Untitled 9 The Wisp Sings - Winter Aid

Silence heart,

perhaps your stage was quite too large.

look inward,

perceive rustling waves,

perhaps your grace,

was quite too large.

Remind yourself, humbly,

your God has more prayers to answer,

than yours alone.

Inhale you lovestruck lungs,

Rest and wallow in a peace

that belongs not to you,

A peace your brain fought

and died in war to achieve.

close your eyes, wish not for

a somberness your pity wishes,

rather thrive in a silence which

lay stagnant, for your ambition has died. 

Grieve not, weary heart. 

Just weep, suffer within the walls

of the house you built

with violent intent of self destruction. 

Reminiscence.

     A train horn blows softly in the distance while we lay side by side. The only other noise besides the record player. Playing soft piano, romantic melodies, sensual vinyl's set the mood for the day I could only ever dream of before. We lay on my bed, candles lit- freshening the air with a sweet smell... Cherry Blossom, the most aphrodisiac scent I could find. Candle light softens the darkness of the room, washing it away with warmth, and desire...

    Our legs overlap, and my arm around you, close... A heavenly feeling, an emotional relief- I want nothing more than this moment to last forever. The cool night only brings us closer together and I find myself searching for a warmth that only your curves and body can give- cuddling close, leaving little to no room between one another... Exactly how it should be. The soft orangish-yellow flush of fairy lights illuminate the contour of your face, highlighting your irresistible features. A shadow hardly misses your eyes... A portal into dream-land, the window to the soul captivates my heart wholly, a forceful realization that you are all I want.  A glossy twinkle reflecting the lights dangling on the wall, small stars, the only thing showing you to me, and I couldn't be more grateful. Oh your lips... your lips... pillows for mine. Smooth as rose pedals, a saturated, stargazer lily, pastel pink- alluring as ever. The music on the record player drowned out by a deep longing...

    I can't help but caress your face with my fore finger, dragging it across your cheek- turning you to look towards me. That gesture was the only way I could communicate how I felt in that moment, the perfection... Your hair lay behind you, a single strand crosses your face, and the river like flow sinks down covering a small portion. A tease for what's beneath. Hiding you, pulling me in deeper and deeper in love.

    The way time relaxed when you are near me. It was only us... you, me, and autumn air... The music slows, a pace typical of slow dancing... But neither of us were here to dance. I couldn't do anything but stare into your eyes. It felt like an eternity we admired one another. Dreaming that the night would last forever.

    Recollecting this day, what seems eons ago- a night no other could compare to. A memory that replays every night since it happened. A night I cant forget, it's events woven further into my memory by a loss that has eaten me alive every time I lay in that bed and you aren't with me. Left only with a photo in a picture frame. If only there were words for how much I lay in the position we shared that night, holding your photo where your face once lay, sharing locked eyes just like that night... I wait for the day we meet again, and share this memory together one more time- a moment that can only then, truly last forever.

My Mattress

Written in around 15 minutes in one of my classes.

    The back of my heel is touching the bed, my toes are pointing straight up. My feet are aligned, and my legs straight. My calves rest on the bed, as well, along with my thighs, my rear, back, arms, shoulder and head all lay on this mattress. It's old, and uneven. There is a slight bend to the mattress, where the springs bend and break, misaligning along the way. There is one large stain, then, lots of scattered ones around it. A once white mattress yellowed with age, splattered with red. When I lay on the mattress I can hear it creek. The springs staining. There are cuts and holes, where a knife may have penetrated the surface, once... or multiple times at that. The yellow insulating foam poking through the surface.

    My eyes face the ceiling. I don't dare look around me, I learned the hard way. Living with myself might kill me, if I look anywhere but in the direction of the popcorn ceiling. I say looking in the direction of because its dark. Not pitch black, but void. If someone tried hard enough, they could convince me I was in purgatory, it's so dark. I can't see my hand in front of my face, let alone see at all. My brain hallucinating spectacles of color. Trying to make something out of nothing, kind of like when you hold your hands in front of your eyes. My mattress is all I can say I know. When my mind is gone, my mattress is here, though the mattress I remember was much cleaner before not too long ago. 

