Who would’ve thought that losing resolve was such a lucrative, sought-after muse?
Because true tragedy talks volumes, but the channels on mute.
Channeling through galaxies, having to move supernovas with raw passion.
Any intuition is an intuitive loss.
So superfluous, the way it happens; a dying sun sparks creative patterns.
Tiresome survival at the cost of my madness.
There’s such an interstellar sting to the inner, selfless kid that
Finds himself on the brink of that trigger of a dwelling sink.
There’s a dimmer from the lighthouse miles away,
But there’s a vignette at the end of the tunnel that I wish I could explain.
Emotions bruised could consume you, in all.
Alive, but numb in the same extraction.
Elapsed time expands in this black hole’s chain reaction.
I blame my sadness, a loophole of unfinished business.
I love kisses when the sun’s dimming.
So dense, the fumes from the smog allude to the fact that it’s useless;
Come on. I came through from the fog, face to face with confusion.
Help. My supercomputer doesn’t understand how to do this.
Interpret binary as separate emotions.
Let the stars explode so I can say I felt the explosion.
Let the radiation mutate what’s wrong with me,
To reshape the relay of this indistinct prophecy.
Instead? It’s controlling, extending its console;
For a better understanding of a severed lover’s hand.
Came up empty-handed; the stars in the sky have become so unenchanting.
People who know me don’t even try to get it.
Too depressed to write from my perspective.
Alive, but dead. Don’t prescribe the meds.
I wish I wasn’t allowed to blink, so
I wouldn’t lose moments and still heard the sounds of them:
Like, what’s the point of sadness when nothing comes out of it?
A briefcase full of to-do lists with nothing to do.
Tag: enjambment
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Dear Journal,
Recollections of a picnic eventuate vividly in my mind. Amidst the reminisced scene, a profound sense of auditory quiescence prevails. What endures most is the ethereal spectacle wherein the heavens infused my being with enduring chromaticity. The transformation of a seemingly desolate desert into an entrancing marvel transpired. Heliotrope, lavender, and carmine merged in multifarious focal points, resulting in a mesmerizing spectacle. Orchid and suave essentials imbued themselves in a delightful communion of mauve and soft magenta hues. A liquid confidence transmuted into an exuberant blaze, akin to a prodigious ember. The quest for pomegranate, purposefully nurtured to invoke a sense of exquisite madness, became palpable. Moreover, the crisp frontier of ions proffered a steadfast verdure, and by that I mean, paradise..
Amid the backdrop of meticulously laid-out blankets, strategically positioned to accommodate our repose, an evocative tapestry of verdant tenderness and a tactile connection to boundless perfection ensued. It was something out of the ordinary, and a vibe that didn’t exist in our current world. In the realm of this particular planetary sojourn, the daunting discouragements of existence ceased to be of consequence. We ascended amid the nascent flourish of intricate patterns, marking the inception of an incipient romance ripe for metamorphosis into this shapeable, and lovable profound mastery.
The auditory landscape, when captured, was replete with a pitch so profoundly rich that visceral reverberations seized the very core of one’s being. A normative twitch manifested in response to the tenuous tension, so palpable one could sever it with the metaphorical blade of irrevocable sin that was ripe with blood.
The ambiance was graced with invigorating gusts of air, effecting an exfoliation of the corporeal integument. Our laughter, during this occasion, found itself immortalized in the annals of memory. Subsequently, following the consumption of the crimson nectar, the sandal-clad feet, and our resonant laughter, the scene transitioned to a majestic sunset. The vista unveiled a palette comprising a myriad of hues, numbering a thousand, gracefully transitioning across the perceptible spectrum.
Notably, the intoxication experienced was not a consequence of our corporeal imbibing but rather an immersion in the celestial panorama. The celestial bodies appeared to undulate and intertwine, mirroring the artistry reminiscent of Picasso’s oeuvre but amplified by a surreal infusion of emotion. The visual tableau was augmented with the seasoning of cilantro and love. Nonetheless, as the sun hastened its descent, we undertook the task of recording every fleeting instant, as we were loath to partake in its conclusion. The firmament seemingly ignited in celestial fervor, embodying a cataclysmic wrath that was paradoxically tempered by an amalgamated magma-like embrace.
