Dancing with the Black Dog and Learning to Live for the Future

Part One, Knowing When to Say When 

There is no mystery that December has the uncanny way of pulling me into depression until the first days of January. By then Im usually filled with the desperate anxiety of a caged animal released from its holding, as I run through the days with forced optimism and perceived notions of time being limited. This takes many forms. Returning to the gym after a stressful hiatus of gatherings and the end of the world in the form of closed businesses and empty streets. A drop in stress as sleep is regained to their desired amount and even the streets where I roam become a normalized silence, not in guilt, but of exhausted relief of another seasons end. January is where I get to hit the year as hard as I can to ensure I get away from the lingering death of a dying year.

And yet, January also haunts me as I feel the relaxing tendrils of its predecessor release me to harsh epidermal markings. In my late Thirties, I began to reclaim my efforts with runs as I usually either hit the street in the coldest of cold, the dampest of wet, or if even possible in LA, the hottest of hot, although we have been getting muggy weather that has made our Summers unbearable and some worried about a future Floridian nightmare of humidity and stupidity. 

And yet, it was some 5 years ago I began to see it. Perhaps it was due to the celebrations and smoking shisha a bit too aggressively, as if that is a thing, or that my workouts were finally pushing me past a point that my body can heal from. Either way, I began to cough up blood.  Not as in films where the protagonist gets struck with the force of a falling elephant and yet must continue on in pain. This was more of a cough up of something in the back of my throat. Just clearing what is left after sleep in order to speak and not drive others into disgust. Nothing dramatically deep or effort taking, but just a simple cough as the sink turn that color of crimson that you do not see in everyday life. That color that tells you exactly what it is and where it came from. That color that is almost filled with life and it reminds you of what true blood can do even if you think you are desensitized to it all. 

The feeling of dread and horror takes you. Not words I misuse here considering that awesome can describe a sandwich with no irony these days. Despite word erosion, I mean dread and horror that has been mastered throughout evolutionary times simply reminding you that you were the descendants of mammals that were just a bit too weirded out and started to bolt as those who didn't aid the evolutionary progress of another. That primitive fear of something not right and you are running out of time. 

Having been infected with tuberculosis at the young age of 16, I've learned to not renege of going for an XRay. Immediately without eating or preparing for the day, I returned to my university for one. Even graduating in the Fall allowed me to carry on my underutilized promise of healthcare that my fees usually went towards. In the matter of a day, I received my XRay and while in a room of masked individuals I was told that I was fine. That there are no culture growths and my lungs look healthy and strong. And yet, I questioned why would I spit up blood and to the calming response of those trained in offering the worst of information they simply told me that nothing is wrong. All my tests are fine and perhaps I should keep vigilant as I have been before. I was even complimented on my health and diligence of it. 

This would happen twice more only to realize that I suffered from a nasal infection that wasn't prominent, but is what cause me to understand that my butterfly was the origin of humor instead of my lungs. I've since received meds and now make it a yearly habit of taking the flu shot, something I recommend greatly, yet Im not here to promote proactive health. I'm here to plead my case to something lingering my thoughts, even before Turkey was cooked and bells were jingled. 

I've explained to my nausea what life was in my youth with TB. How it made me resemble those unfortunate souls who survived genocide in Europe after the last fascist regime was finally halted. Im not fond of my image back then and I can say I even avoided looking in mirrors until now. I can even understand why I hit the Pile as hard as I can, amassing as much muscle as a Forty Three-year-old can and why I always run at my highest heart rate even if it is as close to physical death as I can put myself through. Im from the school of proactive preparation rather than reactionary. I am not allotted such a luxury as a reaction. To explain once more the issue of TB, TB is an opportunistic infection. It is never killed off, but slumbers in one's DNA until the host's health begins to falter just a bit. Then it begins to replicate and reform aiding the demise of the host and releasing itself usually in an aerosol cough of the host as they suffocate on their own fluids. No, you read it right, the host....I can drown to death. I can suffocate in gasping breath where my O2 lung capacity is decimated and not able to continue to keep me alive and I will drown in my own fluids. I will one day, if not lucky, drown to death and infect others. This means the moment my health deteriorates not only will I be condemned to this horrid death, but I may even pass it along with someone else. 

Ask me again why Im so antisocial.

Im not joking......

Part Two, Why Are You Doing This To Yourself

So....
Yea.....
I just wanted to know....
*sigh* Go ahead.
Are you gay?
No.
Um.....are you sure?
Yes.
Its ok to be gay.
I know that.
Not even shunned that much anymore.
Right.
But are you?
No.
......not even Bi?
No. 
You're attracted to women?
Yes.
I mean, sexually?
Yes.
As in you want to have sex with them? You are attracted....

[At this point, I can tell you're a bit unnerved at this. This is a close friend having that important talk with me either because they have some attraction towards me, someone asked if I was available and they didn't want to steer them wrong, or somehow my celibacy is just a bit too unnerving for them and they just want me to kick down the door of whatever closet Im in so that they can sleep well at night, I know Im a fucking monster. I know YOU care, but I thought that last time I explained myself, usually in drunked state where I can let my sorror out you would have gotten it. Im in therapy for a fucking reason, but hey, here we go again.

.....also, fucking side note...if Whater her face is fucking interested tell her.... HER....HER...I like pussy, alright....Im a CIS male and I love the vag....shit.....*sigh* just have her have a conversation with me. Give her my text and tell her to just have coffee. As in talk. Shit this high school shit is still in my life in my Forties......fuck me....]

.....Ok, should we just cut to the bone. Im getting tired and I don't want my buzz to go to sadness.....AGAIN.
It's just, me and *name redacted* were talking and we are kind of worried for you.
That Im going to die alone and that no one will take care of me?
Well, not exactly that way.......but yea.
I've been taking care of others since I was 15. I married early for whatever stupid reason you can come up, I married early. I was divorced at 21. I raised my children as best as I could until 2007. Since then I take care of myself. Sometimes miserably. Other times quite nicely. Either way, I'm used to living alone, even while staying with others.
Do you miss it....living with someone?
.....yes...yes I do, but the relationship I was in with my ex-wife was beyond toxic as you already know. The majority of relationships have always been toxic. I never beat a woman or abuse her verbally, but for some reason or another they either cheat or leave. I used to question why or if my behavior is what caused it. Sometimes I question and other times I wonder, especially when to this fucking day there is usually someone looking for me. Someone who still wants to know where the fuck I am so that they can apologize and beg me to return. It's sad. I sickening on my part and I just know that somehow I can understand why it happens. How a great friendship or affectionate potential goes south.
But there was that one woman, the one in the office.
Yea.....well. Every now and then I get hit hard. I see someone I become infatuated with and even have a crush. Im too old to have crushes. Shit, I was too old when I was 12. Either way, it's a nice moment where I actually give in to the pheromones and just enjoy the feeling. But it never goes on from there.
Why.....why would you do that to yourself?
I don't know. *lies*

[But I do. Or at least I do now.]

