opera antics that lessen the importance and love for these characters that I hold so dearly. I scare myself sometimes for getting so involved in something that is supposed to be merely a scapegoat for time. In every person I give myself, they are my lovers and family. My only means of true love that I share in secret with only one are constantly belittled and raped. There are times when I wish for death upon myself just to show what life is really worth. Perhaps we are overblown. Perhaps relationships are a one-sided thing. What is the point in continuing on when a whole other world is being played? Nothing seems right anymore. I hate being apart from the rest just for more knowledge and depth that only I will ever understand. Words are never said as I want them to be for the point is always lost as well as the meaning. I can never grasp what I feel. Nothing is sacred with two.
Mainstream
January 23, 1998
Give more than you thought possible for what is the point in holding back? I have come a long way since the beginning of entries, but then again I still keep moving backwards so it seems. If there shall be an end to this all I welcome instead of resent. Insanity has been discussed in various conversations but the conclusion is always the same. How can we really know for sure? After denial has been laid to rest I came to find out that I probably am in love with you and have been for quite a while. I’m leaving with or without for there is nothing here for me anymore. I live the same day over and over again growing old when the sweet breath of adolescence seems like it was just yesterday. I love more than you will ever know and for the time being I regret to ever confess. Spring is on her way and as the winter nears the end I begin to wonder if we are too late having second thoughts about the dream that has been talked about for so long. My one true follower has grown sick leaving me with the worries of a widow. I am not capable of facing this world alone. My instinct is making claims to a future that is too ridiculous for me to follow but my spirit cannot hear these petty remarks, and therefore chases an idea that seems so far from reality. Old habits return after a short leave of absence and once again the morning is lost as afternoon is shortened into night. There is poetry in nothingness and I am the centerpiece. I sometimes see in your eyes what I feel in my heart but I know what can never be for relations stand in the way as well as mechanical teachings that have been pounded in the brain since day one. But here is another contradiction for we have always been against mainstream and it is in that two-sided room that we find one. My lesson is to avoid attachment and involvement but the damage has been done, my feet are wet and change has not ruined connection yet. This cannot go on forever. My emotions are shot and although in the prime of my life, I am left wondering about old age and death. Today I feel as though I can never make it or do what has been talked about. I know she is not here for me, but to be apart is devastating. Fear is to be left behind while the rest move on, which is why I still insist on leaving. Enchantment has been experienced but not yet captured. Follow my lead and forget the mainstream. This is it, now or never.
Solitude
January 28, 1998
Ritual conversations inhabit a small space, room enough for one. Talk amongst yourselves, I am only taking notes soon to be erased.
What am I thinking? I could never exist without time all to myself for at least five hours a day!
We want until we receive, and then it is no longer desired. The excitement is gone so where is the point?
If I don’t commit myself all the way than an escape is still visible and there would be no reason for farewells.
The Drive Home
January 29, 1998
Frustration grows with every breath I inhale. I can handle no more than what I already have. Monotone speech inhabits me tricking emotions into nudity one last time. I think I’m feeling sick to my stomach and these turns are following a circle. Do what must be done for this actress has to be known and I’m tired of rehearsal. Words remembered as reruns, actions are perfected, and looks that appear to be practiced are thrown upon me in a manner that cries out for attention. We are on our way and I’m feeling thirsty. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Xanax
January 30, 1998
My eyes cannot find the strength to stay open. I no longer care what happens for breath is appreciated but sleep is cherished. My love is forbidden, and I myself have yet to find total acceptance. Why dwell on impossibilities? Lay this to rest and I will follow behind just as always. There is a feeling of bitter thoughts that pass between taking what used to seem whole, but when there is nothing needed to be done old times are revived. The weekend drags by seeming like one long day rather than three. We disregard a clock set crooked on the wall and venture out for a walk in the morning dew. My presence has been here before as well as another close being that has since passed. It was here that we found death and gained life for the last time. In these woods I have memories, and once again I have returned to reminisce and share. Confession escapes my lips, but only after you spoke of secrets first. There is much to be said, but we forget after we speak leaving a revealing conversation unfulfilled. In this state of mind I can see why fear and shame exist, and I have learned not to regret.