In the present epoch, the vista appears eerily unchanged. Encased within the confines of a picture frame characterized by obsidian borders, the scenery is characterized by the presence of cloud-covered skies and smoldering verdure. A very fucking real and palpable sense of stagnation permeates the landscape, underscored by the monochromatic tapestry of smog and sepia-toned expanse. The term “blah” looms ominously, pervading the soundscape with an overpowering resonance.
The analogy of smoke to a claymore elucidates the oppressive nature of this atmosphere, leaving me grappling for words. My apologies if the words fail to flow; the constriction in my chest renders eloquence a challenging endeavor. The landscape that once evoked a sense of awe now projects an ambiance cloaked in ashen hues.
Amid this setting, I find myself seated upon the studio porch, engaged in the composition of tuneless melodies, in consort with an elegant yet unused silvery spoon. The skies, once cerulean, have now transitioned to a state of neutrality, lacking vibrancy. Amidst the prevailing inertia, I aspire to unearth a semblance of purpose.
In retrospect, the dichotomy is striking: the memory of vibrant hues rendered inexpressibly gray. It is with regret that I confess an inability to imbue this gray expanse with the beauty it once possessed. My deepest and well-suited gratitude’s for your understanding.
Sincerely, and my biggest thanks, Cristian.
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All little boys need father figures,
Not to be normal or sane. You wouldn’t turn on a light switch without knowing where all the conduits are placed. You grow up with a fistful of hurt, a surge like a missile, without hearing a ‘miss you.’ But one thing is certain, nothing makes you question your integrity more than knowing that your very existence is a burden. You’re a burden just to breathe. I was just a curious boy, Curious George, Curious Cristian. I tried to talk to friends, but the look on their faces hurt just to listen. A burden. “How about a counselor?” Yeah, I know the ins and outs. I’m a soldier. Here, take my money, let me cry on your shoulder. How do you plant your feet in the mud? How do you turn your feelings into comfort? How do you know what you’re feeling is real and not some misguided daydream because you’re weak and, well, younger? I’ve broken my heart into pieces asunder, endured the most embarrassing trial and error in the world to learn how to speak to a lover. It sucks. Questions I wanted to ask, questions that needed answers. How do you express greediness more than leaving a son? Upset because I proceeded to ask them. On the cusp of 24 without ever really knowing how it is to have one. Just shells of people who didn’t want to take up the task. Another week, another meek undercover. Another daydream took a plunge. Now all I want to do is scream. I want to go into the streets and scream until I don’t feel anything. Until I summon beams full of thunder, until I shudder streets full of anger, until my teeth shatter and burst into a dozen pieces of rancor, until you see a beast take refuge on the streets with an anchor, and he won’t leave until sun-up and sunsets over under. Cloverfield breach. I feel mean. The form of speech “hate” leaves me unencumbered, until you learn that my motherfucking pain isn’t something to play with, motherfucker. There’s a bloodbath of ink on this pale sheet. I’m on a smooth pace of spilling, a new space and ceiling. It’s a tragedy that I had to reduce my father figure to newspaper clippings. How my favorite ballplayer scored 30 points. There’s a new wave of emptiness intended for millennials, and I write most of everything in metaphors. Soft explanations, so the interpretation gets lost in translation because as long as I know what I meant, your misconception is void, because I felt those words when I wrote them. 100 years from now, when I’m gone, children in classrooms will be dissecting my verses with no intention or purpose. I scribbled them into quotes, a message deployed through rejection, rage, an affectionate ploy. An inception became a reflection of my own inevitable pain. Because remember, for everything set in stone, there’s a knife where the edges are frayed, irreverent, sane. I clutch an invisible pendant made out of being ashamed. It’s like every portrait drawn of me, there’s a frown on my face. Every individual second is captured in a thousand frames, and those frames are just lost; they never see light, they’re just gray. I have nightmares of being indicted for being different. There’s a judge that looks exactly like me, handing out a sentence in vain. Bail is set at impossible, and the bailiff is me too. At my funeral, I want Beethoven’s 5th set as the prelude. Every physical sentence I mash out is obsession. I’ve invented the abstract, and what’s next is a flash, exposure to quiet. I sit alone at the dinner table, three hours past supper, spinning my index finger in the red wine. Dead silence staring into the glass, as if it’s going to stare back up, and it doesn’t. Every masterpiece I created is crap. I feel my own perfection is lackluster. I don’t know. I’m impossibly hard on myself, and the quality is starting to lack. Quantity takes its place to tackle an impossible task. I’ve tacked on a badge of honor for burnout. I’ve become so accustomed to exhaustion that having energy gives me PTSD. My madness is bottled up, swallowed up by a flask of somber.