If I had my way, I would like to be in a relationship. I would like to be monogamous. And yet, I have the strongest notion that Im more than damaged goods. I'm perishable. And I say this with as much therapy as I had, you can't have a future when you have a foot in the grave. Yes, I do see myself this way. Yes, it motivates me to do as much as I can and to correct things that I can. but in truth, it's a heavy load. It's a hard thing to do since I know there is always a day that I have to leave. There will be a day where I have to abandon you. No, not die. Abandon. There will be a day where I will have to excuse myself and go far away and die. I don't know if I will have to take my own life, but it's on the table. I would like to die of old age, but the odds of that are not good. I don't have the luxury to have people at my deathbed. I have the luxury of dying in an isolated ICU where heavily protected individuals have to dispose of the threat and process my remains carefully. I don't have that luxury. If I age until my body can not maintain itself, then I have to die this way.

I don't want that.

So the option is always on the table. If I want to die the way I want to either death has to come beforehand or I have to take the initiative. I have to end my life before the bacterial bomb in my chest goes off. And that means suicide. 

There. I said it.

Im always dancing with the Black Dog]

Part Three, Dancing with the Black Dog and Living for Today

My ex-wife and I had a though back when we were young and stupid. 

Live for Today

This was back when I loved her immensely. Before the abuse. Before the atrocities, she would commit to our children in the name of religion and ghod. Before she would leave scars on us all that would not heal without some painful effort. I loved her. And yet early 90s interracial dating was not the most accepted thing. Half of our effort to remain a couple was fighting against our families and society we never realized that maybe we were not compatible. I learned so many years then that someone may be desirable, even fuckable, but you don't want them in your bed. Some people should remain, friends, even if most think you'd hit it off. Best to keep a legendary friend than to make an enemy in your bed.

That is as best as I can see my ex-wife. If I ignore the fact she is as comforting as a hurricane.

And not just a year into marriage and a daughter born do I realize that I have been infected with TB. I've already explained that ticking time clock and I don't want to give it any more thought. I have to continue today and I rather not fall back into depressions.

Hence my point. 

There are those who live for today and those who live for the future. I'm not the latter, but I'm trying. I don't have much of a future. Those of your closest to me know that I have a lot against me. Its why you're so proud of me and what a few years confiding to someone what I would rather eat broken glass than to tell you. I'll admit I carry a heavyweight, but if you work out with it, it feels like nothing. I'm your heaviest friend. Im the one who you can't be around for too long because I start to make you think of the hard questions and no one likes to think about. The questions I had to answer in my teens. 

Even the way I love you is to protect you. I've always been a Dad, some of my happiest years. I'm used to giving you that support you need and to spoil you when I can and to give unconditional love is not as hard when its all you can give. And yes, some of you want more. I cant. Or at least I cant now or even ever. I know, I suck, but you have me willing to die in your corner. I'm probably a bad fuck at this point considering the decade of celibacy, but we can have tea and laugh and I can tell you I love you and know that I do in every way. Except for that one. 

Sorry.

And yes, in other conditions I'd would have jumped at the opportunity and then some. Come on, you know what I do at an opportunity and only some of those stories are true. Some. What Im saying is, yes I'm totally fucking onto you, but one of us have to think of the future of the other and just....not fuck someone over. Even when you love them. 

Even when you love them. 

I don't have a future. I'm working against that, but its the most core thought I have. I don't have one. I have to cheat and hustle to get what I have now, but I have to look at it as a realist so at least I know what I'm up against. Its what in part makes me wonder why women leave. I can't allow myself to give them a future so they seek it elsewhere. The irony is that I might outlive you all, but the reality is that I will always see myself as something dangerous and broken. Something that should have never been allowed to walk freely or to become a risk. I have to see myself that way because someone who didn't even take the time to think about their actions got me infected and just now I realize that its what has shaped my life and relationships with others. How can you allow yourself to be vulnerable to someone when that can be a health risk. Yes, I isolate myself and I live in a safe quarantined distance and even those of you who have broken me down to the point where Im either too open or trusting or just drunk realize that this has been crushing me as of late. It's nice to feel like people and not as the walking dead from time to time, but it is not my normal. I have to live for today and maybe seed a future I may never reap.

It sucks. 

I have to dance with the Black Dog. I have to wear my pin and remind myself that I'm only a moment away from taking my life if things go wrong. I have to tell myself that I have to give what I can and do as much good as possible all the while keeping my distance from you. I rather leave you with stories than with grief. I don't have much choice in either, but its what I can do. So I joke. I plan of a funeral that will make others envy. I plan of a circus event to show how I felt and now that its over to hope that the survivors who know me will leave me to their memories rather than their grief. Its empowering as much as it is devastatingly depressing.....well, to you. Some of us have to carry the weight. I can either choose not to feel it as I get stronger or get crushed by it. 

Ce la vi, no?

Part 4, Carry On

So what do we do now? Now that I shared what has been chewing on me for so long what do we do now. As for you, nothing. You carry on. You do what you always have done and continue to annoy the fuck out of me by trying to connect and the such. You are not the issue or the problem. I am. I will continue to go to therapy, I will continue to work against time, and I will continue to resolve my fears and concerns so that I can make you and others happy. If I am lucky I can overcome this. If I am able to do so, I will live a long and happy life and do many things I can not believe possible. I've been doing well so far. I just wanted you to understand what I am going through and why Im such a miserable fuck. 

We will not talk about this and I will deny if this ever come to pass. I am holding enough and I do not need to know what I'm doing. I can either do what I can or I can put more thought behind it and that will only make me worse. I have to do what I can to make thing better for you. And maybe for me. Just know, I'm not being difficult to be. That no matter how much I want to be close to you and others that I can not. I have to think about the risk even when I don't want to. That's my life for the past few decades.  You either stagnate and die or you live until you cant. So I chose my death. I choose to push myself until I break. I choose to do what I can and when I cant I wait until I see my opportunity. I keep positive and tell you to fucking shit up when you feel the urge to tell me that you love me and you understand. Im past crying, or at least that is what I tell myself. Crying only take up my time. Yea yea, life sucks, but I can still steal the moment and get what I want, even if I know it may not go well. 

I will do and live the best I can until I can not. Then I will go. Alone and end it. So that I am not dangerous. 

And that is that. Best we had this talk if I fall off the world. Leave me some mystery instead of watching a dying biohazard between glass. You will never see me in tubes, I promise you that. I would not do that to you or me. 

I love you after all. Mystery is sometimes best. Leave me that, no?

I'm saying my goodbye now because I don't have the luxury to say it beforehand. I mean, you have issues if I Irish Goodbye your events, so here we go.

