It’s been a while.

I haven’t posted in a while and when I do it’s only bad stuff. I use this space as a place to express my negativity, and I don’t want it to be that.

The truth is that I’ve been really happy for quiet awhile now. I’m with a wonderful woman with whom I feel fulfilled. She blesses me with everything that I need and leaves me wanting for nothing. Every morning I wake up knowing she’s with me I feel blessed, and every morning I can wake up beside her is another perfect morning.

I love you Alison, I can’t say that enough. I love every bit of you, and I always want more. You’ve filled my life in a way I never knew it could be.

Mistakes

If you believe every mistake to be a learning experience, something you will one day laugh at or look back and see the lesson learned, you are wrong.

There are going to be mistakes where the lesson is never learned well enough, and they will haunt you and ruin the good things in your life. You may even be their agent, laughing as you pull the trigger against your own happiness.

There are just some mistakes that can never be remedied and will haunt you through even your best moments and best chances at real happiness.

These will not help you become a better person, but instead invite you to remain in pain and misery. And you won’t be able to say no. Because despite never learning from them your mistakes are still part of you. Either way you have to live with them.

It doesn’t mean you have to like it, or not fight against the darkness. It just means you will lose.

It just means you are cursed. Accept your demon, he will be with you to the miserable end.

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I suck.

How long can you hide from your own emotions? You can try for a long, long time. But it doesnt make you better, it just makes you hollow.

I really dont know how to feel or act right now. For the first time in my life I know that there is someone else just as hurt as myself out there. For once, someone actually cares. And its what I can’t do that’s causing all the pain. I’m causing her pain. That’s the worst bit. I can stand my own suffering, that’s not a problem, but to know that someone is suffering as well, and that I am the source, it makes me hate myself.

Its funny, isn’t it? This is the very first time I think anyone has ever mourned me . I really dont think I’ve hurt anyone before, or at least not in any real way. I guess there is a first for everything, even the terrible stuff.

If I thought there was any real hope of making the hurt better I would. But I can’t see anything but hollow wishes that won’t amount to anything. Anything I do will just be empty.

Please, if you must, hate me. Just dont spend your time in pain because of me. My pessimism and realism have killed this. My stubbornesness, which I didnt even know existed killed this. It was beautiful and amazing, and so very special, but, I killed it, and I dont really know how im going to live with myself.

I’m sorry. I love you, and I’m so sorry. I can’t mke it right.

Sometimes even the worst sort of hurts in life can be reduced if you look at them sideways.  It’s when you look at them straight on that you have to fall to your knees and weep.

Sometimes I come around a corner and see them head on.  I see them like that now.

Work Life.

When bad 80’s music makes you sad, it’s probably not a good sign.

Im not giving up. I can wait as long as needed. I will wait as long as needed.

There are just some things that you can’t give up on, and that lets you know you’ll never have better. I know that. I can wait.

Waking

There is something quiet disturbing about waking from a nightmare you can’t remember.  It’s not the actual nightmare, it has faded, nor the feelings the nightmare has invoked.  Instead, the disturbance is knowing, really knowing, that something has followed you back. 

You can wake and know it was all just a dream, all just an illusion that your own mind placed upon you, but when you wake and sense nothing, it’s the absence that is disturbing.  It’s as if the dream, which is now a void in your mind, something that had substance and form just moments ago, has transmuted your reality.  Sensing nothing is worse than feeling something when you wake.  Because that feeling is exactly the same sense as you have of your dream.

And if both your dream and the waking world now occupy the same space, both having the same properties of nothingness, are they so different?  And that is when you realize that there is something there after all, something that came back with you.  It’s why your heart sounds in your ears and your sweat fails to cool your skin.  Because, for a time, you know that you aren’t alone, and that the waking doesn’t make you any safer than your experience of dreaming.

Valentine’s

Happy Valentine’s Alison.

We haven’t been together long, but I can’t imagine my life without you.

Thank you.

I love you.

Random Startings I Think Of:

My dearest friend Markus,

It is with my deepest apologies that I must admit my failure, and that I was wrong:  Primates are in fact very combustible. 

A

A broken man stared into his bathroom mirror, seeing the wretch he’d become. Too much stubble, too little sleep, eyes red rimmed with a pain he hadn’t known before.  He shook a pill jar, spilling its contents in his hand.  With an unsteady hand he took a single pill and put it between his shaking lips.  He was too tired to care, too tired to feel anymore, but his body remembered the grief.  He was so tired, so very tired, but he couldn’t sleep.  When he slept he saw her.  Always her.  He could remember her smell, remember her laugh, her smile.  He remembered her all.  But he could never have her.  Could never hold her.  His hands always closed on emptiness, and his throat always failed.

He swallowed painfully, feeling the pill slip down his throat, hoping that the pain would soon be replaced with unnatural numbness.  Anything was preferable to this, looking upon a shadow of a man who had once known the joy of life.  He closed his eyes, ignoring the shade in his memory.  He would say the words, here and now, when he could, and hope they would follow him into his dreams.

I love you.

His

The ground sifted between his fingers, his desperate clawing tearing the earth and his nails, his hands leaving bloody streaks along the unclean ground. He’d lost her once, but he’d come to claim her.

She had, as they all did, spurned him, left him humiliated and railing against cruel face and an unjust world. He had found her intertwined with a man in their own bed.  Their disgusting congress had sullied his home, his life, his happiness.  With her act, she had ruined him, and that he could not stand.  He’d struck, and all he could remember of that night was a terrible pain and warmth, streaking their bed, covering his hands and arms and face. 

They had hauled him away after that.  Insanity, they had branded it.  Justice, he had spat back. He had been right, it had been wrong, they all were wrong. They were fools, those who had kept him.  They had mistaken his immobility and silence for acquiescence.  He had sat and waited. All he had to do was wait. 

It was fast, like the first time, pain and warmth and then it was over, as he crashed into the woods.  The guards could not find him, and neither could the dogs they sent.  He had spent nights uncounted in his own filth, crawling through the mud, living on the hot blood of death unsatisfying.  At night he would crawl from his hole in the mud and muck and wail at the sky.  She had unmanned him, they had humiliated him. 

He could never punish her enough, he knew, the only thought still human.  But he did miss her.  If he saw her again, maybe he could forgive her.  He craved her, they weren’t meant to be apart. 

And so he returned to her, where he’d hidden her.  He knew they would never understand, those who judged and preached and yelled and pleaded, their will bent to usurping his own.  So he’d hid her.  He let them find the adulterer in his bed.  They could have him, they could punish him.  But they could never have her.

He scraped and clawed and dug, feeling the same things he’d felt before,  pain and blood.  Finally he found her again.  He had scratched and clawed too fervently, and in his zeal to find her had left claw marks upon her face, bloody gashes marring her beautiful, perfect features.  But that wasn’t the only oddness he’d found, and he bent close, staring into her open eyes. 

Worms had made a home.  Worms.  First men, then beasts, now this.  Worms.  Was there none that would leave them in peace?  He scratched and clawed, cleaning her of these disgusting defilers.  Then he pulled, and pulled, and pulled.  She finally came free of the clinging dirt, and she was his again. Always and forever his.