I already know what you’re going to say before you say it. It’s non-euphoric, and even if I were to become complacent, it would be out of boredom. What a soreness to wake up out of touch with the world. Yeah, I see your pain, and I raise you my void. I’m hard-strung. I’ve coughed blood into buckets. I’ve sung songs to my lovers. It’s better to have love lost than to… forget it. Making people laugh is a drug, and I love it. I run out of punchlines and realize my life was it. Feeling implicit. You need to be me to relive it. These last two decades confined to the fetal position.”
-
Sigh. The streetlight kissed your eyes and created an impression so pure, its whiteness. I bring this up because I fell in love by remembering my reflection off your iris. Expression in its highest form, sensory design to cure, destinies arrived. Analyzed the sculpture, of course, then vandalized your structure. Leaves falling aimlessly, in their phantom-like flutter. Randomized in the sputter of it all, only to capture geometry. If love reaches new heights, this colloquy is written in masterful mountains, parallel streets, the architecture of houses, potential surrounding of impeccable scenery only strengthened and balanced by the powerful breath breathed into me when your mouth pressed out in between, the sound effect of the pucker so loud, so vehemently. I remember a shroud of evenly distributed, heavenly eloquence, where blood cells held an exodus to swell in the realm of my lips.
Visited a palace of hymns where people would sing forever, rectify the devilish sin held in the pits that existed because we relished in them. To intensify my sensory limits, so inexplicably wicked, touching a galaxy. Lungs breathing love, lost and found, but what were we hiding and seeking from? Under an elm, deciduous. It was funny because that’s when I decided. Where the brushing of wind from Sandy slighted me above the stratosphere. We’re out of here, cusp of your hand became the new life vest where if it rained, I knew right then to hang by you, to clutch, until the waves subdued in horizons.
Hell-bent over control of my conscious, like I poured everything, and stanzas decomposed into options. The perfectness? Prose couldn’t match with it. Gravity didn’t have an emerging role in this drama and thesis portrayed through my soul, because I swear it rose, and nirvana’s capricious. Picture a boat, now picture it floating without water beneath it, still rocking along the coast, unbeknownst to a force that governs its beaches. Once I pulled you close to me and spoke in a manner, boldly enamored, dissolving distraction, your hips close to me after. It was poignant. I told you to kiss me, with the grip of your jeans intervening and lingering, memorizing the seams, and create macrocosms just between what I felt in my fingertips. Elevate my scarlet shard. That’s the end of the discussion. I could feel the eruption of your blushing, emanate from my arctic heart.
Hurricane winds made you clutch your arms in a defensive posture. This next sentence is a toss-up between a metaphor for intensive form or comparing your sensual heart hugs to a tropical storm. Love boat wasn’t enough to capsize in waves of charm. Awestruck, star-studded raindrops baptized our naked arms, established an anomaly so vastly diverse; I could only deduce it in a calculus version, gauge the geometric perversion, and argue that it was mathematically perfect. And by that? I came to animate inanimate objects, abstract art splattered paint so simple, my only explanation is that it had to be complex.