I love you. I have to go. Take care of each other. Be kind to yourself and others. Know what hills you want to die on and when to let go of the petty things. Always floss, say may I and thank you. And make sure the other person gets off twice before you call it. And if you have the chance to make an epic memory for someone else, do that! They'll love you for it. 

.......

Yea......this is good. 

*leaves to walk the dog*

3,496 words.

Keeping away from the Places in One's mind that Scare us all

Writing has always been an organic process for me, meaning that it has more of a flow of movement that I often times can't control even if I want to. For the past week, I've been staring at a blank screen wondering how I would begin to write with others attempts has been made well into a couple of paragraphs when I erase it all realizing that it's not something I want said. Not for the sake of censoring myself, if you know me well, I never censor myself even when people believe I should not say something. These are the moments when I usually cut to the fucking bone and get it out, but it's hard to cut through something when there is nothing to cut through.

The sentences that I know as much as I would know the faces of my children that are perfect sentences that would allow me to pour out everything that needs to be said happen in moments that I am not able to take advantage. The last time was between mile 3 and 4 into my run on Tuesday Morning. It was perfect and inviting and knowing that I was nowhere near any form of writing materials, much less capable of resembling human from a 5-month lapse in my running regiment. I would have placed it up there with the point where you know you are going to win and win big with any offense made mute by months of preparations and the awaiting arms of a lover with only a draped sheet separating us. Not joking. Those magnificent sentences are worth more than my weight in gold or what you'd find valuable. And to see those moments of great brilliance slip between my fingers are the equivalent of hold one's arms wide in giving some idea how large the fish was that got away.

Writing is difficult for me, something I have to be in the right mind or mood to flow without mental opposition. To connect the thoughts that I have been mulling over for longer times than most decide to choose a life-altering path in their future. If there is a more personal thing to me I would not know it. I have changed clothes in the open in front of many who either turned away or simply stared on and sharing my thoughts have always been more intimate than I could imagine. I've befuddled people who'd I shared a bed with only to have them declare me distant and cold when they could not pull the thoughts that I would sometimes chew on for some amount of time. Part of it is that I do not know I'm doing it and others have been simply too lost in the process that would have most consider my existence on the level of some cats who stare off to distances unknown only to lick themselves in a second with no continued exertion of mind.

I've before shared my thought process only to horrify and confuse many who do not realize that when I do have enough nerve to share my thoughts that it's usually to gain some insight to their reaction with a partial or even an impromptu thought experiment. A miserable few have ever been willing to give into the processes I endure daily. Most have to have that mental foot being slammed down, not even willing to entertain things that are disturbing and horrid, never knowing that they are proving my point and would have never considered anything outside of orthodoxy, almost as if they want to hide something bigger than they are willing to admit when I'm more than willing to expose my shame for some reflective insight that can assist in my train of thought. Never things that just get yucks from people like, "wanna fuck a dead body?" or stupid waste of effort in thought, but usually, attempts in placing myself in shoes of individuals that would have made other to cross themselves against figments of imagination when their own dogma does not require it.

I enjoy studying the edge. The place where most have crossed with enough pariah shame placed upon them while others would never go near for fear of it pulling them in and never allowing them to escape. I entertain the thoughts that people believe I have and the moments when words become useless and barbaric acts usually get justified in the end to redeem blood on hands. I subscribe to the Stephen King academy of villains being broken people who are pushed too far and usually are conditioned to being under the heels of monsters. I've met my fair share of family loving individuals who do share some tidbit of their process only to have it chill me to the bone. I've seen grandmothers justify rape as an act of beneficial gain for society. I've seen women condemn their own gender to toil when they have never had a callus. I've seen people who growl and foam at the mouth like rabid animals and wonder if they hold small children and tell them they are loved and protected. I've seen people laugh at some of the most horrifying things that can happen and thank their personal deity for it.

And I'm more than one willing to admit I have been among them and in some cases taken part. It's why I can not help to rethink and rethink the moments that I have been placed in those horrid moments without some inner conscious of telling me to leave as I do now. Most of my actions are often fueled by a guilt had in times of such ignorance that if I spend too long pondering I often times snap out of my thoughts with shock at tears shed. There is few moment of raw evil. The kind that children's tv always tell you exist. For the most, they are people who'd are more than human as must of us are, but somehow will debate you against another individuals or groups conceived humanity and how "they are not like us". Those words always chill. That strong assumption mistaken for law, revelation, or epiphany. Those thoughts that you'd shake your head and tell yourself that it could never be you. You are a good and kind person.

I question, what it would take. What would have to happen to cause you to be the nightmare you'd never want to have. Do you have to lose more or gain some? Would you need to be pushed or coerced even tempted? Would you have to have a way out or know that the one thing that keeps you a good person OR ELSE does not exist and that would naturally become your default setting? If the worst has happened to you would that be the justification? Is breathing justification? Is it by default justification? Would you feel this way 10 years ago? 10 later? Could there never be a moment where you'd simply snap or are simple people who do not share the seal of OKness that you project only susceptible? Are only the weak able to become such or do you have to reduce "good people" to such an inhuman state to be capable of said actions? Are some people simply made of shit or are they conditioned to be shit? These are only a few thoughts I ponder, especially when large groups act out in a way most are taken aback by and mockery is the only thing acceptable by small minds.

Perhaps I'm distant for a reason. Perhaps I'm just an ass. Maybe I have no idea what intimacy is or that my definition of it is something that would never be taken to the definition. I ask these questions now. Therapy is said to work, in which I can not believe, but most have said that there are most definable changes in my persona. I can't tell. I'm deep in and only attempting to find the hard questions I shy away from in hopes of not being trampled on by life once more. I know they exist if only because I am this way and I can not "openly be".

Sometimes I wish I had those perfect sentences like now. They would prevent me from digging up more things that pull me in ways that I'm told are harmful. I never noticed. Then again, I am in therapy and I am learning.

1409 words in 50 minutes.

Aversion to Adjectives and Acceptance in Amending them to Adverbs

I always have some difficulty when starting these out. Not for the fact that I do not have much to say, but I always fight a constant and nagging feeling that no one really cares what I'm writing about. I guess this is why I usually wait for the most interesting of moments to share, the kind of moments where I'm given advice from sex workers, climbing through windows, and having to hold someone's hair while they expel all that demon hooch that they have ingested in a guise of being absolutely fine. Oddly enough, with this writing exercise of getting to a minimum of 1000 words and learning to write frequently I"ve come to the point of not spinning a story that pulls people to attention, but more of the random thoughts that I usually share in small confidences only to hear them declare I should share things such as this.

