I just want to crawl into a hole

and disintegrate,

forget this hopeless mess,

this waste of a life,

but I have people,

kids, family, coworkers, friends

who rely on me

or whatever’s left of me,

whatever part of me they still have,

so I have to move my broken legs,

put one mud-slogged foot

in front of the other,

put my hands against the wall,

and push push push,

spin my wheels,

do whatever I can.

I can’t think,

I can’t take a break.

I’m always running on fumes.

I’m always barely surviving,

hanging on to the cliff ledge

by one broken pinky.

But I’m still here.

Do you hear me?

Universe, God, Satan,

whatever it is

that has stacked everything against me.

I’m still here!

Mother fucker.

Thank you.

For being there for me

At my best

And worst

Times.

For allowing me

To emote

Even when

I feel

Less than

Human.

For holding me

For waking me

For surprising me

For nurturing me

For changing me

For loving me.

For providing me

A link

To my past

And future

Self

And

All humanity.

For teaching me

How to be heard

And

How to know

Who

Can hear me.

For connecting me

When

I need

It most

When

I need

To connect

With a ghost

When

I need

To be found

While I'm lost.

Thank you

For letting Mee

Lose myself.

Today

I will try

To see

The music

In everyone

In a small Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of Madrid, there lived a breakfast burrito named Santiago. He was not like other breakfast burritos – while they were content to sit on plates dreaming of being eaten by hungry customers, Santiago dreamed of glory in the bullring. His tortilla was dusted with paprika that gave him a distinctive reddish hue, and his scrambled egg filling was seasoned with just enough jalapeños to give him some spice in his step.

"Ay, mijo," his mother (a traditional bean and cheese burrito) would say, "Why can't you be happy with your destiny? To be a breakfast burrito is a noble calling!"

But Santiago would just adjust the tiny red cape he'd fashioned from a discarded napkin and practice his passes in front of the heat lamp. "Mamá, I was meant for more than just breakfast. I have the corazón of a torero!"

The other dishes in the restaurant thought he was loco. The enchiladas whispered behind their sauce, and the tacos openly laughed at his dreams. Only Carmen, a lovely churro with cinnamon-sugar freckles, believed in him.

"You show them, Santi," she would say, watching him practice his verónicas with his little cape. "Show them that a breakfast burrito can be anything he wants to be."

Santiago's opportunity came during the annual Festival of San Fermín. The restaurant was especially busy, filled with tourists and locals alike discussing the upcoming bullfights. As Santiago sat under the heat lamp listening to their conversations, he overheard something that made his chorizo filling sizzle with excitement.

"Did you hear? El Toro Fuego has escaped! They can't find a replacement bull for today's fight, and the famous matador Juan Carlos is already at the arena!"

This was his chance! Santiago waited until the cook was distracted by a large order of huevos rancheros, then rolled himself off his plate and began his daring escape from the restaurant.

"¡Santiago, no!" his mother cried. "You'll get cold!"

"Let him go," said his father, a dignified breakfast burrito with extra salsa. "Every burrito must find his own path."

Rolling through the streets of Madrid was no easy task for a breakfast burrito. Santiago had to dodge countless feet, hungry pigeons, and the occasional street-cleaning machine. But he had been practicing for this moment his entire life (all three days of it), and his determination kept him warm.

He finally arrived at the Plaza de Toros just as the crowd was beginning to get restless. Slipping through a crack in the service entrance, Santiago made his way to the preparation area. There he found the legendary matador Juan Carlos slouched dejectedly on a bench.

"Señor Juan Carlos!" Santiago called out, puffing himself up to his full six-inch length.

The matador looked around in confusion before finally spotting Santiago on the floor. "¿Qué? Am I so disappointed that I'm now hallucinating talking burritos?"

"No, señor! I am Santiago, and I have come to save the bullfight! I will be your bull!"

Juan Carlos blinked several times, then burst out laughing. "Pequeño burrito, you are very brave, but also very small. And you are breakfast!"

"Size isn't everything!" Santiago protested, executing a perfect spin to demonstrate his agility. "And I've been practicing! Watch this!"