Phase
February 18, 1998
Each day turns into one single second as we wake in mid-afternoon to catch the mindless talk shows that steal time needed for more useful tasks. I have been lacking in personal satisfaction that would someday support me until my passing. Much needed goals are once again set back as old habits surface and replace what time used to be productive. On the other hand life has been enjoyable as far as I can see. These recent days have brought laughter that has been denied for what seems like forever. Full pages of countless thoughts that seem to repeat themselves but at least it is something. There are those times when all seems well and in my frame of mind what used to seem impossible becomes just within reach. I am able to stay on track and keep the point real and in its original form, but it takes practice and self-discipline which is what I seem to lack.
On the Road Again
March 1, 1998
After several hours and many miles of highway behind, you start to transform. It usually occurs after the sun has set and an unfamiliar nothingness surrounds as you journey on falling into a deep hypnotic state. Your body becomes comatose and your mind drifts off into a creative frenzy of thoughts, your eyes start seeing things that don’t exist. Once when I had driven for nine hours straight I began to hallucinate to Pink Floyd playing on the radio. It was the album Wish You Were Here and everything seemed to fall into place. I mean the trees passing to the side were in sync with the music and the never changing road was initiated into this momentary lapse of suspended time. With my best friend riding passenger taking in the same experience as I it became understood that this is to be cherished, and for this particular time, we shall never witness again. Still, with all the magical memories now in the past, places that are unseen will always exist serving as an excuse for further traveling. I am living on vacation as if it were my religion. There is so much out there that is sacred, pleasures yet to be enjoyed and wisdom waiting to be put to good use.
The Back Porch
March 5, 1998
This seems like one of those nights that you never want to end. My creativity is at its peak and in this state of mind, life seems simple yet uncharted. My intake of tiny white morsels have killed my appetite and are denying me from much needed sleep. Conversations are easy flowing and healing. Cigarette after cigarette we carry on from one subject to another, each sharing a bit of wisdom that was unknown to each other. All we can feel is life, and at the time of rising spirits it is necessary to accept these closing words that will soon be lost after tired eyes. I have come clean for the first time, and after tonight, it will be the last.
Hidden Pleasures
March 6, 1998
Everybody has secrets. When I start to think about truth being revealed to fading blue eyes, a sense of doubt sets in stealing a vision of trust. A lie is the epitome of a half confession that is believed only to the dim-witted fool. I have played the part and my downfall is never learning from mistakes. Mankind does not exist in the same world for we all have a hidden place where everyday chores are transformed into perfection. I have seen beyond my realm of fantasy and have made connections with others. I can understand what I hear and live what I myself have never experienced.
Motel Stay
March 6, 1998
The room is small with little space for inspiration. A quilt with green and blue flower prints brings color to the off white walls that hold nothing except poorly painted pictures that have no real meaning at first glance but I am writing like a madman scribbling down anything that grabs my attention. In the past few days life has been crucial but self-realization set in giving me strength to believe in what I am and what I do. I love the flow of the pen gliding through lines as if a script has been written and all that’s left to do is memorize. It is a nice getaway. My spirits are at its all-time peak and I know that I shall be admired someday.
A Pat on the Back
March 7, 1998
My self-esteem is slowly on the increase and insecurities are well on their way to becoming extinct. A burst of creativity envelops me forcing me into bended fingers that seem to control my intoxicated mind. Writers block has been assassinated as I am set free and able to conduct a dozen pages in the period of one hour. Too many days have passed me by and I was drunk with self-pity criticizing what used to be appreciated. But now I can express emotions that were not fit for words. Tonight I am on top of the world. I am accomplishing the very task that has been procrastinated since the beginning of last year. It is three in the morning and my faithful hand has been writing since eleven. I have what it takes to be successful and the only thing left to do is take immediate action. My dream will come true, and though I have been told that certain goals are out of reach, I know that my talent is needed.
