I held onto you the way a child holds onto their blanket.

I never questioned, never challenged, most certainly never doubted.

The older I got, however, the more I realized I was talking to myself

more than talking to someone else.

I realized I believe in people.

I believe in their cruelty, their kindness, their eagerness, their sadness;

I believe in their whims, their heartbreaks, their respect, their madness.

I believe in human nature, for everything it is, everything it is not,

and everything it wishes it could be.

There is pain. And bloodied rage. And anger.

And all you seem to have to say for yourself is silence.

We create what you take away.

We build what you tear apart.

We destroy ourselves without you taking so much as a second glance.

I see the lines on their faces. Wrinkles beneath their eyes.

They believe in you, but somehow, they are still thrown into the mud, as you destroy their castles in the sand.

They believe in you, and they are tired of the same old repeated dance;

The worn-out steps, the silent prayers, the false idols,

the constant thought that no matter what they do, they are all, ultimately,

sinners.

But what is a sin, if not our own guilt built for feeling what we feel,

for thinking what we think, of experiencing our thoughts and assuming somehow,

what we are has something to do with you,

when, in reality, it does not.

We shaped our own hearts.

We shaped our own soul.

We shaped our own sin.

We shaped our own salvation.

You never stopped nor created our suffering. We did.

So, if it has nothing to do with you,

and you truly have no power to dictate what is right or wrong,

We must accept you are not the only pillar for everything

that is supposed to be good,

Especially since you've become nothing more than a symbol

of all the pointless, dogmatic hatred

We ourselves have poured

Into this

world.

Standing beside you, I'd feel your shoulder warm against my arm.

Our elbows might brush, but not quite ever fully touch.

I would avoid your eyes, and God forbid any type

of further analysis of the lines

on the palms of your hands.

Because I know if I saw them, if I dared touch you, if only

to trace and try to follow their path,

I would see how those lines--

so deeply marked on the palms of your hands--

looked so similarly, so hopefully, so painfully,

just like

mine.

Ever noticed the gravity of silence?

How its very weight makes it collapse into itself--

or how it can feel so light it makes our seconds, our minutes

come to a full, screeching stop?

I saw how the gravity of our silence

evaporated my shaking breath,

slowly distilling my heart

as it poured right in, drop by drop,

into a small, sea green bottle,

with the neck tied on a long strand of string,

for her to keep safe as it pressed precariously against

her collarbones and chest.

I saw how she sometimes uncorked the bottle,

allowed small wisps to return to me in those long moments:

Each time her fingers brushed the back of my hand.

Each time I looked anywhere--

the lights, the floor, her earlobes--

except for her eyes.

Each time I talked to her about the upcoming end of the world

just for a miniscule chance to hear her laugh.

I dreaded the day she would accidentally, or knowingly,

completely empty the contents of the bottle;

when she would return it all to its rightful owner,

and toss whatever remains

to be polished into smooth glass stones,

into the ocean and the salt of our silence.

If I were to lose you, on the road to your mind,

this is what I'd remember best:

for one, your painstakingly hand-painted skeleton vest;

the deer skull antlers you wove out of thin metal rods, all set to rest

on the blue-tipped top of your hair and your head;

the way our kitchen smelled of rosemary and iced tea,

something always just about to burn, something concocted out of flour and butter,

sugar, spice, and everything quite-so-nice,

or the dried chives you'd sprinkle

on top of our meals before we climbed on the rooftop

at the start of the night

as you sang along to your favorite album, you know,

the one you'd play on repeat

non-stop,

caressing each song until it became part

of your teeth

and your throat.

I would remember the furrows between your eyebrows,

the constant warmth as you shifted in your sleep,

and the way you would always, somehow,

through shivering night terrors

or sweetest of dreams,

always, unknowingly, find your way

back to

me.

If you were to ask me, I'd tell you the truth;

and the truth is, I wish I could pour out my thoughts just for you.

I wish I could funnel every word into your favorite assortment

of cups and spoons and straws.