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Swore it was my last shot, promised it would be. It was the electric surge coursing through my conduits, a constant hum. I’ve been left alone, shadows have unfollowed me, but I’ve got 40 ounces that suggest I’ve done everything but bottle it up. My hair is falling out; I play a game, though I feel so ugly, I’m utterly defeated. I count the follicles, “she loves me… she loves me not,” with a sense of perverse pride. I dissect things logically, gladly picking them apart. Sadly, I find myself single-handedly pulling at the strings of your heart, stitching together compartments that house both fancy and fury. I live in this apartment, a shell of anger. I felt the shift in you when I put my fist through the door.
Sometimes, I listen to the pauses you take, the breaths, and the silences woven into every word, lost and adrift. I don’t really hear you, or even myself when I speak; it all seems to decay. I simply alter my demeanor and withdraw. It’s a constant struggle between me and my ego, a self-indulgent, heat-seeking endeavor. I’ve fallen in love with the unspoken nuances hidden beneath our masqueraded pretenses. I’ve lost count of the bridges I’ve burned along the way.
-
Puncturing flows of buttery colors, exposed in
Post and pre-nuptial showmanship. Function control,
Amusing instrumental, effusive ode to hold this angel to a centerpiece.
Basil, with cloves, of energy that exposed a masterful synergy,
A weeded rustled drone that tumbled a quiet depiction of the color blue on a petal,
Succulent. Moss grows on my archer’s boot, and a straw of grass clenched by my jawbones,
A flux of rusty trombones that exude music through its metal.
I’ve heard poetry spoken in crux, bolded by a bellowing, bolstering,
Underlined by a snake in the grass, it’s so mellow. Just hold me,
Boisterous, soaked in droves of this sorceress satin.
She spoke in a language obscurely molded in Spanish,
Her lips curved, Sagittarius furor. Sandals and codeworded for passion,
Prescription for cures and an ailment aimed with her astrologer’s arrow,
A hollow barrow, and a node I focused on with a ridiculously pure heart.
Fluent in affluency, forehead kiss, and bewitching allure,
Potion and magic, with an inflection of sultry enchantment.
I’ve met a beautiful queen that I spoke to in Latin,
Aztec rituals led to a madman’s mystical matchmaker,
With slurps of a spiritual flask, drank from a vase of snapdragon,
Curvy dress with cottony ripples slightly past bony knees,
Impervious to the dogma your thighs created. Your soul’s a speech,
Red in a loud voice, in a cabin with a fireplace, abrupt,
Where the fire grows irate every time your feminine tone erupts,
Sensuous, cold, the scent is insane. I could hear your perfume luring me with incendiary allure,
Had enough with the tempestuous situation.
Where an ice-cold gloved gauntlet haunts your lightly toned marked garments,
Misses maestro lust. Larva finds a crawlspace where it bugs my life’s oak carcass,
I tithed to our religious cult-like chemistry,
Where memories like centipedes held life in their arms,
So magnificent, mount me to a crucifix, slow,
And show me the coloration of the sounds that I used to know.
Portuguese picturesque beauty,
Whisking along with curly-haired brunette insouciance,
Where a degree of our separation detonated my inner vignette of Vesuvius… -
Vaudevillian. I’ve flown so far off course
That my radar doesn’t even beep;
It’s silent, instead it weeps
For some recognizable aura of man to detect.
Signature heat, thermal readings, nothing.I’ve become so abrupt in my comings that most of my time
Is spent twiddling my thumbs.
I’ve flown so far off course, like a meteorite
Whose path was altered in a slight trajectory by space debris.
It could be my new home, if it ever passed by me.
That’s how far off I am.I’ve flown so far off course that my wings don’t even flap
In this new dimension of flying; we fly with our minds.
I’ve flown so far off course, global positioning
Isn’t a satellite thing anymore —
It’s how I view our galaxy from a light-year away.