Still Going
March 7, 1998
I’ve gone through a pack and a half of cigarettes today. It is now six in the morning and I still continue to write as if morning is still night. My stomach feels empty but the thought of food disgusts me. I am tempted to smoke another bowl and my fresh beer has barely been touched as I sit here thinking about taking a trip to the bathroom. The cigarette between my fingers is burning fast and the ashtray lies just within reach. My face is pale, eyes red, but sleep is not desired. It has been months since creativity and inspiration have possessed my lazy mind, and finished pages have proven that there is a reason for chemical products. My book is halfway through and the night is still young.
Insomnia
March 7, 1998
Springtime is almost here which means the beach is just within reach. I can’t wait to feel the sea, the sand, and the sun.
My eyes are growing heavy but I keep thinking just one last page, a couple of more lines and then I will be caught up.
Four hours of sleep should suffice until a mid-day nap is needed. There is much to be done tomorrow, or today if you want to get technical. Action has possessed my bones convincing me that I must take control for once.
Compliments
March 9, 1998
There are those who believe in me giving strength to a poet in distress. I can go on with this knowledge.
I have risen above an idol that once inspired me to proceed with a childhood dream. In the eyes of my confidant there exists admiration that is indeed appreciated.
Ignorance. Paranoia. Self-mutilation. Hatred. Jealousy. We all suffer from minor downfalls.
I love to behold what can never be mine.
Bad Trip
March 10, 1998
There was an unforgettable feeling of chaos that didn’t subside until control was finally possessed, and only then could I enjoy what was anticipated. After this conclusion had been drawn, I then asked myself what the point is in losing control only to hate it and struggle the rest of the time to retrieve it.
Watching the Time
March 11, 1998
My opinions change daily. I don’t even know why I bother expressing my thoughts when they’re just going to be contradicted. This twentieth year has gone by remarkably quick, and as I look to another birthday in just two months, I realize that in twenty more years I shall be forty.
Procrastination is one of my worst traits. If I don’t watch myself, life will be just another chore put off until tomorrow.
Eventually I will catch on and begin to live in the real world doing what I love to do.
Self-Awareness
March 15, 1998
Most of the time I think of myself as some unattractive idiot. I know it’s a horrible thing to say about oneself but I can’t help it. Every day I try to keep up my self-esteem but there’s this little voice in my head that just will not go away. I think somebody just drove up. Nope.
After all this time we still find tranquility in the oddest of situations. There is a distinction in the manner of our being, and though vastly different, we are still able to connect.
No more space to occupy. I quit after the last line.
Short-Lived
March 16, 1998
This is another one of my weaker days. Out of thousands of possibilities, the one thing that is lusted for can never become reality. It occurred to me that I am the reason for my misery, but how can you change instinct? I despise nights like this. The thought of tomorrow sends shivers up my spine but at the same time I can handle no more of today. My feelings tend to revolve around bitterness, but in the eyes of rejection my emotions fell numb. My mouth is throbbing and tastes like metal. My stomach feels empty but I cannot eat. Knowledge tells me that this too will pass, but what is there to look forward to? Nothing can direct be towards true happiness, and as I babble on night after night about selfish reasons for sadness, I realize what a bore I must be. Sarcasm is my only means of humor and my pride is really the only thing holding me back. I am very much aware of each and every one of my downfalls, that is the easy part. The more important question is how to overcome these bad traits? Time is running late while a verse from the past carries on tempting me to ignore my voice of reason and give in just as always. My faithful kept repeating the words that threw me over the edge, attempting to comfort my mood. I traded in my shoes for another pair and found pain that has seldom been experienced. After my appointment I shall apologize for any harm done, and as it is only fair, I shall expect the same. Once again I find myself fighting disappointment, trying to find peace in an empty space that was supposed to be filled with beauty.