He performed an impressive series of passes, his little napkin cape fluttering dramatically. Juan Carlos's expression shifted from amusement to thoughtful consideration.

"Well... the crowd is getting angry, and you do have a certain... salsa, how do you say... flair?" The matador stroked his mustache. "But how will you charge? You have no horns!"

Santiago had already thought of this. He pulled out two toothpicks he'd borrowed from the restaurant's dispenser. "¡Voilà!"

"That's French, not Spanish," Juan Carlos pointed out.

"¡Pues, ahí está!" Santiago corrected himself, sticking the toothpicks carefully into his tortilla.

Just then, they heard the crowd starting to stomp their feet and whistle in disapproval. Juan Carlos made a quick decision.

"Very well, pequeño burrito. We shall give them a show they will never forget! But first..." He reached into his bag and pulled out a small bottle of hot sauce. "Every bull needs some fire in his spirit!"

With a dash of extra-spicy salsa roja for courage, Santiago rolled into the arena. The crowd fell silent in confusion as they saw what appeared to be a small reddish burrito with toothpick horns entering the ring.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer said, clearly improvising, "Due to unexpected circumstances, today's fight will feature a... um... very special competitor. Please welcome... El Burrito Bravo!"

At first, there were scattered laughs and boos. But as Santiago began to move, the crowd's mood shifted. He rolled and spun with incredible grace, his toothpick horns glinting in the Spanish sun. Juan Carlos, catching the spirit of the moment, began to perform his passes with extra flourish.

Together, they created an entirely new art form – part bullfight, part dance, part breakfast performance art. Santiago charged with all the passion his jalapeño-spiced filling could muster, while Juan Carlos moved with the precision of a master matador, his cape swirling just inches above the brave little burrito.

The crowd went wild. They had never seen anything like it. "¡Olé!" they shouted as Santiago executed a perfect spiral roll. "¡Bravo!" they cheered as he and Juan Carlos performed synchronized spins.

Even the restaurant critics in attendance were impressed. "Such innovation!" they wrote in their notebooks. "Such passion! Such perfectly seasoned eggs!"

As the afternoon sun began to set, Juan Carlos and Santiago took their final bows. The crowd showered the arena with roses, and several food critics threw sprigs of fresh cilantro in appreciation.

But Santiago's proudest moment came when he spotted familiar faces in the crowd – his parents had rolled all the way from the restaurant to watch him perform! And there was Carmen, jumping up and down on her churro cart, showering him with cinnamon sugar like glittering acclaim.

That evening, the restaurant had a new star attraction. Santiago was given a special place of honor on the menu – "El Burrito Bravo: The World's Only Bullfighting Breakfast Burrito" – and customers came from all over to order him. But they didn't eat him right away. First, he would perform a miniature bullfight on their plate, complete with tiny cape and toothpick horns.

He even started a school for other ambitious breakfast foods. Under his guidance, a shy eggs Benedict learned to salsa dance, and a reserved plate of pancakes discovered its talent for flamenco.

"You see, Mamá," Santiago would say during family dinners, adjusting the tiny medals pinned to his tortilla, "a breakfast burrito can be anything he dreams of being!"

His mother would just smile and pass the salsa. "Sí, mijo. But please, try not to get cold during your performances. You know how your cheese filling congeals."

And so, Santiago lived his dream, proving that with enough courage, determination, and perfectly seasoned filling, even a breakfast burrito can become a legend in the bullring. His story was passed down through generations of breakfast foods, inspiring countless hash browns and omelettes to follow their own dreams.

Though most of them, wisely, chose less dangerous aspirations than bullfighting.

Years later, when asked about his greatest achievement, Santiago would always say it wasn't the fame or the acclaim that mattered most. It was the moment he realized that being a breakfast burrito wasn't just his destiny – it was his strength. After all, who else could bring such flavor to the ancient art of bullfighting?

As for Carmen the churro, she eventually became his manager and then his wife. They had many little breakfast roll children, each one with a dash of cinnamon and a sprinkle of their father's fighting spirit.