This week is only halfway there has been odd in some way. Once more I'm going to spout a given that should be known that I am odd when it comes to social interactions and cues. I don't understand anyone hitting one me, complimenting me, or even going out of their way to speak to me. Not only do I carry this belief that I'm not worth the trouble, but I honestly believe that it's better that I am left alone. Considering all the work with Crazy Doc I've learned that I have in some way walled myself off from such interactions that do not place me in a position where I offer a service. I'm all too familiar that I see people who I do not know as someone who wants something from me and I want to keep that as blunt as possible. Ha.....if you're thinking that this was the advice from the sex worker, no it isn't. I wish it was, but no.

Yet every now and then new people do squeeze their way into my life even if I do my best to keep them at bay. As antisocial as I can be I can not hide that I have a good cluster of people after more than 10 years had held on and made sure that I could not shake them off, much like a dog with fleas. These people are valuable to me, more than others and oddly enough some friends made their worth more in pulling in people of greater value than themselves, not lying, who I trust more than anyone else. I've always worked with an almost militaristic, mafioso form of loyalty with those who were closest to me, a loyalty that I had in the past had to end if only to survive. I'm not one to shy away from a me standoff for a greater principle of friendship, but I have a strong sense of dying stupidly that keeps me from making my last stand over things that I find so frivolous.

Yea, that's over.

And yet, I am amazed at people and the confidences they have with me. In this week, people close to me have puzzled me with things that I have difficulty in seeing myself. I don't have an image of what I am that I've been told is healthy. It's a mixture of a huge monster with a loud roar and bravado to make most cower, even when I'm simply trying to lay low. The other extreme I'm small and unseen. I'm hidden and I slip through crowds of people, even when surrounded by my companions. A survival reflex where large crowds are simply a dangerous thing if only an ingrained instinct gained from the One Time and people who see me as a threat in their mind built up by people who'd would shoot me on sight. Not healthy. It's why I"m always on the defense and move. I don't enjoy parties or festivities and if I do, someone has to make me comfortable enough that only alcohol has gotten me in the past.

I guess it's why I enjoy house sitting. I get to uproot what weak roots I have and pretend to be someone else. It can also be why I always give another name when asked for one that does not demand personal information, think coffee, although I'd sooner connect that I have issues with remembering names, numbers, and small important information that is not drilled into my head in practice. Yes, I have forgotten my own phone number and name. It's awkward, but then again I live in awkward, hence why I enjoy uprooting.

Being someone else, sitting in a cafe with the laptop out and simply trying to blending in, if not hide. I simply want to see if people will rally the townsfolk and light the torches to chase me out of town. Somehow I build up a persona with known places that may be attached to any legend and only with decades amount of time do people forget me. A small corner, warm coffee, and time alone to people watch helps me build up enough of an immunity to being outside and is needed, yet without it, I at times forget how to go outside and would rather remain in one place and stagnant.

And yet people close to me shock me at times. They want my time. With them. Sharing time and a moment, usually with food without asking me for some great task that I'm always used to. Sometimes they just want me near and I am almost bothered with this. I don't understand people not wanting me in a role, or in a position, or even doing something. To have people accept you as you is a hard idea for me. People who can put me at ease is already hard enough, but then asking for nothing in return can seriously fuck my head. It confuses me. I'm used to being used, but used for me where is not being used? Why? Because of me? Then who am I?

Why me and who am I to you? That's the question that hurts me.

I don't know what people see in me and it's confusing as hell. Every now and then I get snippets from people who think I'm this or that and the adjectives puzzle me because they are usually connected with people with enough confidence to take advantage of those adjectives. I've been called the following, "buff", "sexy", "engaging", "entertaining", "life of the party", and even "amazing", not for the actions that I do, but in reference to the noun and I am that noun.

"That's sexy."

Um.....it's a push-up.....I can see that, but it really focuses on your core.

"That's Amazing"

Oh....this.....took a long time to work on and I had to work at it, but you can do this too.

"Lifting that makes you look buff."

Oh......huh, really? I just lift to lift the things to lift.....you know....like your couch.

"You're so funny. I love hearing your stories."

Yea.....they're hilarious now, but hey if you can learn something from them.

I can deal with that. But I as the noun? "You are _______."? That one is as confusing to me as string theory.

In truth, my work has been trying to build up some sort of persona that isn't ENFORCER or MUSCLE. Even REPLACEMENT. I don't really know what I bring to the table in truth and usually know that if you give me enough time I will master something, but before then I look as if I spout chaos. So.....yea.....just something that I'm trying to understand. That concept of accepting the adjective as a noun instead of making it an adverb. I can be THIS if you give me some time, but I don't think I AM THIS.

.......does any of this make any sense......because it doesn't to me....*Sigh*

1,309 words in 45 minutes.

Surround yourself among those who inspire Fear and Awe

I'm in that limbo space where you're waiting for a friend to do an event and where you are simply keeping time until it happens. It's that point where you are watching all these different people warm up, talk and work out personal jitters before they go through routines that would amaze people who are not familiar with what's going on and others who are in the know would consider failures.

My friend loves freerunning and parkour. Something I wish I was able to get into 15 years ago despite my aversion to anything challenging gravity. It's quite amazing, but the muscles and reflexes I've built up scream contrary to everything being taught. A personal shame really, but I'm good with it to a certain degree. I'm with her significant other as we with sit in the stands waiting for her moment to test into another rank that still confuses me. It's awesome to watch her do all the things that seem to mock the concept of gravity, although her significant other does have issues with keeping her whole and safe.

I feel the same way, although I more than understand the need to defy things all too well.

It amazes me how people drive themselves to work at something. It's beautiful in open spaces as each person go through routines, movements, and actions demanding balance and a strong stomach. All of us have at least something that causes others to cringe or make uncalled declarations of "I could never do that" to somehow soothe our own damage sense of value and to slightly diminish anyone with a weaker resolve than most. None of this is my thing, but the drive and the focus are more than admirable.

Watching her prep and watch coaches ask her to "do the thing" is cryptic as we watch her make moves and motions not quite understood. How the mind is able to store explosive movements in an almost mundane list format in order to process the sequence is almost blasphemous. Everything people are doing is more than enough to pull away one's attention. Even "failed" flips are amazing as landing are made with a bit of corrective stumble rather than knife like swiftness. All of it is amazing in the classical sense rather than in the post-hipster movement of "meh-ing" words into bleak guttural snarkiness with limp impact. "Don't think", "just drive" and become the flow" is chanted among others and to personal spaces as each of them, my friend especially, silently, yet sternly correct themselves to against "stupid things". Once more, all of this to the layman is spectacular, but these people who drive for a perfection unknown are not pleased.

Human anatomy is really a delicate design as intricate and delicate processes finely tuned yet still efficiently inferior to a mechanical process always striving to perfect the form. All of it driven by thousand of years worth of striving and reaching towards something better and reinforced by random chance and beneficial mutations. All life push and drive towards an unseen goal that is rather felt, yet mostly driven by a reptilian mind that simply wants to eat and not be eaten. Given enough time and we have Jordan slamming baskets, Serena slamming rackets and everyone else in between looking over to personal challenges with a drive rather than a "hold ma beer".