    If I knew my temper was that bad, I wouldn't have gotten such a nice mattress... Nor would I have gotten such a nice dog.

Pinkish-Orange

    You know when your hands get wet... That glossy look, that glare they get in the light. Small white blobs of reflections that perfectly contour the shape of the liquid on your hands. Still being able to see your hands through the film that covers them. This feeling is new, well. It's familiar, but I still haven't seen it quite like this. For some reason my hands look like a different color than when they are covered in water. You see, with water- I still see well... my hands, like the normal color they are- with a bit more gloss. But with whatever this new sensation is, my hands are changing color... Normally a sandy beige color. But now, it's somewhere in between pink and orange. I can't think of a name for it, or any other way to describe it... And even stranger, near my finger tips I can't even see my hands, or the skin below- It's just these blobs of pinkish-orange. Even with the light shining on these buildups of whatever it is, it remains dark. Almost like a navy color, but it's not blue- but it's still that dark, saturated, pinkish-orange. I don't really know how it happened either. One second my hands were fine and now they are just covered in this fluid. 

    I was looking at myself in the mirror, just pondering the idea of free will, the ability to love and hate, the war between the heart and the mind. But what I found myself questioning most was the vastness of emotion. I'm sad... not just now but generally- How can I feel happy at a party with friends but so overwhelmingly dissatisfied with the concept of this thing we call life. How can I enjoy the moment but hate what the moment resides in. It's like hating a book but loving one page. My opinion on the book stays the same, but something about that page stood out. Then the mirror was broken. There were triangular shards hanging onto the edges, clamped down to the cardboard on the back by the cheap, silver, plastic frame. but in the middle- well there was no middle. Everything in the center has collapsed into a pile of layers of glass near the bottom edge of the mirror. With some smaller shards in the sink, that had fallen in. 

    My eyes came back into focus and my depth perception had sharpened, as zoning out has made those features slightly askew. Whereas before everything was flat, it felt two dimensional, as if everything in my frame of vision was flattened out in an orthographic way. It was blurry, on top of that. Everything was a fuzz and there was a mix of color where everything overlapped into an obscure gaussian blur. It was then, once I had come back to the sink and the what-was mirror, I saw these kind of cool looking markings on my forearms and hands. It was so strange. When you moved from my elbow to my wrist, there was this sudden line where my skin was dry and clear, to where there was this neat pattern. There was just one line before, where my skin changed color, with the dark bead leading it, getting smaller as it traveled. Then there were two lines, that diverged at first but came together and merged to one line, more skin discolored and a bigger bead at the end. I don't know where this pinkish-orange paint-like substance was coming from, but it was a sudden split where my arm was dry, and then my wrist and hands were discolored. 

    It came with a sensation as well... Now this I can say was new, I can't think of anything like it- But the best way I can think to put it is a burn. The surrounding area of that weird part of my wrist burning, like I had held a flame onto it or something. But it stung too, like a thousand small needles tracing the area the pinkish-orange stuff was coming from. It wasn't that bad at first, but the more I thought about the burn and sting, the worse it got. 

    It also made me feel weird. Ethereal I would say. It felt like I was weightless, but under immense pressure on all sides. It felt like someone was squeezing my head on every point of the surface. My eyes flickered and faded between that state of blur and fuzz, along with tipping a balance between a three dimensional, and two dimensional world. My head felt heavy, a bowling ball on my slouching shoulders, bouncing up and down as I juggle it in hopes of it not dropping like a rock, hitting the surface of my white, porcelain sink. My arms felt heavy, logs connected and joined at my torso. Pivot points that sank below the edge of the sink, with my brutally discolored hands limply laying on the surface. 