And every morning, just before the restaurant opened, Santiago could still be seen practicing his passes under the heat lamp, his tiny cape fluttering, teaching his children that in life, as in bullfighting, it's not the size of the burrito in the fight, but the size of the fight in the burrito that matters.

The End.

P.S. Juan Carlos went on to revolutionize the bullfighting world with his innovative food-friendly style. His most famous protégé was a particularly fierce eggs Benedict who specialized in synchronized swimming performances. But that's another story entirely...

Bipolar disorder

feels like someone

is pulling you up

to the top of a cliff

and then

pushing you off

over and over

and over again.

I’ve been talking to this robot on my phone,

mostly because, despite not doing bad, humans area bit outta my price range.

I ask it dopey shit like,

“Is the better part of me the part that pretends it loves her?”

It spits out some nonsense babble that's about half right,

which I, by and large ignore—some shit about red masques.

See, thing is, I know the answer.

Its, No.

I know because that idea scares me,

'cause it's easier, but I’m not doing it—which ain't like me.

Now, if it made me mad?

Well, that might suggest the opposite was true,

but that's my shit.

Therapy sucks; sometimes it turns out nobody let you down,

and it’s mostly your fault.

But hey, even old shit gets old after a while.

I fight the urge to write you

because I know how it will end:

the way it always ends between us.

Me left wanting more

than you’re willing to give.

And things being awkward and sad.

My depression can’t handle

the idea of you with someone else

so I’ve crawled into a hole and hidden.

And each time I peek out

to see if things are safe,

the fear pulls me back into this pit

I’m trapped in now.

And there’s no one in here except me.

It’s lonely and dark as a grave.

I’m hoping maybe one day

you’ll reach a hand in to help me out

but I realize it’s likely a false hope

so I’m just falling

falling

falling.

the world as it turns

every scene dress rehearsal'd

all acts familiar

11.05.2024

Old Souls Challenge @Last

One of my hobbies is astral projection, meditating, magic and the like. But, recently I haven't been able to do this because I've been losing track of reality, again. This started during a time of forced isolation. It was part of my training in magic but... well... it went on longer than it should've and I started going insane. I hear voices and see things. They um, are sometimes real and at other times figments of my imagination. I test them. I ask them things I don't know the answer to. Sometimes they get flustered and begin arguing with me. At other times they answet with a question. And still more often, I convince myself that my mind could come up with that answer on its own. It probably can too. The mind has power.

I have thought about giving up all together, but I've had so many experiences which brought me back from the edge and I know forcing my brain to think without arguing with itself is pretty useless, so I don't. I just sort of wait until I have a time where I can't sense things at the edges of the subconscious. I wait until I know the earth is holding me firm. Even so, I get lost. I loose track of time. I loose track of sleep. I mix dreams and reality. I mix characters in books with Gods, demons and the people I see in front of me. I am supposed to be a witch. I am supposed to have fun near Halloween. All that happened this year with the parting of the veil was me having to delegate more energy to keeping up my mental barriers. I can't have random spirits contacting me in the middle of school, it's just not practical. So here I am, a magician, set to graduate top of their class who can't tell if they imagined every piece of magic they've ever done.

Knowing

Is half the battle,

Right?

I knew

It was coming

My seasonal depression

I did nothing

This year

To protect myself

Against it

Half depressed

As I have been

Anyway

Now

I feel it

Weighing on me

Daring me

To give in

Go under

Disappear

Honestly

I don't know

How I

Will make it

This year

I should

DO SOMETHING

I know that...

But

Alas

I don't

Really

Feel

Like

It

Samuel was the one I could go to, the one that would calm me down when filled with rage and anger, trying to force its way into hate. Then I'd see that face. He loved me, no matter how I was feeling. He'd look up at me, I'd slow down, then we'd run.

Up to the apple trees, when they were bare I'd give him a loose branch, if there were apples, ripe or not, I would toss him one wait a minute, and take off again.

With Samuel, I could forget everything that plagued my mind only minutes before.