Her movements are now inspected and analyzed with a precise eye and calculative thatI do not possess. As long as she doesn't fall and land "wrong" I'm more than content. Judges keep poker faces in place and perform her rituals as we look on with subconscious held breath. I steer my gaze towards louder movements as people fling themselves towards objects that have my instincts screaming while others peacefully observe and nod with smiles. This is heavy. I never had these moments of impotent observations outside of my tourney days where I would simply scream out key phrases that demand harder strikes and cunning tactics ingrained with hard pressured sparring matches. A child off to the side drops from a failed attempt at the bars and lands correctly enough to be safe, but loud enough to raise concern among parents. A tiny voice stating "I'm ok" is raised as other cheer.

My friend cuts the silence with an odd giggle, not attached to the moment I focus on. I turn back and watch her once more.

She launches herself toward obstacles, tucks under while flinging herself towards a wall that limits her progressions with only fingertips pressed against the lip of the top. Only soft "fucks" are emitted until one was enough to break the judges stone facade and emit a nod. Her significant other and I exchange looks and nervous laughs. We make promises to exorcise our anxiety on her afterward over treats. Once again, we have no idea what's going on, but hand slaps are shared and we wonder, "was that a good?"

I'd like to apologize to everyone I place in this position over the years. Sorry.

She climbs up high once more much further than before and tosses herself off stoops to lower stoops while still considerable high up and far off. I can not be more descriptive at the moment simply because it rubs on my crazy towards heights and probability or happenings due to heights. Once more giggles, nods, and hand slaps. Cheers erupt as a child attempts to flip over a bar as all of his companions and those near him offer encouragement. He drops successful and we all share a moment of human struggle that even I comprehend.

She returns to us for a sip of water as we relieve ourselves of all the moments and meanings and sounds that can not find the proper vocabulary. We all nod and we wait once more in limbo wondering when and how it will end. In a blink, another test taker blitzes through a barrage of obstacles and in 17 seconds, almost expelling the residue of movement with an impact to his face. Significant Other and I both agree that mouth guard if not bubbles must be given to prevent faces from being smooshed.

My friend finishes doing some flippy thing as we both gaze back and realize with disappointment and relief that we missed something exciting and nervewracking. I'd like to apologize once more to the people....sorry. Once more she flings herself towards another obstacle on the bars as she slips through a smaller space made by an upright mat and the bar she holds. Nods and giggles are shared. We are still holding our breaths.

Sorry.......

I know she'll do well. She's made of amazing and this is the process in which she tries herself. Always surround yourself with people made of awesome, once again original term used. The kind of awe that causes your breath to stop and hold in your throat. That kind of awe where you shake in wonderment that you witnessed something too huge to break down at the moment. People who inspire stories that make those not there spur themselves in envy and lost opportunity. Never be the most interesting person in the room, unless your ego is fragile and delicate. Do place yourself among the giants of your thoughts who dare confess challenges that would cause lesser individuals to be driven away by their own awkward self-imposed limitations to dwell in safe spaces of their constructions where mundane moments thrive as weeds. I will never do most of these things without the inspiration of chase from things more driven to bit than mine, but it does push me towards the remaining windmills I would never dare to forgo for excuse of age or injury.

Dare to be magnificent. Your failures only disturb cowards.

.......sorry once more.

Hour and 9 minutes, 1,301 words.

When Even Your Cold Calculative Analytical Mind Says You Can or Praise in the oddest and coldest form

These writing exercises are interesting, if only to me. Some time ago, my daughter gifted me for Xmas a Master Class in writing with James Patterson. It's an odd gift considering the timing. In the middle of house sitting, I scoured Youtube for vids to keep my free time busy and I hit a happy pocket of Stephen King lectures, some with R.R. Martin who asked how the hell was he able to put out so much writing. Watching this vid, I noticed that the room became silent at the question in which he told people that he simply writes for four hours a day, every day. He has more than enough spare time to do what he wishes, including research. And yet he knew this was an altogether easy response that would normally be brushed off as almost uninteresting instead of some mystical and deep secret that needs to be sealed with arcane ritual and blood sacrifice.

He also explained that while he put out Carrie, he has this immense desire to just write. His mind was filled with ideas and stories and he knew that he could write more if only he had the time and to have the time he knew he needed money. He needed the money to allow him to focus on writing instead of stealing away time from work, family and other obligations. So sitting there he sat down and wanted to know how much money he needed to write. How much he needed for at least one year worth of time out of the workforce where his family will not be without financial means, including emergencies and vacation time. Sitting there in the late 70's he calculated how much his contribution was to the household and he came up with a rough number that I somehow remember as something around $64, 000.

He needed an amount near $64, 000, if my memory is on it (still feel free to check my math, the idea is still there, though). If he was able to sell Carrie for that close to the amount he could have enough money for the year to continue writing full time. His wife would continue to work, but that was the minimum amount he would need to be able to write without any doubt or worry. That would be the amount that he would need to follow his dream and use that money to see if he was able to continue writing or if Carrie would be his only book, a fate of most writers sadly who do break through into the industry. When his publisher called back, he was almost ready to negotiate a sum close to what he needed when they notified his that they would like to buy his book for a sum closer to $100,000. And so, you can guess everything else was history.

The reason why it hit me so was that it was his test to see if he had the potential to continue writing as a living. During many of the lectures, sadly, he informed everyone that it seems as if writing was a dying medium that needed immense attention and understanding to keep changing with a society that at worse disregard the value of books until the film or tv show came out and at best changed the medium of how his work would be read itself. Although books will never be a forgotten medium it's certain that tablets, phones, and other contraptions have cause enough of a stir with publishers who often time ignored any innovation as they threat they are or the opportunity they should be seen as. Yet with all that he continue to declare that if you have that need and desire to write you have to do whatever it takes to satisfy the need.

And so starting my Master Class with a green notebook, pens, and enough chance to see if there is any potential in me I began the lessons. One of the lessons I've taken to heart is that you must begin a schedule, if only an hour a day, to write and to see how much you can write. In this, a goal of 500 words was made a goal in an hour. And practice should be built up until 1000 words are met. In 28 minutes I have already passed 725 words written. I know I'll hit 1000 before the hour is over. In this moment, I have some issues here. When James Patterson said that I should aim for that amount of words in the allotted time I sit here and wonder what potential I honestly have. Was this goal a low minimum or a "baby step"? Is there a higher goal that I should be aiming for? What is the golden ratio of words to time that he and other writers average? Is this because I'm not writing fiction and I simply have a natural ability to ramble on? Should I be ecstatic that I have blown away such a goal already or should I be focusing on a higher goal?

