Fear

Not many will know the feeling of watching one you love so much hurt themselves in a way that makes you feel like you’re suffocating. You see them suffering and you beg for the answer, the fix to all the problems. They scream, saying you are what keeps them alive. Without you, their heart doesn’t beat. You beg them to find something other than you to live for. You cry “having that much weighing on another is too much, its unsustainable,” but they don’t hear you. They become deaf to your pleas, your words are no longer enough. They’re drowning as you watch. You dive in the water just as you see them lose consciousness. You bring them to the surface, conduct CPR. Only those who have experienced it will know how much your body shakes in fear of watching a life slip away at your hands. It wasn’t your fault. “But I could have saved them.” It wasn’t your job to protect their heart. Despite the long believed thought, we are all alone on this earth. I love you, you love me, but eventually you will be gone, as will I. No matter how much you love a soul on this earth, to hold onto them as your life line is like floating in a life saver in the middle of a broad sea with no boat nearby. It supports you, but its not its job to help you swim the rest of the way to the shore.

I run into your room afraid of what I might find. I watch your eyes fluttering and your body shaking. I feel numb from the sight. I shake you, I scream, I cry, and then I whisper, pleading “please, please wake up, don’t leave like this.” You stir awake, dazed and confused. I ask you if you took the pills. You nod. Tears began streaming down my face even faster. You mumble and say you’re tired. The thought of you sleeping terrifies me because I am sure you won’t wake up. I drag you up. I get you seated on the bed and tell you to wait there. I walk to the door and then realize that I can’t leave you like that even to get you water. “Come with me.”

“I am tired, it’s hard to move my body.” I pull you against your will so that I don’t lose you in the process of trying to save you. I sit you back on the bed and order you to chug the water. You take a sip. I cry harder and you look at me with sadness and defeat and ask me what’s wrong. You knew what was wrong. I tell you to keep drinking. You say you’re not thirsty. Gulp after gulp you take a break and your eyes begin drifting away again. It scares me to death as I am slapping your legs, kneeling by the bed, looking up at you begging you to keep staying with me and keep drinking that water. The first round hits you; it’s been enough and you throw a bit up. I won’t let you stop though, so I make you drink, you throw up, you drink again. I can’t be sure that It’s over until I don’t see you drifting away. After a few good rounds of throwing up and chugging so much water, you’re done. We sit on your bed and wait. You ask to lay down, I beg you not to. I couldn’t be sure that it was over. That there was not still a chance of losing you. That night I laid with you afraid to fall asleep, afraid of what I might wake up to find.

I never thought you’d do it…

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Untold Stories

Recently, abandoned houses, hotels, and businesses have been on my mind. There is one abandoned hotel in particular that comes to my mind, and it makes me sad to think that such a massive structure with so much potential has been given up on. Though, it’s not just that. It is also the fact that all of those memories of that place slowly deteriorate with the place, never once being recounted or acknowledged by anyone who took part in what it once was. When I see the outside of this unique structure, I imagine the kids peering out windows, the people in the dinning areas sharing the same view of a major road. Now I know that may not sound picturesque to you, but despite the poor location, the place once had life to it, I can just sense it. There is a whole floor plan, accounting for the special details of which rooms would go where, that we all take for granted that has now gone to waste. The materials used to create such a building lay in a wreck from the ware and tear of the homeless that inhabit it during off hours of the day, and others that find themselves drawn to this place for no particular reason. There needn’t be any reason, cause there’s just something about a building that once had life, but lost it in its prime. As ridiculous as it might sound, I think that sometimes demolishing buildings’ whose fate is to just rot away as people misuse and abuse it is the most humane way for a building to go. It is just so much wasted space, and so many precious memories that they disrespect by leaving it instead of replacing it. I know it is odd for me to go on about a building as though it deserves remembrance almost like a human, but for some reason it doesn’t sit well with me, or at least entices me to want to know more about what this building was like in its prime time.  I understand that it is an impossible task to ensure that all buildings keep record of the quirks of the staff, the types of costumers they got, the things they served, the regulars, the crazy odd stories, pictures of the building, and the atmosphere that resonated through the now open, empty space, but that makes me sad. Although, I am one to also wish that all humans would do the same. Not necessarily recording every mundane detail of life, but just the highlights. That is kind of what this blog is for me. I don’t tell you all of the details, but I give enough of a hint of what really went down so that it will trigger the memory when I want to recount it in full detail.

