In Pursuit

Posted in life, poetry, prose, Uncategorized, writing with tags , on September 17, 2014 by Shadow

In Pursuit

Running and running through the empty streets with the wind blowing in my face, the water molecules collide with my skin and gets in my eyes, and my clothes get soggy and heavy as I go.

No one is following me.

I am chasing something.

A shadow of a person who may or may not exist.

The shadow I chase is the vision of everything I had ever hoped for, everything I dreamed of doing, and the shadow gets further and further away, the more that I chase.

Don’t stop for me, shadow, don’t prove yourself weak in your will; keep from me all that I hope, all that I dream, for I wouldn’t want anyone to think you were frail and incompetent.

Un-Alone

Posted in life, personal, poetry, prose, writing with tags , on July 20, 2014 by Shadow

Them

After traumatic events led to a major disorder in my thinking, something bizarre occurred. One day I found myself face-to-face with a doorway into another world; and yet, it was a doorway into my mind. I saw beings there that looked like people, and they saw me in return. I say they looked like people because in some ways, they were more like creatures, mutated forms mocking the shape of a human.

Being seen like this was jarring; startling. Their eyes felt like my eyes, as though I were watching myself. I felt fear, a fear they could grasp. I tried to cope, but a haunting sensation tore through me, the kind that told me I wasn’t important to anyone. The feeling was crippling and I wanted to hide, but wherever I tried to move to, their eyes followed me.

I-phone Love

Posted in life, love, personal, poetry, writing with tags , , on May 11, 2014 by Shadow

I phone

Endless seas spell the eternity of depth
By which my heart beat, when I saw you —
With your face in your I-phone.

I played the delicate game
To plea my love, to tell you how I felt —
While you were glued to your I-phone.

I finally got through, what a moment;
But soon I found you yelling —
“Not now, I’m on my I-phone!”

We held hands as the sunset glimmered
On the shores of sands beneath our feet —
As you were texting on your I-phone.

And when I finally got the courage,
To bring you a ring, you mumbled something —
With your I-phone keeping your gaze.

I couldn’t help myself, feeling sad,
When the doctors had to surgically remove your I-phone —
You said, “It’s not so bad, I have two hands.”

In the hospital I brought you flowers,
Hoping you were on the mend, only to find you asking —
“I thought you were bringing my I-phone?”

Time’s Up

Posted in life, personal, poetry, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , on May 8, 2014 by Shadow

My Sins

What is that presence I feel?

I can barely make the image, my mind reeling from the exertion, from crushing the wine glass in my hand.

Crystal shards glimmer and sting, long and dripping blood streams trickling to the floor, and though I’m content with my bottled rage, I feel the presence, agitating the moment.

Who are you? Is there something I can help you with?

I had been recollecting my thoughts, gnashing my teeth, by the memories of an icy hatred, when I realized I wasn’t alone.

And as the blood dried I felt the truth working its deathlike fingers around my heart.

Had the years of my volatile shame taken form, by the sound of a midnight clock?

Could I no longer stay the shadow that bore — that amorphous emotionless shape — the weight of my infinite sins?

The Box

Posted in life, personal, poetry, prose, writing on March 28, 2014 by Shadow

box-icon

Living in a box causes the psyche to adapt in unhealthy ways. One feels the thin walls, and knows others can hear every cough. Even worse, the loneliness may cause one to soliloquize, and people listening may wonder, because they have lives. If one is lucky, they can look out the window and enjoy the breeze and the sight of the trees, but to go out spells disaster because the world is expensive, and one may not have money. One may pass the time lying down doing lots of reading, but only part of what’s been read is taken in, for the rest of the time has been occupied by thoughts of a terrible past, or a hopeless future. One may think of longings, or a lost love, and go for a walk to ease the pain of remembering, but will be so torn down by a lack of self-esteem that the ability to interact with others has been removed. One may feel frustrated knowing they could go out, only to have to come back to the box, and may spend time avoiding those of whom they know have no interest in them. The box provides shelter from the rain, but the eternity passes in a shell of gloom, and sometimes a surge of embarrassment will arise at the thought of those who know the situation. Living the life of a peasant can grow on one, and thoughts of suicide might arise, or maybe a repetition of curtain-checking will ensue. If one goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water, they may see a beautiful person through the window, and become enraptured by jealousy as the person hugs another and holds hands with them.

The box may make a person feel incapable of saying the right things because freedom is such a long ways off, even if the door is wide open; because there is nowhere to go. Maybe things are said that are taken with unintended meaning, and possible friends are lost. One could think about the box, and want to at least share a word or two with someone, and try and reach out; only to be crudely rejected for possessing the specter of loneliness. Feelings may escalate from this point, where the person retreats into the box and lives out a fantasy that they’re loved, and that a dream world is not far away. Smiles unfold on a screen and the person may feel better for a few moments, unaware of the two-dimensional nature. Maybe after the screen is turned off, a conversation takes place where a person might feel included, and maybe a voice might provide comfort. One might even hear the voice grow quiet, and learn that the voice is listening intently, with care. The voice is the one that knows of the dream, and provides the greatest possible measure to make the dream come true. When sleep comes, reality comes with, and the answers are fed deep into the subconscious. The alarm goes off, and the world of people are exposed, and no one pays attention, and so the reality of the dream comes along to help. After spending the time alone among hundreds of people, one might return to the box with the most nail-biting, fail-feeling sense of hope.

The box is where depression lies, and the mind is active in the box with every fear and non-dream like realism, where dream worlds are created to alleviate the pressure of the kings and queens of loneliness bearing down on them.