I wish I could exchange every pained tear into starlight,

into a reflection of lights with a never-ending warm glow.

I wish I could make a perfume out of the music I hear

every time you talk in your sleep

and you dream of such lovely nonsense

that is just mine for me to understand.

I also wish I could take a lot of it back. I'm afraid

I have grown thin from my own repeated apologies;

from allowing our home to be damaged and weakened

by this series of hurricanes.

In my rage, there lives fear.

In your silence, there lives doubt.

You are everywhere, in all the things;

in every plan to see the world, in every book we've yet to read,

every film we've yet to see.

Every word I've yet to write.

And I wish for you to be there, only for as long as you wish to be.

And I wish to always keep trying, only for as long as you wish to try.

And I wish for you to burn through the sky with every ounce of magic

that you are and that you have.

If you were to ask me, I'd tell you the truth;

but the question now remains,

would you?

The clicking on my right. Long nails, dry skin. She always starts picking at her skin when she is on the phone.

Click. Click. Click.

Let's try this again. I press my fingers into the chords, pluck at the strings--

Click. Click. Click.

"What is the name of those actors in the..."

In the movie we saw two hours ago.

I stop altogether once again, "It was So and So."

"That's right, So and So were in the Movie we saw."

Trying again to pluck at the strings--

Click. Click. Click.

The cats scream at each other on top of the staircase.

Tummy recoils. Banging on the wall to scare them off because he hates the sound of the cats screaming, and I hate the sound of him barking at the cats to stop.

Click. Bang. Click.

He comes downstairs, stands in front of me, starts asking me to play So and So song.

I try to pluck at the strings, looking for the chords on my phone,

but he is asking for eye contact. He is still standing in front of me. Talking.

Telling me to sing. To play. But also to listen. To call on the cats. To play what he wants. To talk about rent. The incoming electricity bill. The war in Palestine.

But to--

Click. Click. Click.

The glass in the kitchen clangs against the counter, knives in my ears. The wind outside rattles the branches; an open oven that is much too hot.

Windows are still closed.

Click. Clang. Eye contact. "Go ahead and sing, it makes me happy when you play."

Click. Clang. The windows rattle from the heat.

Every time I inhale it feels like what comes in is chlorine. The air outside is the same as the air coming in. I can't tell anymore, am I--

Click. Clang. Windows rattle. Am I breathing? Click. Clang. Windows rattle.

Cats scream.

My phone screen lights up. Is he okay? Is something wrong? Why won't he talk to me like he did before--

Click. Clang. Windows. Cats. Phone. Guitar. She laughs much too loud, slaps her hand against her thigh, and he bears his teeth at her in irritation, claps his hands together and bangs the wall to scare the cats and I keep wondering what is my problem, what is going on, the rug is itchy and smells of mildew, my finger is bleeding, I want to throw up, I can't throw up, they will ask what is the matter with me and it will be worse, I can't throw up if I can't breathe, what if he dies and all he remembers is me being unkind, what if this is it, why is my mouth so dry, have I even changed when everything else has not, am I imagining that we are falling apart because--

stop talking, stop talking, stop talking,

I want to scream, my hands are numb.

I quietly finish the rest of my drink. Deep claustrophobic breath.

The shaking stops.

The world quiets down for

just a single moment,

and I do not know

how much longer

I can actually

go on.

I fit my arm through the open space between the bars connected to the garage and the front entrance. After lifting the heavy metal lock holding the garage door in its place, I slowly push the door into a gap large enough for me to slide through.

I observe my surroundings– our front garden is wild. The grass lies a few inches below my knees, the roses have wilted, the fresno tree and the palm tree reach for the sky, taller than they ever were before, sending the entire area into the shadows.

The front door is coated in a thin layer of dust. Cobwebs hang delicately from the golden doorknob. The plants beside me smell like fresh dew.

There appears to be no one inside the house, but I can hear hushed voices from what appears to be a casual conversation. Someone laughs. There are outlines of people, but their faces are blurred. A man, perhaps. A woman. A young boy.