Mars and Mercury are tiny stars;
Venus and Neptune are off,
But furthest, but not least, Earth is the last of the equation,
Where a place full of life could make me feel like an alien. -
Incandescent, I’m pregnant with my words,
Pregnant, as in, ready to burst,
And give life where it’s needed, or not,
Irreverent, a moment of shining,
Where bulbs of luminous lime invoke
A poisonous vine. It’s similar in fashion when
I couldn’t feel a feeling twice,
It’s only one time that I felt it,
Like I can’t relive a moment in inception,
To revive the electric vibe
That enlivened me in a second.
So terrified at the ghastly future that I stayed in the present,
Played with ploys of my past,
Avoiding a void is like moisture in cracks.
Over time, the crevice loosens its solid texture,
It falls and becomes decrepit over time.
A dam is an unimaginable creation of man,
And I was that, an image of grandeur,
But with just the constant pressure of water,
My only vulnerability turned into a disaster. -
Particle physics; radiation courses through every speck and grain,
But that didn’t mean infecting the inflections as per your hypothetical claim.
Bite the bullet, swallow the pistol; it shoots,
Harboring a hollow feeling, sipping Miller to boot.
Coil-gripped Corona, drowning out social persona,
We’re evolving into moths, wallowing toward the
Murky gray skies. Yeah, the coffee! What’s next?
Marvelous pillow talk over a body of sex.
Heel gone from the left side of my moccasin treads,
In particular, an inarticulate guy with philosopher’s breath.
Cotton linen robe; tonight, I uncover the secrets you stashed,
Underneath the cardinal chasm embedded deep in the cracks.
Try to unfurl the English through your lips on contours,
Christmas carolers’ scarf, closed-captioned lyrics encore.
Wept for concourse; a few have witnessed my character’s arc,
Behind the lighthouse, my sailor’s boat tried to signal offshore.
The shelf life of a dying love is only half of what you want it to be,
Being in love and being in dumb. It doesn’t mean I’d just drop it and leave,
Singing the songs for the markers, autumn leaves for the author,
Monastery blues, with the indents of my knees on the altar.
Statistician Jack Daniels keeping a crop of my phobia lot,
Who would’ve known behind every letter is a quarter of scotch?
A stench of me in the shirt I gave you ‘for the aroma in seams,’
With 4 inches of your middle carpal on a mobile digital screen.
A soul gazer in a trench-coat; I remember the buttons with such reminiscence,
Forgetting how to speak to me, Landau-Kleffner expression.
Promises made by executioners fueled by the guillotine lust,
Soft lips with a barbed tongue said your farewells with a clean cut.…Shoot me in the foot, sparing me any beamed blood.
-
Empyrean cosmos. This feeling I swallow; it’s real. It’s hollow, but it’s there. I know it. It’s growing, a hole full of sorrow; it’s weird. Some sort of eerie control. It has sculpted out a grave in my heart, it’s six feet into my soul. A clay soldier statue that’s woven and wound up by fear. Wounded by perceptions and ousted by fear. I’m used to it, ruthless, I’m near it, I smell it; I hear it. And movements that veer into me are getting boosted. It’s like every little thing is in motion for me. Emotionally, my blood pumps. It’s mundane humdrum. I’m so used to panic attacks when it happens; I’ve practiced drowning myself to get better at them. Crusted bark falling off the sharp edges of trees. Hearts with initials were pleas for adjustments in romance. CG + your initials here. Or Your initials here, + CG, because ladies go first. It’s old. And when the heart breaks in half, my part of the heart looks like a parenthesis ). It’s funny because you said I always kept everything a secret, like a sidenote, like a parenthesis. I get it, see. I’m holding the keys that unlock the deepest, boldest embarking trips to the depths of my soul. I don’t even know if it fits, homesick. If home is where the heart is, I don’t even know if my home exists.