All throughout my lessons, the advice I'm getting from an author who has published the most books in his lifetime puzzles me. He says have a journal. I do! In that journal have ideas and plots and other snips of writings that you can store for any future attempts at a story. I have a worn-out notebook with first draft stories and outlines on how they should connect and other snippets of possible stories. Choose at least three to have a plot. I have at least 6. Attempt to write those three. I have six first drafts, as mentioned before. And here I have to question not his advice, but myself. Why is this simple to me? Why is this not difficult? Mind you, I can say that I haven't really written fiction in these activities, but have focused my writings on the two work mornings that (1001 words in 38 minutes) I get here early enough and have nothing but dronish work ahead of me to look forwards to. I haven't written on the other days. In fact, I'm writing a whole lot less in these activities considering that more of my pieces are at least......*leaves to see* 2,000 to 2,750 words.

.....wow......

Am I a writer? I mean, I write. A lot. I write when I have a need and there are moments where I have to take off time and simply be, but if I'm just shooting the breeze at least 1,000 words in less than an hour, does that mean I have potential I'm not paying attention to? Should I push myself? I mean, should I even believe? It's more an exercise in overcoming my low self-esteem. I was going to write a "but" after that statement, yet I have none to add. I have low self-esteem and I think it's limiting me. I'm not saying this as in to praise myself, but more in a cold calculative manner where I can see a given action is not taken advantage. If I look at myself coldly, I can see that I have potential to do so, yet do I have the tenacity to make it work? Is this worth reading? Then again, King said to not worry about that and just put it out there. People will find it who will like it, but if you have the need and desire to write you have to do it. I think I'm there. I have to write. I don't know if this will ever produce a dollar for me, but I have to write to simply be normal. I need to unleash whatever thoughts I have trapped in my head that my mouth is not able to unleash. I need to do so as much as some people find a desire to copulate. I need to simply free my mind in order to be able to sit in a room and veg out as much as I have been doing. It's been at least four months since I've honestly worked out to the point I can call it a decent piece of work, but I have to write constantly, even if it's the stupidest thing my mind can come up with!

And yet, is this enough? Is this what I need to just run with it? At this point, some motivation in the form of a mentor, even or plot device tells me to blah blah blah. Life is not that. Yet I, in my most stubborn and foolish of minds as well as over thinking and immensely calculative seems to state that I should, if only because I can. Not flourish or spice or even petals falling from heaven. I can because I must and I must because it flows. I don't know if this is what people would want to if people would desire to have it. Perhaps given an example or a direction to fulfill my way or something, but I have to state as coldly and calculative as my stupidly automatic and over-analytical as my thought process can be, I can write.

I can write.

I CAN write.

I can WRITE.

I CAN WRITE.

.......1,549 words in 58 minutes.

I think......I KNOW I can write. This may be my talent. This is MY TALENT.

I think I just broke through myself.

........huh, I think this is a breakthrough.

.......now what?

1,582 words in one hour.

Rummaging out the Confides of a Motionless Tank

*takes a sip of strong Chai tea, swallows the hot liquid in more of a need rather than in relish and begins to write*

I'm not going to say that I'm a quick person, but if you give me enough time to reflect I can map out almost anything with probable solutions, errors, and points of reflection where I can usually sit in a sunny room and ponder my options. Then again, I'm at work writing this outside of the Coffee shop with free wifi with enough time to put in about an hour's worth of work before I have to go up and simply do. It also helps that I'm going to therapy considering that I finally have someone who checks my mental math and see if I'm stuck on something, obsessing, or simply making much about nothing. Having the trust to have in them in immense, but I'd have to be blind to negate the benefit of it all, even if it spirals me into places I'd rather not go and ponder things I'd rather ignore.

Above all, I learned that my past week isolation and angst, for lack of a more dignified word, has been caused by the lack of mental defenses. I didn't notice it at the moment. Usually, I'm either leaving with a mind filled with heavy thought or with an esteem strong enough to push me past my usual low point and into charging into a new day. Last week, I was wounded. There's no real explanation for it. I was mentally wounded and it didn't register. Usually, in these moments I have to work against a certain amount of time where I'm in touch with emotions that I usually can not register or have abandoned for a concept of "it's just how it is" and moved on with the struggle I called life. It's the reason why I'm able to endure immense difficulty and move with a speed needed in these dire moments where the majority of people are still attempting to register what has happened and why it changed. This has its benefits with a hefty price of blood, as I spoke with Crazy Doc. I'm not going to lie about my self-medication with alcohol. It's magnificent in blacking me out when needed and silencing the analytical chorus that inhabits my mind in order to get in touch with my own thoughts or simply to silence them for a moment and put aside the anxiety that I now recently realize have been terrorizing me for some time.

In order to uphold the immense stress and pressure of my place in life, I understood not knowing or acting on an conceived whim would cost me more than any chance take. When you carry such mental weight you learn to adapt and speed up everything. You calculate your situation faster than needed and understand the meanings behind meanings and the chances of a misplaced word. I can usually figure out motive, action, counteraction and even possibilities of the moment. It forces me to move in automation and many have considered inhuman and almost legendary.

Yet it's not life. It's not living. It's not experiencing the moment for what it is. It's being the best machine for the job. And lest week, instead of having my defenses slowly rise to the point of feeling once more my confinement of my sense of self in a protective and imprisoning protection where I can relate to the situation at an emotional distance, they simply did not rise.

They didn't take hold or take over or numb me.

There I remained anxious, irritable, annoyed, and sensitive. And it was hell. I was insufferable to my own senses and I knew something was wrong and yet did not notice that I was vulnerable in the real sense. I simply knew I didn't want to be near people or outside. So despite leaving for work, I remained and dealt with it, even though I tried to take my mind off of it with whatever task that would take my mind off of it. And yet, not one drink was had. Not a painkiller was taken. No coping mechanism was implemented, almost as if my defenses cost me more than my perceived weaknesses. I see that now. I understand how being made of stone cost me more than simply being vulnerable and open to anything to rush in and tear me apart.

The Jackels never came.

So if they never came, shouldn't I remove the tank worth of armor I continually don in hopes of never being exposed to an attack? Will the bad people leave me be or have they left me be? Am I more than capable of protecting my emotional self from any situation without always being on?

Wait.....I was off? I mean, I have lived my entire existence now as "ON". How was there an "OFF"? Was this me at my "OFF"? Was it really bad? With everything I've faced in life, is this "OFF" a bad place to be? Can I live here with some anxiety and perhaps a bit of uncertainty instead of constantly calculating my every thought and action before I begin to contemplate to take them?

I honestly don't know. I'm a bit confused. This IS new for me. This is something I never faced or felt and I can't bring myself to understand it because I have no reference. How you explain RED? I mean, how do you explain something so elementary to someone who doesn't have the concept of RED. Am I making sense? I mean, I just learned 5 months ago how to implement boundaries, so this is fucking new.  I mean how do I interact like this. Can I even interact like this? How in the world can I? I mean, yea......how? How do I do? How do you RED?