Am I really there?

I wiggle the handle, feeling it stand firmly against the weight of my hand.

Knowing the door will not budge, I remember the laundry room we never locked that led straight to the kitchen.

I walk down the small path stretched along the side of the house. It had a fence separating the alley from the backyard. Our dog would oftentimes frantically dig holes beneath it during firework season in an attempt to outrun the blasts of sound.

The rugged cement on the floor showcases the paw-prints of feral cats who roamed the house before we moved in, when the mix was still wet.

I used to trace those paw prints with chalk– the powder coated my fingers.

The grass is even longer on this side.

The fence that separated the alley from the backyard is shorter; I can easily climb over it.

I land on the loud crunch of piles and piles of wilted leaves and unruly weeds.

It is strange to see the yard empty. A pang of sadness overwhelms my stomach.

I can almost hear our dogs running around the yard.

I can almost see our oldest one walking on his same worn path on the grass from one end to the other as we called him inside.

Everything lies in stillness. Not a single sound. Not even a miserable cricket.

There is no one there.

I am all alone.

The door leading to the laundry room is open. It does not creak.

The machines themselves are reddened with rust, but the scent of detergent still wafts from them.

The inside of the house is the same.

Clouds of dust form tornados with every single one of my footsteps.

The piano is there, even with a few of the knick-knacks we kept on top of it;

its deep cherry wood is as vivid and beautiful as it ever was.

I press a few of the keys. They are out of tune. The sound of the notes sound as though they are underwater, or very far away. The whispers become louder, more frantic.

Maybe we can tune it again someday, I think absentmindedly.

I head toward the staircase, pressing the tips of my fingers against the walls. The first sight I encounter at the top of the stairs: the cabinet where we kept crafting paper with its two swinging doors that would never fully close. I try once again to slam them shut, for old times’ sake. The bodiless whispers that followed along completely disappear at the first impatient slam on my part. For some reason, the air around me reverberates with fear.

Damn doors still won’t close.

The balcony overlooking the living room from the second floor is closer to the ground.

Our rooms are the same color they were before we coated them with eggshell white paint: a deep turquoise.

A few of our belongings piled neatly on our beds.

The farewell cards, a dry bouquet of flowers, markers that suddenly ran out of ink.

Why do I feel watched? Why are these voices here?

I see my reflection on the dirtied surface of the mirror my sister hung on her side of the room: I am barely a grey shadow. Every part of me is translucent, and my clothes seem old and out of place.

That’s when it hits me.

What if the house is not actually intact?

What if there already are people living there and they see a different version of what I think is standing before me?

Maybe I am the uninvited guest in this home that is no longer my own–

Maybe I am the ghost of my own memory.

I smile in my sleep.

Bear versus man. The fight we never expected. Then again, perhaps it is.

Most of literature is written as Man vs. Something.

Man vs. Nature. Man vs. Man. Man vs. God.

It was about time for such a subject to pop back up within our society.

For all of those who may not know, what is the gist of this?

The concept is: if one's daughter, wife, or sister was lost in the woods and bound to encounter something, would you prefer that Something to be a bear or a man?

Naturally, several women prefer the bear, and when giving their explanations,

they fall into deaf ears to the point where several individuals

are now making the joke of choosing a lion in a cage vs. the concept of marriage.

Well,

I live in a country where there is an ongoing word like an echo, a screaming heartbeat

of outrage,

"Femicide."

Over and over again--

in the posters of missing women you know will never be found,

in the mind of every woman being followed street after street in the dark,

in the rushed heartbeat of every woman alone in a car with a man who tells her,

"My, you look pretty. Are you single? Are you married?

Do you have children? I'll give you a free ride if you agree to come home with me."

No one is arguing men do not go through violence, through hurt, through pain.

No one is arguing the insanity in this schizophrenic world does not somehow

inevitably go

both ways.