    I snapped back into it for a fraction of a second, resetting my position back to how I was before the overflow of blood, the liquid of life, and a slit on my skin, my tissue, muscle, and reaching to my arteries. Slicing my nerves and tendons on the way. A river of red. Red. Red! The color in between pink and orange. The oxygenated blood pooling in my hands and on the tips of my fingers, dripping onto the sink- in a polka-dot pattern of death. The burning around the slice grew in waves. The fire and sting of a million hornets poking the canyon of skin, the raised edges of tissue relieved of tension and elasticity of uncut skin. I drift in and out of consciousness, my head bouncing, my eyes rolling, my breathing getting heavy- and my body heating as if it were on fire. My stomach churned, the feeling as it someone was mixing my guts by hand. Caving in violently as the muscles contracted with the feeling of blood loss. And before I knew it, a minute passed in a second, and I could no longer feel my arms, numb with a majority of the rest of my body. Pins and needles combined with simple nonexistence. My vision and sentience come to, only for a moment. My hands were pale, I couldn't feel my arms. My skin ached. My sink went from white to red- And the only thing that caught my eye was the shard of broken glass used to slice my inner forearms. The brutality of thought slipped by the guards of my consciousness, a terror attack against myself. A decision made not in anger, sadness, confusion. Rather, a decision I didn't know I made until the realization of what had happened was the final thought to cross my brain, leaving not even a moment to writhe in regret.

A Doctor Might Call this "D.A"

"I think my memory is fading..."

1. 

    The weather is overcast- there's no sunshine, god-rays... There's not even a sky, one single monotonous half light, half dark cloud covers the sky in every direction. Looking north, the sky is that middle gray tone- the same view you would get if you looked west, or east, or south. I wouldn't say it's gonna rain, but it definitely isn't a day to go for a walk. The air feels... neutral, It is not hot nor cold. My body is floating in temperature, a state without sweat or shiver. a day where a thin silk long-sleeve shirt would be just fine, where some thin socks would make my feet feel perfect. And some lightly fibered pants would be comfortable. The air smells cool, not in a sense where it's cold outside, no. The air smells cool in a sense of, I can feel the air traveling through my nostrils. A sort of cool when you're running away, and the you can feel the breeze of the wind, kind of cool. But it's not hot or cold out. 

    My bed feels just right, I'm not sinking into it, but it's not so stiff that my back hurts, or my arm hurts, or my neck hurts. My gray blanket covers my legs, my hips, my feet, and my knees. But my upper half is exposed, without blanket, open to the air as it is in the rest of the room. waking up to such mundanity is off-putting in one way or another, but I can't complain. Hopefully tomorrow, something will change. 

    My matte black clock in the center of my nightstand reads "12:00 PM." It's noon, It has been 12 hours since midnight- and in 12 more hours it will be midnight, noon, the middle of the day. The day is Wednesday... Sunday was three days ago, and Saturday is in three more days, It's the middle of the week... And the date, today... Today is July 2nd... July, the 7th month out of 12 months in the year, though July 2nd marks the 183rd day in the year which leaves 183 more days until January 1st. 

    It is silent. But- not silent silent. I don't hear dogs barking or birds chirping. But I can hear the leaves rustling. But I think I have to listen for noise to find it, my brain blocks everything out by nature. But If I lay just right, close my eyes. I can hear the ringing in my ears, I can also hear the noise in my head, the light whispers that fade in and out. I can hear the low rumble of the blood in my veins, I can feel my heart beat, which- strangely enough, for some reason my brain makes noise for it... I wish I knew why. But the high ringing, the low rumbling, only to be interrupted by zoning back into reality and listening.

    I step off my bed, rotating my body at the hips- equidistant from both ends of my bed; planting both my feet on the ground in a not high nor low thud. Standing up straight is difficult, as my posture could use some work- I, at this point, naturally have a slouch in my stance- though I am forced to consciously straighten out to compensate. I can maintain that perfection in stance for only a short while before my vertebrae realign themselves to their most used position, slouched. Walking at a pace of 60 steps per minute. I can feel the heels of my feet touching the gray vinyl flooring, the hardness of the wannabe-wood canceled out by the comparatively soft padding of my house-shoes. My heels touching the floor, then smoothly rolling to the tips of my feet, not on my toes- rolling just shy of it. Then just as my left foot touches the ground, my right lifts in the air. My feet, which connect to my body- are always planted to the ground, at least one foot touching the floor at any given time. 