It all feels so stupid and yet, it's so simply to be overlooked. I might be overthinking this. Then again, how would I know?

Much to Grok.

1,014 words in 42 minutes. 509 words in 22 minutes.

That and I'm realizing that 1000 words is nothing to me and I need more in order to express what I honestly think.

Much to Grok.

The Hell of Trusting

The beginning is always difficult, especially when you know that every mental faculty you have has been conditioned to question, revise, analyze and usually toss out numerous attempts at communication. Perhaps it's because I always lived under the umbrella of stupid, but not just stupid, but a special category of stupid where your brilliance that has never been questioned when you are not present puts you in positions where the birds of your feather usually enter the same situation with a declaration of "hold mah beer...". Maybe it's because I was in a cult where critical thinking was frowned upon for belief, faith, and unquestionable acceptance. It's easy to look back and analyze where I have gone wrong and what situations have caused me to become this amalgamation of mental checks and balances with the possibility of reviewing what was, what could have been and what I could have done if.......

And this is where I am, IF. I'm going to say that the scientific method is one of the most amazing processes of investigation that can foster critical thinking, skepticism, and a healthy appreciation of fact over feelings. Yet it can not help me where I am at the moment. It can not offer any way to out of where I am. It's why I now can say with much difficulty and hard earned work that I trust two individuals and they both are or were my therapist. In a small room that brought me much joy outside of the need to stare out a window and know that I am not trapped in any enclosed place, I do what I have taught myself out of necessity and survival to never do. Here I allow the person who is sitting opposite of me to engage me in difficult conversation as I handicap myself in every way possible to not challenge, question, or analyze their words, choice of vocabulary, body language, eye movement, tone, and overall meaning including between the lines. I hinder myself, as many of you know having dealt with me since my very nature I have to have the answer. You find it annoying. I find it a life-threatening need. I have to have the answers or at least search for them since it's only me between the worst that can, have, and will happen. I have no safety net, backup, nor do I have anyone to bail me out if the world shatters as it has many times. Your annoyance on how relentless I must be to know everything possible is probably one of the deepest scars I have and in essence, it's what holds me together.

Here with this individual far away from the world that I relentlessly save, the same world that crushes me with an indifference that I to this day will always find personal I attempt to do what I can not: trust. Every second phrase I speak is one that betrays me and offers the woman with notepad in hand scratching away insight that I never share with others. I share intent, need, and reasoning.I expose more than I would expose with others, and considering that I have blatantly shared nightmares in many of your times of devastation and woe, if only to show you what many can survive if only you have the will to endure and strive, and shared moments of my life some would only hold dear and share with those of trust, none of this shames me in the least. I am in control. I have even disrobed in front of you and find my body of no importance or intimacy. I've shared sexual escapades and moments that would cause medical doctors to pause.

Yet never out of trust. Only from an abandonment of what most would consider personal. I do this much like one would take their hand and stab a knife between the fingers, in a show of disregard of one's being and no concern for one's safety, as long as I am the one harming myself. It scares many away, as intended and it offers me an open existence, but nothing more.

I exist. Nothing more.

I never trust, so in this room, I expose myself to this other person with more shame and fear than one would reserve for an intimate meeting of a sexual nature. Here I leave myself vulnerable as every instinct, natural and hard earned scream at me to stop. Here I offer another person the opportunity to not only help me but the chance to strike me down in the worst of ways. I do not trust because those who I have ripped apart the part of me that would allow any means of intimacy, bond, or .....I actually don't know what else. So help me, I'm so hindered here I don't know what I lack and it scares me.

I was happy not being human. It makes life easy, but hollow in the way of having something torn from you and only realizing once you discover you don't have the means of being. It's a hell that many of you do not understand and I would never wish upon. If I had ever met someone who suffered my fate I would have offered them a mercy that I always sought. And yet, death never came and I'm living past a point where I should have left you all. Instead, I'm crippled in the worst way and trying to learn how to be at an age where I've gained master above many things. Legends are meant to pass on, not exist past their point where the sacrifices are so blatant that they become a monument of sorrow.

So I expose and remain open until the point that my very nature takes hold of me and raises up defenses to allow me to move on. And yet, I do not medicate. I do not hide away outside of my reluctance to be among you. I sit and I suffer growing pains never felt and fears that haunt me once more. This is the price of trusting someone not among you and have no connection to you.

This is the work I do. This is the hell I face. This is me fighting for a chance to live rather a means of existence.

And now you know.

1057 words. 50 minutes

Saying the hardest things that I have no words to say

There is so much to share and yet I'm not ready to share it, but I will say this. The only redemption to this crummy year has been October. I can already sense that I'm touching the tip of the iceberg here and that this paragraph will become the first step in a long journey, something in which I know I'm ready to share, but the moment has not approached as of yet. It almost reminds me of announcing an engagement after a tragedy. It taints the moment and yet it must be shared sooner or later, yet we always choose a later point to share hoping that the long tentacles of misery would not reach far enough to snatch us once more.

And then George Micheal passes. Hell, we just lost Joey Boots a day ago.......fuck you, 2016.

I mean, fuck you 2016. I'm so done with you. And yet I am in no need to share anything and I'm quite a happy place introverting in a warm room far from any stress and people. I love you all, more at this moment than before, but I need space to recharge, de-stress and carry the heavy mantel that is my persona.

See.....already ungreased gears turn and high pitched squeals sound. I can feel this becoming longer than I am willing to invest or am emotionally able to give. So stating that I will leave you with some short thought that hit me just now and maybe something profound out of the random mind crap that is my head.

I'm house sitting a few places hence running around between dwellings ensuring that pets get walks and feedings while making certain people know that the place is safe, happy and lived in. As of today, I haven't spoken to another human being and I'm happy. I need these moments. I need them because I I realize that my mind needs rest when it comes to thought and I honestly realize that my mouth is not the best medium for communication, which means out of all my physical abilities I'd have to say that I'd willingly give up my voice than any other faculties that are well used and enjoyed. My mouth is not the best way to communicate with you all. the fact that I fight my mind from the onslaught of thoughts and sorting to which ones should be verbalized with the painful stress of knowing if I do not choose my words carefully my puckish nature would be considered horrible and cruel rather than introspective and humorous.  So, writing is what I work with best.

That and I have difficulties saying things. So I usually blurt them and polish them on the fly. I will never utter a beautiful word, but given time, silence, and a bit of inspiration I know I can move you as I am moved. There is so much to say and I can spend a life time with the thoughts I hold at this time, but most are not mature or ripened to share. So I'll try to say this.