The Flu
March 19, 1998
My throat has grown raspy from constantly inhaling chemicals. The tiny box-shaped room sits calmly in a smoky haze. Next door an uproar of laughter invites ears to listen in and define voices from one another. My nose burns sending a sharp pain all the way up to my forehead. The morning is early and medications have taken over. This is when my best work is done. When nothing else sounds appealing and my body feels weak it becomes a responsibility to keep up with a hobby that is usually denied. The air goes back and forth from hot to cold but neither come at the correct moment, the timing is always off. My hair remains untouched becoming more and more tangled and matted. Vitamin C is beginning to taste like cough syrup. On days when my health is good I spend most of the time in bed or on the couch, but as sickness prevails a sudden urge comes over me to become active and accomplish what needs to be done. My condition becomes worse and any energy that I once possessed vanishes. I think it is time for sleep.
Verses
March 23, 1998
There is grace in animal instinct. Vanity does not come from an outside appearance, it shall be found with age and wisdom.
Stumbling upon a stopping point expecting to come together again soon. Starting over following the same story line that never seems to grow old. Believing that this can last a lifetime where forever is one day.
It disappoints me to know that I became so excited about meeting with the forbidden drug. When will it occur to me that the pain is not worth the pleasure?
Lightbulb
March 24, 1998
How is it that three short months can have that much of an impact on one soul? It is not fair that my love suddenly means nothing after all that has been said and done. Ideas must be brought to life by another character, but it is one in the same when technicalities are dismissed. The method to my madness is an ongoing talent that brings meaning to a nobody. My roots have finally found length and when the weather is pleasant, I am able to advance. What does it matter if an understanding can never be reached? The past will always be remembered, therefore it is irrelevant to dwell.
Killing Time
March 26, 1998
I’m killing myself. I can feel the weakness, the sickness. There are many sides to human beings and what comes as a shock is meant to be predicted. At the ripe old age of twenty I have come to find out that my talent is not for me, nor is it about me. Everything revolves around outside happenings and how they affect my life. What would I do without society? As the morning creeps by I become more indulged in my creativity while sipping on Seagram’s and hacking up phlegm. My allergies are at an all-time high and my voice is unable to sing along with CDs. I lost the point again.
March
March 26, 1998
The air is mild but the wind blows strong and a cool breathe of serenity sweeps past persuading me to leave the safety of my bed. The window is wide open and where stars usually exist are blankets of clouds moving at a steady pace. These are the times that I cherish, that I hold onto as long as possible. I am putting off sleep for nature.
Self-Awareness
March 31, 1998
There are times when I can see nothing. No visions of the future, no happiness from the past, and nothing to be proud of. I am a coward. I am a slacker. I am ignorant. I am afraid of the world as well as myself. Today was interesting but at the end of the night when I found myself alone, for a split second I began to panic. What can’t I learn what I already know? Anything of importance that is gained is forgotten a minute later. I am never in control. I am going nowhere. I am deceiving.
Wake Up Call
April 4, 1998
Tomorrow we shall head for home where time seems suspended with or without. I have danced with happiness while holding the hand of popularity in my grasp, but a dance must come to an end. What was thought to be important became trivial after the need to worry was put to rest. My concentration is out of focus and although a pat on the back is well deserved, so is a slap in the face. Any news is bad news but even in this late hour I can’t help but assume that the outcome will be positive. Then again, there is an unnerving feeling that taunts me every time I let myself become vulnerable to the current situation. This is the third time I have come home to find an absence taken from myself. I am starting to notice a pattern of occurrences that have taken place in the last three years. There is a feeling of doubt that engulfs me. There is a feeling of doubt in the tendency of life and in the cycle of nature. My belief in the spirit is strong, the spirit of the land, the mind, the creator, but I cannot grasp the purpose of anything. I understand the balance but in the eyes of a skeptic it is difficult to accept. It is difficult to find peace among constant chaos.
In Stride
April 23, 1998
There is not much left to be said for all has been spoken again and again. My heart is heavy and my reactions are delayed as another year approaches. But there is going to be greatness, for only the future is left to behold and I have the strength to heal. My wisdom is limited when it comes to romantic likings but loyalty stays true in any situation, and this bizarre triangle is not worth betrayal. For the first time I realize I am not alone, and with a little help from my friends I can be the better person and step away.