    My kitchen is, what I would estimate around 15-20 paces away. Now that's not too bad, what is a 15-20 second walk. Counting 15-20 seconds can go by slowly... But think of where you were 20 seconds ago. Chances are, you were reading the paragraph that came before this one, or nearing the end of the one that came before the one that came before this one... My kitchen, It's white marble countertops and dark gray cupboards that harbor white ceramic plates, mugs, and bowls. Drawers housing silver spoons, forks, and knives. My kitchen is, medium sized. Two people can stand and chat in there comfortably, but there is no island in the middle. One wall has enough space to make a sandwich, and the other arm of the L-shaped set gives two people plenty of space to make themselves a sandwich each. Why sandwiches? Well you need some space to make them. You need somewhere to lay the loaf of bread, and a small section to put the ingredients and toppings in a way that don't get in the way, so you can pick from each different pile of food and lay it on one piece of bread, not to mention space for your plate, and maybe to pour yourself a drink. Regardless of what food you are making, or what drink you are making- at the end of the day. There is space to do what you need to do on one side, and on the other, there is space for two people to do what they need to do- without getting in the way.

I make my black coffee, filling my mug about 50% of the way. A coffee that is bitter when left untampered, but the one teaspoon of sugar I add makes it a little less bitter, without making it too sweet. It's- just right. Along with those. My toaster, that has heat ranging from one to eight; I set the dial to four... I made two pieces of toast, as, that's all my toaster would house. But that's okay with me. One slice of toast would leave me still hungry, that's not enough... But I surely couldn't eat make three pieces and eat all of them, I worry I might leave half of the third left, or as small as one bite. Two is just right for me. 

    I take my food and drink to the dining room table and sit. both legs parallel and straight, my back laying flush against the back of the chair, and my arms lay out in front of me, a position that is mirrored on both sides. "12:30 PM" My matte black watch reads. I sit. And I sit. "1:00 PM" My matte black watch taunts. 30 Minutes? Not a bite has been taken of my toast. And my coffee is exactly where it was when I made it. I studied my food for roughly 10 seconds before studying my matte black watch again... "1:15 PM." Staring blankly at my watch, feeling neither disbelieve, bewilderment, or confusion. I suppose I took the numbers on the face as they were. I suppose it was 1:15 PM. The seconds passed without me, enough seconds to make up 45 minutes worth of time. My eye sight was fuzzy, I could see and read, I could make out the text across the room. But understanding what the glyphs meant was difficult. My memory seemed foggier than before. I sigh deeply, closing my eyes, enjoying the breath of air. I scoot my chair back, and stand- my right knee cracking as I did so. The two slices of toast on my plate remain as they were 46 minutes ago. And the coffee just the same. I turn off the lamp by my side, grab the plates and take them back to the kitchen. I- I turned off the lamp... I turned off the lamp, why am I turning off lamps at 1:46 PM. The outside was darker than I remembered, and my eyes were foggier now, a physical blur this time, rather than an absence of thought and coherency. I scramble to check my matte black watch and am greeted with "9:32 PM" In my madness and urgency to check the time, I had dropped the plate of toast. It had only occurred to me I dropped it once I went to raise my wrist to read the time. Once the situation and idea of cleaning up the food and crumbs I checked the floor, expecting catastrophe, and in my seeking and looking for the mess, my eyes glance the counter and what am I faced with but the plate of toast resting on the counter, next to the mug of black coffee, 50% filled, one teaspoon of sugar. 