Trigger Happy

The gun has a mind of its own these days. It urges the question “why not shoot? what are we waiting for?” Because it does not know the specifics of the situation, it only knows that it is loaded and ready. I attempt to silence that recurring discussion because it is missing parts of the story, but truly, what is it missing on its end… It knows its purpose, it sees that the figure’s demise should have been long ago, so why don’t I shoot? Why don’t I end the life of that looming figure for good, why do I continue to let it ruminate in silence, not giving an answer for its presence. It is because the result of shooting the figure and choosing to use the gun’s power is not worth it. The figure provides pain, but it also provides bliss, comfort, satisfaction. It sits in those shadows of my life, drawing me back to the darkness. Though that is also where I feel my most alive, when I am with it. When I take the pleasure with the pain. When I have the markings of my mistakes into the next week to remind me of what I’ve done.

If the gun knew those feelings about the figure, it would question why I ever picked it up in the first place. Why I place it down ever so often, only to oblige the urge to pick it up the very next day with the promise to shoot, only to set it down for the night once again. I know I confuse the gun terribly, but it has never been my intention to shoot, no matter how much I humor the desire, it will never happen. For even though I hate that figure with a passion and cringe at the soul numbing thoughts it brings about, I will never give up on it, though I will never admit that to its face. So I will pick up that gun every so often and wave it in its face, but it should not worry about its life, because it will never cease to exist. If I murdered the figure a part of me would die along with it, and that is simply something I cannot face.

My Reflection

The other day, I looked in my mirror, and in the reflection, I saw a stranger. She looked at me with wide eyes, begging to be noticed, but I avoided eye contact. She made weird faces, bugging out her eyes, sticking out her tongue, forcing a smile, finally shedding tears in defeat. None of it worked. I looked at her, but not directly at her. I was scared, and she was sad. I had forgotten her in the mirror. Every time I step in front of that mirror, I look right past her. I don’t look, because I don’t recognize her anymore. I’m afraid that if I look too long, it will all become to real. I’ll finally take notice that I’ve heartlessly abandoned her for all these days. The fear that I’ll remember her. Who she was, her vibrancy, her enthusiasm for life, how I felt whole when I saw her in the mirror and could tell you her name. Every second she’s trapped in that mirror, I hear her cry. It’s quiet in efforts to not disturb anyone, yet I hear it all the time and it keeps me awake at night. She knows I hear her. I feel her presence beside me wherever I go. She and I used to be one, but now we’re two entirely different entities. She’s drowning in her tears, and I’m numb. She screams at me, in order to bring me back to reality. She makes a mess in every area of my life in order for me to see the destruction to bring me back, to make me aware. Yet I’ve lost all touch with reality. She knows that. That’s why she continues this seemingly pointless effort. 

She’s the only one who knows, and she’s the only one who can bring me back.

The Woman and the Bird

“Ma’am I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The woman follows the orders of the officer and leaves the property. Behind her she hears whispers, “she is just senile. She walked straight onto this property like it was actually her bird!” the cop laughs, at her expense. “Well she should just go back to the nursing home where she came from, I’m sure they’d bring birds in for the amusement of the elderly from time to time if she put in a request.”

I knew it was you, you haven’t changed since I saw you last. I knew you had plans to fly away for a while, but I hadn’t expected to find you in the possession of someone else the next time I saw you. Remember when you flew to the courtyard of the home I’ve been staying in? For a moment I had a glimmer of hope inside of me that you had come back. That you’d be mine again. Unfortunately I was just a fool to think such a preposterous thing. Everyone in the home laughs at me, they mock me for escaping today to go searching for you. When I noticed you were in the backyard of one house, my heart became full again at the sight of your perfectly colored feathers. When I broke in the gate and you began talking to me like old times, my mind reverted back to simpler days when people didn’t think I was crazy or unstable for loving you. You were mine. 

“Everyone, we have an announcement! Thanks to a very special request, we have brought in some birds for your amusement.” An old man named Landit instantly shook his head and wheeled out of the main hail back to his room. Yeminda came in at her usual slow pace, and approached the birds with enthusiasm. A close friend of the old woman who was responsible for this whole scene commented “you should have just ignored the dreams about that damn bird being around somewhere close by. And you broke in! What in the hell made you think that was a good idea?! All for a damn bird…” he looked at the birds and a look of distaste spread over his face. He promptly turned around and relied on his cane to aide him on his walk to the activity room.

They truly think I’m crazy. Hell, maybe I am crazy. I know your wings have been clipped and you’re unable to fly back to me at your own free will, but to everyone around me, I appear pathetic and crazy to continue breaking in… Oh but the songs you sing with your perfect chirp! And all the happiness you provide me when I hear you speak. Though I’m beginning to feel as though I need to replace you with another bird, for you are now in the possession of another. Yet, as I look at the birds they have brought in today, none of their feathers exude such a brilliant color as yours do. All these birds sound the same. They all say the same phrases. I know they are just doing what is expected of them, and surely if I had never encountered a bird like you, I’d find their little phrases quite amusing. Though in comparison, these birds’ presence just overwhelms me. There is so much quantity in what we have been presented with today, yet so little quality. seperating lovers