Deep Recesses

Posted in life, personal, poetry, prose, Uncategorized, writing with tags on September 13, 2013 by Shadow

Loss

The terrorization of living. One person thrives while another suffers. This is alright in the eyes of God? Was there ever a chance for everyone to be happy? Or do the wolf packs chase the herds endlessly, a victim bound to fall?

Each moment is a moment of terror, blows of inanity that induce fight-or-flight reactions, propagating the natural order. To put matters bluntly, God does not exist. The terror of life is easier to cope with under these conditions, the survival of the fittest paving the way for the future. For a soul caught by the wayside, caught in the jet stream of progress, floundering in the dilemma of ignorance, his spirit is torn to shreds for his attempt at trying.

The feeling is like a moment in the reality of an alternate world, when one notices a gruesome element of the environment. Maybe water is dripping along the insides of a stone building, and with the turn of a head, one sees the people gathered as they stare; they are mutants, outcasts of the social order, and they can see a person’s every move. Or maybe a vast desert has become all the more inhospitable for a pulverizing wind that won’t stop, where one’s thoughts are continually drawn to the thought of water and comfort.

When the fog of a dream lifts, the sound of traffic comes roaring in. Each four-wheeled domain a rolling entity of agenda, each willing to mow another over in the name of itinerant duty. The clouds keep the sun out and the faces, they meld with the pervasive absence of satisfaction, a ceaseless game that breaks only when the dinner bell rings out its paltry chimes.

A woman walks along the littered gutters of the street, fortune her long lost lover, and the cats in the cans dig for their evening meal. Love had been wrought by the great and mighty voice in the sky, but its smooth silky petals grew worn by streams of corruptive radiation, that force which comes from a vile thought, a cutting, hateful remark. Hurt, she spent some change for a can of food to give to the cats so she could cling to the smallest grain of goodness in her soul. And the people in the windows, five stories up, they watched as their pizzas grew cold in preparation for the mildew that would form.

Then came the rain. It began as a light drizzle that moistened the oily streets enough to create a sheen that brought back memories. That time when we tried to train our dog. The day your bottles were found in the back yard. The moment when I specifically told you, not to jump. The rain doesn’t care about friends or families, or schedules. It just shows up like a diesel truck from out of the distance, its clatter turning pockets of silence into pockets of disruption. Would the fates endow a measure of peace if I offered to feel bad, for as long I could, the rain soaking my head as I sat there in the park, trying to figure it all out?

No, the rain could have stayed away, and everything would have been fine, but because it was there, creating puddles of dirty water, it was therapeutic. Dreams and desires vanished in the sound of cars whizzing through the wetness, a spark of hope crushed like road kill pushed aside, waiting for animal control do its job. Rain was better than love because you knew, you could feel it, the emotions and the glory, you knew it would all go away so that something more dreadful would puncture its way into your world, something that would utterly ruin you; and the people, they would all notice and watch as you made a complete mess of yourself. I told you, I pleaded with you, and yet you wouldn’t listen.

Some say that the afterlife is waiting for us when we die. No one knows what this place looks like. I see trees and sidewalks, mountains and skyscrapers, but I don’t see the afterlife, presumably because I’m not dead. Should I take a leap into imagining what the afterlife is like? How could I? I know the afterlife doesn’t exist. So when I think of death, I think of a vast ocean where all my suffering becomes diluted in the rolling waves. All the things I hoped for are exchanged for oblivion, that state of nothingness where what might have been known, can never be known. I hope that the sooner people forget me, the better. I hated this life. Being alone is a punishment; being rejected makes it worse. Instead of being vindictive, I can only spell out the reality on the page.

“Who are you?” she asked. But my question in return would be, “What does it take to ask a question like that?” The guts, the gall, the inspiration, the confidence. The question she asked seemed like curiosity, but was merely an effect of repetition. With each person we encounter, the need to know drives us, even if the answers are sometimes disappointing.

The blinds block my view of the stars high in the night sky. Beneath me the spiders crawl while out on the street, people passing by in their vehicles travel to their places of importance. Every unit of activity has a measure of importance. I thought about the needs and desires of people, what makes a thing important to them. I was unable to complete the thought. I let it flow through me without trying grasp it, much like the woman whose cloak keeps her sheltered from the prying eyes, a disguise that keeps her sanctity intact. And when the falling acid burns the rooftops, I play songs that make me think, that make me believe, that somehow I have significance, which is such a travesty.

The nightmare speaks of the deepest fear, the reality that marks truth. And truth can be the most frightful thing of all. It bores into the deepest recesses of the human heart and puts it in a stranglehold, until some resolution can purge the terror of that truth. Facts are undeniable, and some facts are subjected to the sincerest attempts of neglect. When the animal, the predator looks one directly in the eye, facts become like the festering rot of truth, where everything is as serious as the death of someone you loved, like no other person in the entire world. And your stomach becomes tight with the pain.

Multiplicity

Posted in life, personal, poetry on September 12, 2013 by Shadow
Disorder Your Score
Major Depression: High-Moderate
Dysthymia: Moderate
Bipolar Disorder: Extremely High
Cyclothymia: High
Seasonal Affective Disorder: Moderate
Postpartum Depression: N/A
Take the Depression Test

I’m surrounded by a world of me
Everywhere I look a thousand versions of me
Are looking at me
I try to escape, but there is none
I am everywhere, everywhere I go
Each time I see me, I am telling myself something different
Sometimes I am lukewarm while at others,
I am scolded for not conforming
Without fail I always see me, all of them
Watching me, as I face the world, all alone