    Where had the minutes gone, where had the hours gone. No one contacted me, no one called or texted, no one knocked at the door, no one left mail. It seemed that one minute it was noon, and the next it was nearing dusk. Where had the minutes gone!? no one made any attempt to check in, it felt not too long ago I had woken up, and now it's nearing my bed time... In a fit of sudden bewilderment, as that had been the breaking point. I storm to my black couch, that sits on my gray carpet, in my living room with white painted walls. I rip the matte black watch off my wrist, which had left marks not only in the vicious tearing but from sitting pressed tightly against my skin. I hold the watch in front of my face, my right hand facing palm side up, with the face of the watch sitting in the middle with each end of the band laying over the top and bottom of my hand, dangling freely. I watch the second hand pass 15, then 16, then 17, then 18, then 19, and so on. Where had the seconds gone. Why is it 9:34 PM when it should be 12:45 PM. I keep the watch face in my line of sight without fail. Grabbing a notebook, and a sheet of paper, along with a black pen, with black ink. I sit in the same spot of the couch, in the same position as I had not one minute ago. Legs spread apart, feet planted, slouched over, as my body naturally does, and my head facing the palm of my hand, facing my head. I waited the remaining 10 seconds until my watch read 9:35 PM. The instant the second hand reached 12, at the uppermost position of my matte black watch, I put a small line on the paper with every second that passed. Two seconds after it struck 9:35 PM, there was one small line, then another next to it. Five seconds into 9:35 PM, there were 4 small lines, and one crossing through from the top left, to the bottom right, repeating this pattern every 5 seconds. I focused in and was attentive with every second that passed until 9:36, then 9:37, then 9:38. I felt that living in the moment was the only way to live in the moment without missing it. There was no longer ink on the page to represent the seconds that passed. Instead, there were indentations in the paper, scratches that followed the ink only due to the fact that my pen was out of ink, accompanied with my matte black watch that read "10:58 PM" I had zoned out, not a thought crossed my mind, nor an image or idea. It was a blackout that I watched unfold. I lay back in defeat, for I had lost a day to no one but myself. My dissociative state threw this calendar day away. Nearly 12 hours that I could have done universally anything were gone. 75,600 seconds since I had woken up. Count that, count 60 seconds, tally every second in a minute. Now repeat that 1,260 times. 

    My day was gone. I figure what else do I do now but sleep, What else was there to do. With the state that I was in, I figure the only result of consciousness was just devaluing the idea of it. I walk to my room, at a pace of 60 steps per minute, crossing the dark gray vinyl wannabe-wood floors and the hardness of them canceled out by the comparatively soft padding of my house-shoes. I sit on my bed, before laying- with my hips equidistant from each end of my bed. I rotate 90 degrees, laying my head at the top of the bed, and resting my feet near the bottom. Covering my feet, knees, and hips with the blanket; leaving my torso, head, and arms untouched by the cover. I close my eyes, slowly, and begin the most difficult task of that day. Remembering... Remembering what I did from 12:30 PM to 1:00 PM, so on, and so forth. 

2. 

    The weather was sunny, the golden raise of morning creep through my blinds, pouring through the window- illuminating my room with a soft fiery orange that a sunrise will bring. There is a sky this morning. One half of the sky, looking west, a dark navy blue color, with faint white dots that we call stars starting to fade. The night sky, the hours I lay resting, running away cowardly at the sight of the rejuvenating morning sun. And the other half of the sky, looking east, a warm orange. A perfect mix of pinks, purples, and blues given by cotton like clouds, a wisp through the sky. How... warm feeling. My blanket, laying half way up my torso, with my body lying on the far right half of my mattress. I check my matte black watch, that lay the closest edge to me on my nightstand reads "6:05 AM." Fairly early for my standards I suppose. Eagar to spend my Thursday productively, unlike the day prior. Only 2 days from Saturday, the weekend. July 3rd, 184 days into the year, and only 181 left. My matte black watch reads "Wednesday, July 2nd." It was Wednesday... Sunday was three days ago, and Saturday is in three more days, It's the middle of the week... And the date, today... Today is July 2nd... July, the 7th month out of 12 months in the year, though July 2nd marks the 183rd day in the year which leaves 183 more days until January 1st... The only difference is I was one year older than before. For every day prior to this one was the same as the day before and the day after it.