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.

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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

The Frayed Edges of Existence

Posted in love, personal, poetry, prose with tags , on July 12, 2013 by Shadow

Alone

Only one person can touch the heart, that person some call a soul mate. She’s the one you can tell, nothing else is as important, because the nights are hard to get through alone, or like, sometimes, it’s hard to make sense of my thoughts when she crosses my mind.

When fate enacted its charms, I was forced to go away, the complications so difficult to explain that an entire dissertation couldn’t cover the extent of what happened. Paradoxically, the simplest thing underscoring the whole of the matter, was how much I loved her.

An obstacle established, a circumstance pushing matters in a torrential way, a chain of events and the passing of time, and suddenly, my soul mate was gone. I had to imagine life without her, the possibility of kissing a complete stranger, someone I would never come to love, like I loved her.

The wind blows upon my path as I travel, until my bones turn to dust and I have to wonder. Why couldn’t the fates have had pity on me? Do the angels, at least, marvel at the strength it takes, to walk alone, without her? Is it a choice, that I choose to follow my path into the ice, where I finally come face-to-face with my demise, never knowing the reason why I was singled out?

Is that what I am then, a monster, forced to find someone else, when no one else will do? Having the strings that extended between you and I torn, was painful. Unresolved, I keep myself barred from the cold wind that freezes my face, bound to the isolation of the glacial path. Because where it leads me is irrelevant, for if you are not there, then where or who am I, but a weary traveler.

Unforgiven

Posted in life, love, personal, poetry, writing with tags , , , , , on May 7, 2013 by Shadow

Unforgiven

You know them, because you pass them by all the time.
Straggled like the scattered fragments of broken glass,
They are noticeable only because you know,
How you have to go.

Some blend with the soiled walls of the street,
Since they are too thin to be seen,
Their wary eyes rounded by the reception
Of a thousand hateful looks.

Sometimes a cold breeze will graze the skin
Of cheeks beneath the look of a distant memory,
When the thought of reaching out to a hand, extended,
Dissipates in the tears of painful regret.

You’ve seen this person, struggling for a friend,
Desperate for affection, from saying the wrong thing,
From believing the wrong thought, never having known,
Until it was too late — and you have to keep going
Because you know the consequences,
Of sharing a passing smile.

Somewhere they’ll turn up for the ocean salts,
To absorb the wealth of their sorrows,
Where the earth will offer the solace
That another person simply cannot.

Waves will crush against the sand,
And the gulls will glide their airy flights,
Passing at times in front of the sun.

But when the frigid night arrives,
When the myriad stars rain down their hollow sounds,
Do they herald the shades of those who are forgotten,
Unforgiven?

When You Dump Me

Posted in life, love, personal, poetry, writing with tags , on March 16, 2013 by Shadow

Albatross

When you dump me it will be done
And I will go away
You will never have to see me
Past, present or future, or any other day

When you dump me I will understand
To do so will be so easy
And you will be quite happy
And I will feel so queasy

When you dump me you can have your new lover
I promise not to ruin the fun
I promise not to seek you out
And shoot you with a gun

When you dump me you can move on
What a hold back I must have been
Annoying like a little puppy dog
In your way like some grotesque sin

When you dump me I might hurt
But I know that’s not your concern
You’ve gotten what you needed
It’s for me to feel the burn

When you dump me you can wash your hands
Free from the dreaded ordeal
Sweep up the mess and get on with your life
My vanishing will not seem so unreal

When you dump me you will cheer
That it’s all finally over and done
You’ll think of me as that nasty mistake
A nuisance that was finally overcome

When you dump me I will move on
In quite the opposite direction
No need to worry or fear
No sights of my sorry complexion

When you dump me you’ll feel so alive
I’ll hurry so you can get going
To live how you want without troubles
To be without my love or its showing

When you dump me I won’t forget
Now I get how the world’s not to give
How the disfigurement that comes with loving
Is no way for someone to live

I am Changing

Posted in life, personal, poetry, Uncategorized, writing with tags on December 29, 2012 by Shadow

Mistakes2

Beginning this day there will be some changes.

People will see this change because things will not be the same.

Matters will operate in a different fashion and there will be a series of reactions accordingly.

Such change will mean that the old way of doing things will no longer be done.

A difference in the way circumstances unfold will become apparent, and people will notice.

The basic flow of situations and events will work in opposition to the manner in which they previously existed.

Things that were, won’t be anymore.

Times will feel differently than they did, because lives will experience a shift from what was originally thought of as normal.

Past protocols will sustain significant alterations while specific processes will endure prominent reformulations.

Aspects of life that have been adapted to will undergo metamorphoses and there will be an awareness of novel activity.

Please do not attempt to interfere with the nature of this change, as results could be harmful.