Went for a doctor check-up and hugged him when he said I had 65 beats per minute. “Really?!” I said, with a smug grin on my face. That’s 65 reasons a minute why I hated myself. Verbal vortex ripped in coercion. I’ve lived a minute for 23 years and I’ve tasted helplessness in 65 different versions. I’ve envisioned never being hurt and it’s never visioned. Feeling defeated every second, I sarcastically think, “Is that why it’s called beats per minute?????” Overly saturated covert emasculation. Social emancipation; I’m vocally allocated. Totally placid. Manipulative dickhead. Owner of phallus castle, got my troops and took over the ovary palace. Sensory sonar. Very elective and deceptive. It’s no-arms combat. I’ve learned to defeat you physically by waving a pistol made with the way my lips sway and turn words into bullets. It’s only defense. I’m the least offensive person alive. I’d totally offend you though. Don’t hurt me; I’m ready to let you go. Let us go. In an emotionless scene, an ocean or sea of developing flowing disease. I could kiss the wrists you executed me with. Puckering kiss cracks like the whip that antagonized our failure. I apologize for actions that me, myself, and I don’t acknowledge in reality. I’m molded. Grown old and outsourced. It’s like the mold in a spore. I can barely afford to pay attention to myself; how would I know I was there for you.
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It’s 2 am.
I feel interconnected through any vine or snippet of life,
A perennial inflorescence of any 6 seconds chimed.
Success is a hive, hummingbird wings in slow motion,
Hearing the crickets sing, so monotone yet obscurely composed.
Feels like they’re talking to me, as I walk on the leaves that I cross,
Demure, you’re so provocative, and I’m surely a ghost.Crunching of autumn is like a skeleton field for tiny trees in the fall,
To possess you is a perfect choice, and you’re as alluring, a host.
Sunbathed petals drowning in jack’o’lanterns of coffee and pumpkin,
Squash the soggy leaves after a beer, underneath the frothy assumptions.It’s cost me a fortune, ink-jets flew the loss to the profits,
That’s just the cost out of pocket, I wore the pants, but you wore the wallet.
Living a martyr, nose-dive a dotted plane into soil,
Where waves were uncoiled, from the amber gaze, to the point where it boiled.Hear the ether perform, a duet with 42 degrees and a choir,
Robotic vampire, nothing to do but to sink my teeth into wires.
Mechanical organism, metamorphosing orphan, with a heart full of gears,
Bleeding gasoline endorphins, pros and cons was the love you pretended to smear.Propane huffed out of my ears, olfactory prose transposing as mutants,
You wrote me off as a human, with me begging you to hear me out. It was ruthless.
Wasn’t enough, contraption malfunction,
The sound drowned out, a whisper was like dropping a mountain above it.
Teardrops were waves, where even an arc wouldn’t suffice,
You took two of each beast that I had, so immediately, I…
Just lost it.You whittled a soldier out of clay, from the earth a clone was conceived,
With a chisel that was made by the bones of the deceased.
You were the cotton in an aspirin, a linen in my attire I wasn’t accustomed,
To go into combat for you with a wardrobe and the cloth that it’s cut from.
Ungodly, the humdrum, I couldn’t acquire the taste,
You were so tongue-in-cheek with me, I blushed into haste when you asked if I’d want some.All I want is 5 minutes where we understand each other completely,
Where we aren’t drunk or having sex, sigh, where you just complete me.
Developments real, the buzzing of broken street lights is loud,
A suburban cemetery, not a real burial ground, that’s the imagery.You stole what I had, but now that you did, my soul’s deep with love,
You need so badly what I have, but now I don’t even want.
How’s it feel to have it? I couldn’t sate it but maybe I was deeply depressed,
It doesn’t diminish my character, but it diminishes you, exposes your weakness, you weren’t even a friend.You poked fun at my features, especially crucial to the dent near my nose,
Which were filled with raindrops from my pupils. There, now tears are used as placeholders, for now they’re never exposed.So hastily brash, sort of insane, but with class,
You took the sage and lit ablaze the incense with aroma my nasal could grasp.