Off Course
May 4, 1998
My creativity has once again disappeared leaving me suffocated with the need to express and irritated by lack of inspiration. It is much too easy to let a month or a year pass without even blinking an eye. Youth is gaining a background and with enough memories to publish a book, I have accomplished very little and goals are evidently just something to humor me. As highly as I speak, I realize that I have no direction, or experience, or wisdom. My theories are contradicting, my mind is slow, and my claim to a newfound existence proved to be false.
Restless
May 6, 1998
Since that day all has been meaningless. I choose not to write when my mood is in limbo. There are relics hanging just above my head reminding me of their habitat, my habitat.
I can’t seem to get it together. Every day I start over in my head knowing that there is no need to backtrack. I am aware of what needs to be done, it just doesn’t sound appealing. I hate change.
It is time to take off for a while. I need to feel something different, find inspiration again.
The Groove
May 8, 1998
I can see it. I can always see it but sometimes it is blurred by insecurities and chemicals.
In the Groove
May 9, 1998
I keep talking about how much I hate this place and how much I need to get away and move to the west, but Houston is no different from anywhere else, the weather and scenery may tend to differ, but modern-day life is the same. It’s the memories that haunt me and they cannot be left behind no matter how far I go. If it wasn’t Houston it would be somewhere else that I would want to escape from. When enough time passes and we are still sitting in the same place, anything can seem like hell. Don’t get me wrong, my plans to move west (wherever that may be) have not been cancelled, I just came to the realization that I probably won’t find happiness there either. My surroundings would be much more pleasant, and the excitement of living in an entirely new place would inspire me in all aspects, but I can’t assume perfection. I have a bad habit of building things up in my head and painting a pretty picture predicting an unknown outcome. It is too simple to say that happiness comes from within even though it truly does. Maybe happiness isn’t what I’m looking for. I love traveling, going from place to place, experiencing so much in so little time. No matter where I settle down, I probably won’t want to stay.
Something New
May 11, 1998
I took a rib laced with heroin tonight. I’m still feeling the effects even though it’s been a good four hours since I’ve taken it. My thoughts cannot form sentences and even when they do, I’ll forget the main topic seconds later. My eyes are heavy with sleep but physically I don’t want to stop until I collapse. Four in the morning is disregarded as a foreign language. The hallucinations are kicking in and I feel paranoia touch me on the shoulder, but it is overcome by this feeling of acid in my stomach. How long have I been out here leaning against a wooden porch vulnerable to any hidden presence that might threaten my state of being? Cool air finally finds his way into my skin. It comes and goes, and for now, it has subsided. The quick fix of my one-hitter over-powers the effects of the pill taken just moments ago, and as I finally lift my eyes I can notice my disappointment. This is a feeling known all too well but it is not a bad thing, it is comfort for disappointment was my landmark leading to normality. Once again the stranger returns leaving me somewhere between absolute confusion and anticipated chaos. This was not to be expected.
Country Village #214
May 22, 1998
I can hear the bagpipes in the distance rising to a climax and then descending into oblivion. I withdraw my hand from the curve of the phone knowing how quickly it takes for importance to vanish. In a faraway land there is two of us but these reservations have been cancelled, there is no room left. My fears are nothing more than reminders giving me the intensity that I need to make it, but at the end of the week, tonight, this polluted shelter sits empty with only one tenant visible. This forgotten heap is my answer. I can grasp what I have known since the beginning only for a short period of time before faith subsides and insecurities set in. I can do anything. To hell with complications and boundaries. A vast island with crystal blue waters and soft white sand lifts up her head and sends a smile my way. She is a friend indeed. To hell with limits. I cannot carry a weight heavier than myself. I am on the way upward because of rejection thrown back at me with the twist of a shoulder. I can laugh on my own. This is not about placing blame, seeking revenge, chasing a dream, or being alone. I can see beyond these city limits a different breed of species. There is nothing but memories in this shack. Take it in stride.
The Apple and the birdcage 