Hurt is hurt, no matter the race, no matter the gender.

There is a war going on and somehow we turn a blind eye because ultimately we know,

"What exactly can I do about it? What can I do about everything

that is going so, so wrong?"

Which is exactly the very problem; when we make jokes about what we do not

understand.

When we look away from the bleeding streets instead of doing whatever we can

to make it right.

When we turn against one another, wasting our time and our breath convincing someone that when a bear sees a human in the woods,

they will understand it is a human,

when most goddamn humans

don't.

So, I've been learning about stoicism and a fellow named Marcus Aurelius.

Why is it that most Roman philosophers and emperors had names ending in -us?

Was it a decree of some sort? Who knows. There must be a linguistic explanation.

Or, another reason, is that humans sometimes are stupid

and look for meaning in places where there simply isn't any.

Anyhow, back to the original point. Stoicism.

It is not the concept of not feeling anything, but rather about choosing the best box

in the attic of your mind in which

your emotions belong.

Instead of acting on impulse, one focuses on the facts,

on reacting to an event with courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom.

In being the most genuine version of yourself instead of fixating on what was,

on what could be.

There are several aspects based on the concept of memento mori.

Remember you will die.

Yet, despite these philosophies and Roman emperors and tips

and meditations and breathing exercises to take four seconds breathing it,

holding it in, and another four seconds breathing it out,

the reality is

I desperately want for so much, precisely because I know I will die soon.

Soon can be tomorrow, twenty, forty, fifty, one hundred and twelve years from now.

What I want is tangible, burning, nonsensical, a borderline teenage dream--

I want to throw this desk into the window, create a bridge of iridescent glass

I get to step on in my sudden escape,

and no matter how many bleeding scrapes will cut my feet,

I would grin and laugh knowing I am finally, at long last, free;

free to explore a place where I get to climb trees to the very top branches,

where I get to make my words matter to vastly honest, honestly vast audiences,

where I do not think about my lifetime of the past as if it was my present,

where we all want for naught, where we choose kindness above all,

where we are all doing what we love, to the point where we forget to eat

or drink

or sleep.

I want to skip along insomniac streets with the sound of yellow-white

lamppost light and music in my ears,

to stare at the sunrise from a beach with tears in my eyes as I just

allow myself to simply

Be.

The other day, I read about the telling signs of a pre-midlife midlife crisis.

Granted, most of the signs are actually part of the ongoing collective human experience within our own deranged domes of semi-consciousness. But hey, there is an admittedly nice ring to, "I'm having a pre-midlife midlife crisis." rather than a plain ol',

"I think I'm having a reoccurring panic attack."

Yesterday, two clients yelled at me for 1. not being the person they wanted to speak with (aka, someone with "power"), and 2. the fact they have paid an exorbitant amount of money for the utmost professional service, and they are still stuck speaking to the same chump (aka, back to point 1). That's customer service for you.

There is a sense of beauty in knowing you are just one tirade away from becoming the Hindenburg disaster. The spark that caused the explosion. The straw that broke the pissed off camel's back. Only to realize, when you feel you've reached your limit, your willpower is made of Silly Putty instead of iron; it is flexible, sticky, and just when you thought you were on the last strand, nope, guess what, there is more putty.

You don't fully explode. You don't fully break. You keep going-- a giant balloon that is slowly deflating but still afloat, a camel that spits at people but keeps carrying its load.

I wake up feeling a nerve of rage tangled around my heart. Then, after some thought and remembering the tips from that ridiculous self-help book, I acknowledge it isn't actually rage.

It is longing.

I am so proud and so happy for many people I care about and their accomplishments. I just wish those things were happening to me as well, in their own way, on their own time. I'm happy for others, and just want to be happy for myself as well, but not even sure where to start.

Apparently, that is one of the signs of a pre-midlife midlife crisis, so go figure.

Who knows, maybe tomorrow I will quit both jobs and start selling homemade jelly rolls.

The possibilities are endless, and somehow, increasingly finite.