Heart rates out of the bag, but a cat caught this lung! Out of breath and out of reach,
A tongue with an abrasive touch, I just wanna say what I wanna say, without the effect of me to stay in this funk.I don’t even try to be me, I try to be me, but for you, just like me, to see me as something else besides a jaded complexion.
You were into astrology, I read the sign of a Pisces for August 10th and copied it ’cause I knew you would make the connection.I manipulated myself, but in that, I manipulated you,
All it took was a simple placement of emotion, for you to be the creative ink of my next scintillating muse.
Pixelating, ruse, miscellaneous, who? I’ve never been vindicated ’cause vindication’s rude.
I’ve been to places you… couldn’t move to, in a million years,
Walk a mile in my boots, where bricks from the ceiling and the steel-toe sort of disappear.Dissipating, pointless, ventilating, poignant, vision-aided moistness,
Where physics plays a joint version of the Bible’s revelations, over and over again.
My wound is opening, fix the sutures, fix my future, remove gauze,
Remove smog, sterilize, feral eyes, then apply the ointment.It’s 2 am.
-
Hey there, crickets. Feeling a bit down, you know? (One cool thing about crickets is they keep on chirping even when you’re just talking to them.) The world’s in a real pickle right now. It’s all hush-hush and super heavy. Cultures clashing, problems piling up, and my mentors throwing career advice and consultations at me like there’s no tomorrow. I see a lovely lady, and I just wanna say, “Hey, you’re beautiful,” and see her smile. I spot some guys I’m vibing with, and I just wanna go, “Hey man, that’s cool,” and that’s enough for me in terms of interaction.
But, you know what? Sometimes it gets lonely. Sometimes you crave a real conversation, not just small talk. Sometimes, you don’t want those steamy daydreams but rather to chill in the grass and wiggle your toes, and you wish there’s someone right there, opposite you, doing the same thing, and you both acknowledge it with a grin and keep on wiggling those toes. That connection, man, that’s what I’m after. I want someone to be on the same wavelength as me for at least a solid five minutes. It’s a bummer that it usually only happens during sex, but who knows, maybe there’s hope elsewhere.
When the clock strikes 2 am, that’s when I really feel like myself. No one’s awake, it’s all quiet and pitch-black. You can just be you, deep in your thoughts, and the darkness kinda keeps you in, ideally in a room all by yourself.
You start noticing the signs of autumn creeping in. Leaves are slowly dropping, and there’s that satisfying crunch underfoot. The breeze carries that distinctive autumn scent. The sun’s rays hit you like they’re saying, “Hey, get ready, ’cause I won’t be shining like this for a while. You’re on your own now.” Kids are back in school, and you see yellow everywhere.
This summer, it was like a bolt of lightning, and my life changed as dramatically as the sea during a hurricane. It’s almost 2015, and it feels like I barely got to know 2014. I’m done trying to please people by lowering my standards. Why do folks keep ditching me?
Sometimes, being nice to a girl seems to send the wrong message. I don’t want to come across as just wanting sex or a relationship. It sucks when I get lumped into that category with a bunch of other guys. It makes me feel less like a man and more like a dinger. I sigh when my questions get dodged, and I’m like, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to confuse you.” Or when they actually engage, it’s like, “Cool, now I just want a friend.”
There are days when I feel too smart for my own good and others when I feel dumber than a rock. Sadness knocks on my door and whispers, “Just this once,” and I find myself thinking, “Okay, just this once.” I’m yearning for a friend, even if my selfishness ends up hurting more than it helps. Loneliness can make you pretty darn desperate, but hey, alcohol and coffee can work their magic.
Even Sinatra on the record player isn’t cutting it these days. His voice doesn’t bring a smile like it used to. The wine stains on the glass are becoming a familiar sight, and I just can’t seem to figure things out. God, well, he’s starting to look like a convenient scapegoat. What about all those times he let me down? Was he testing me then? This feels like the longest, most bizarre test ever, and he’s the most patient proctor ever. But you know what? I’m starting to think this test doesn’t exist. In fact, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. It’s just 2 am, after all.