I was just moved in my time of isolation on how much my life had changed. The beginning of this year I had a resolve that I would either get healthy or finally decide to take that walk down the street. The contrasts from January, coughing up blood and malaise-filled, now filled with hope, confidence, and even affection for most of you. And yet, I know I closed a chapter of my life some time ago, I know I am far from perfect.  Today is Xmas day. I'm an atheist so I'm not one to celebrate, yet when I was in the cult I didn't celebrate is either. In fact, I've spent this day usually walking the empty streets and agreeing to a friend or another to go eat Chinese or visit so that I can receive a gift. The day has no meaning to me. Tuesdays usually have more meaning to me than this day, not as in a manner of protest, but because I am used to this leave of isolation I am used to. I am comfortable alone and even distant with people. I'm one who walks from the crowd when I tired from hiding in it and I go do my thing.

And I realize that I don't want to live like this anymore. I don't know how to show affection other than my children and I know that's an issue to be tackled in a wee bit. Yet, as I listen to Stephen King address an audience while traversing the Commonwealth, I realize I feel something odd. I feel something that I don't understand. I feel something that I can put into words yet, but I'll try:

I miss alot of you.

.....yea, I think that's it. I feel not loneliness, but longing. I miss some of you and I want to hear your voice, even a few words. I don't know how to express myself in this way, because I've always been the "hardass", but I've also been meek and crushed. So I don't know how to express myself to you. I need a bit of distance to function and this is the first time I realize I don't want that distance. I want to cut that. I want to hug some of you. I want to tell you how much you mean to me. I want to share something positive that's trapped in my mind and I can not find the words to put it into meaning as of yet. Some of you I want to swing in my arms and laugh. Others I want to hold a warm drink and listen to you speak if only to remember what your voice sounds like again.

I'm still sorting out. I'm better. I have discovered the tracks of the train wreck, but I know from the wreckage that I have alot of work to do. I have alot of intimacy issues to work out and even understanding myself as a human being. I don't know what I am to you all. I don't know what I look like. I don't know what I am half the time and I do not understand how I can be a bit more. Being people like you is hard. It's where I am flawed and lacking. Being a "hard ass" or a "Legend" is easy since I just push through, but being human is almost unimaginable.

A woman jogged past me while I was walking a dog and she looked towards me and gave me a passing look that confused me. I didn't know what it means, but old tendencies told me to "avoid". I don't know who to people. I don't know how to say words that I need to say. This is my challenge for 2017. To be people.

.....and for some of you, this is why I'm still not "sleeping around" or even "dating".

....so, yea......broken......but I want to say things because I have new emotions at the moment.

.....I love you all. I realize my life is better among you all. I'm sorry I was going to end my life this year. I don't know how to explain it, but I felt I had no direction or choice. Now I realize I have full control of my life. I had the strongest feeling of.....sorrow, regret.....um....loss.....shame......abandonment.....beterayal.....because I realized that I was going to take my life. That if I was not able to recover I would have died and I would have done it now. I would have taken my life at this point and just understanding how I took another path and one that has made my life not only different, but enjoyable and safe.....I am terrified by my own resolution of what I could have done....and I'm so sorry.....I guess I want your forgiveness and I don't know why. I realized that I would have been gone and pain-free and yet I would have never felt this amount of happy. It's almost Dickens how I want to run into the streets and cheer at the moment.

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I almost gave up on me and would have left. 

.....this upcoming year I'm making amends. I'm coming to see you all. I will make my life better than it is now and I will do what I can to have you all together in one place and I will try to say what I can not. I"m sorry I can't say it now. I'm in therapy and I'm honestly trying.

......well, I said that stupidly and clumsily and yet, it had to be said......stupidly since I can't find the way to say things.

I'll end it here.

Peace and Love.

The Moment When I Realized I was on My Way Out or Missing Out On the Wave of Mutilation

December 5th, 2016

I read this now with a bit of a chill.

I was planning why way out at this point and I wanted to understand if I left would the world go on. Long answer, yes it would, but not without tearing a few people apart.

I almost wish I was there to let me know that this day would come. That as bad as things are I was not completely insignificant and that my moment to break out was coming.

Then again, I don't think it would have helped either. No, something else had to happen and that's what changed me a few months later. Sadly, something else had to happen. 

A dear friend would have to beat me to the punch and leave me where I would have left everyone else.

Chills.

I want to say more, but I think I'll just leave this here. That and know that things will get better. And if you think they're not, make noise. Scream, Yell, Do Not Go Willingly, but struggling and putting up a fight. 

That and I love you. Yes, you. You can beat this.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Call 1-800-273-8255

Decemberr 5th, 2012

Shower Epiphany: Death is usually seen as the end and yet sometimes perspective is needed. I was not alive before 1970 and have not taken part in history that goes as far back as the planet forming into a habitable sphere many billions of years. I can be certain that I will not see 2100 and beyond the point when the last form of life expires and the universe either expands into nothingness or retract into an impact not seen since the Big Bang as theories go right now. And yet I have now.

A few days ago I've come to realize that not only are we made of stardust, but in a way we are the manifestation of the universe in the form of life. Something in the making for so long a time that we now have our moment in the universe as the dinosaurs before us and two other extinctions that have lead scientist to question is our strain of life have not originated on another planet such as Mars. So to say that life is rare is greatly understating.

My point is we see death as an end in a limited span of time. And yet, we were not before and we will not be in the future that in truth if we are lucky we will not be remembered when we do expire for this world. This is how special life is. It's a fluke. Death isn't taking us away, but in a way it's correcting an anomaly returning time back to homeostasis. In a way, our time aware now is not only a rarity, but we can only be certain of now. That is how rare and valuable life is.

I am in no way a friend of death, but I'm now understanding that I am not it's enemy as well. My time will come as it has for those I still hold close to me and I have no choice than to go willingly and so in a selfish need I seek a form of immortality. As many have before me. Some left monuments while others left memories wither lovingly molded or scarred into our collective psyche. And yet, I've have found what a selective few have discovered as the true form of immortality. Those who have gained it all have in common not a desire to prolong their life or to avoid the hardships that it brings, but have sought to bring meaning to them. They have in simple terms aged while never becoming old. Those successful enough have left an impression on us that we still hold on to.

And so, today I stop fearing death and instead will one day welcome it as a friend. When my time comes, I will leave willingly. Until then I will be proactive, productive and prosperous. I will be honest to those among me and those I come near. I will not waste a moment to make the memory and I will seek to chase the daylight until it outruns me and welcome the moon with open arms. I will also take the moment and revel in nothingness. Taking moments to sleep in the afternoons with lazy cats as well as laugh while reading frivolous volumes of collected thoughts that have in no way any point to advance my knowledge. I will blow bubbles in my coffee and make funny faces back at small children. I will waste no time in wasting time as long as it was time well wasted.

And so with some resolve, I will try to remember my dead this dreadful month and attempt to embrace my moment in the universe until I must leave. And if lucky I will inspire someone to also revel under their moment in time rather than despise our mutual end or to morn our loss instead of celebrating what time we have.

I shall savor every moment. Even the last one.