As a small child figuring out the world, I believed in several misconceptions, such as:

Handicapped spaces were meant for those who badly needed to use the restroom.

This belief sprung from my interpretation of the symbol on the sign.  I didn’t see a person in a wheelchair.  No, it was an old man on a toilet.  This conclusion was seemingly backed up by the fact that this symbol also appeared on the restroom doors and even on select stalls.

This belief was debunked sometime around age four, when my brother, who believed the same because I had told him and who was in desperate need of the restroom at the moment, tried to get our grandfather to park there because that was what the space was for.  Our grandfather’s face twisted in confused amusement as he processed the thought and came up with a way to explain the truth.

All while my brother still really needed to go.

I still think “Restroom Emergency Parking Spaces” would be a good idea, though I don’t really know how it would be enforced.  Maybe like those “for parents with sick children” or “for expecting mothers” spaces, which basically run on the honor system and fear of the shame of others judging you.  Aside from the knowledge that you’re taking up that space when someone might need it more than you, the biggest deterrent from just parking there anyway is the momentary embarrassment when someone catches you returning to your car, clearly not pregnant or with a sick kid.  And they just look at you.  That’s it.

So maybe the fear of being looked at and judged as, “Oh, that person almost wet their pants,” might work?

There was a secret button somewhere in your house that might destroy your neighbor’s house in the name of crime prevention.

This was a result of those “Neighborhood Crime Watch” signs.  Several versions of the sign exist, but the one I refer to had a big eyeball on it.  The white sclera was almond shaped, there was no iris, and the round, black pupil was in one corner.  No, naturally, I didn’t see it as an eye.  It was a comet.  The pupil was the rock part, and the sclera the tail.

We still lived in a particular town, so I had to be under three, and we passed this sign every time we entered our neighborhood.  I asked my father about the sign because I thought it was a spot for watching comets like my mother’s uncle did with his big telescope and awesome star maps.  Dad explained that the sign meant neighbors were watching each other’s houses to make sure no one suspicious tried to break in and steal stuff.

So what did that have to do with a comet?

Well, Dad didn’t answer that part, so a theory just formed and stuck in my head for a long time with very little actual basis.  Thanks to a comet being on the neighborhood crime watch sign, I believed that if you noticed something strange going down at your neighbor’s house, you were supposed to press this secret button hidden somewhere within your own home.  In response, a comet would come down and smash the perp…and probably your neighbor’s house.

That’s why they didn’t tell kids where this button was.  It was too much responsibility.

Because of this belief, I was always very careful never to look suspicious.

This is an awful idea, and no one should ever implement it as a legit security system…even if it would be an effective deterrent for crime.

Just imagine a court room setting.  The judge requests the jury’s verdict and sentence.

“Guilty, Your Honor.  We recommend the defendant be smashed by a space-borne object.”

Not the lamest way to go, I suppose.

As a side note, the neighborhood crime watch sign by my grandma’s house had an orange background with a silhouette of a “thief.”  Therefore, if you were to approach me wearing a hat and trench coat like a P.I. in an old crime novel, I probably would match you to the silhouette and think you are the bad guy.

We all had a word count limit.

Yep, I thought everyone had a set number of words they could utter in their lifetime.  If you used up all your words, you could no longer say anything.

This came from time spent visiting nursing homes, where many elderly ones sat in random places and didn’t make a peep.  At first, I thought they had used up all their words and couldn’t say anything anymore, but then one day one of them told me she liked my red dress.  Coupling this revelation with the death of another resident, my theory reshaped.  They weren’t quiet because they had run out of voice; they were saving what little they had left for truly important moments.  When you used your last word, you ceased to exist.

Now, one would think since I truly believed this, it would have shown in my actions.  I would have saved my words, but nope.  I was a very chatty little kid.

I philosophically pondered this concept for years, worried that I talked too much, that I would use up my voice before I reached twenty.  I wondered if everyone had the same word count limit, or if some were born with more words to spare, just like some people were taller.  Was there any way around the count?  What if I spoke fast, smashing my words together?  What about the ones I only wrote and never said aloud?

At age six, I was laughed at for expressing such questions, and though I know it’s not true, this concept still niggles at the back of my mind sometimes.  What if we did only have a limited amount of words to speak in our lifetime?  Would we choose our words more carefully?  Would we save them for conveying what really matters?

.

.

.

And then I write 200,000+ word novels.

We are all patchwork dolls, hodgepodges of the world we walk through.

I suppose that by that description, we were all born empty and bare and blank.

And sticky. We were all born very sticky, like balled-up strips of two-sided tape, constantly reaching out greedy, starving fingers for bits of dust and tiny ripped pieces of paper and little coils of string.

But unlike two-sided tape, our greedy, starving fingers reach out for something more substantial than forgotten scraps left underneath antique couches. We search, instead, for those opalescent pearls that only life can offer, those shiny moments in between the quotidian junk that composes the majority of existence. We shuffle through piles of ordinary and mountains of unremarkable, hunting down those bright pinpricks of excitement, of happiness, of progress, that when we find, we latch on to. We armour ourselves in these beautiful, dazzling fragments of exceptional that represent the best of this world and we treasure them like the gems that they are. Our natural stickiness holds them close, gathers them in, and cherishes them for what they are, and for what they to mean to us.

But accidently, unnecessarily, mournfully, we are too sticky. We don’t often have a choice when it comes to the things that attach themselves onto our lives, and for every new spark of life we are lucky enough to find, there are miles upon of miles of ground in between to cover. All of this time spent unmarked by glittering new discoveries is time where pieces of the world latch onto us. Unbidden, perhaps, but here to stay.

Sometimes there are valleys of deepest dark that we must traipse through, and sometimes the hideous night creatures snag on our throats and catch in our hair. We try to shake them off, peel their rusted, jagged claws away from the treasures that we have already acquired, but they are tenacious and our skin is adhesive and they will not go.

Sometimes we trek through winding rusted mazes in search of the prize that waits at the end, and to find our way, we bring along pieces that we plan to discard after all is said and done. The edge of a song, the corner of a map, a tatter of cloth; all the things that will fall away once in the face of the true awards. We wave them carelessly in the wind, fold them until they crease, not realizing that these will eventually stick and become a part of us, for sometimes, the reward of the journey is equal of the result.

And then sometimes, most times, there are the small things. The tiny, seemingly insignificant shards that stick to us along the way. The miniscule beads of matted hues that slip by the glossy edges, and become a part of us unknowingly, burrowing in to just the right places to make an unprecedented impact. Each one is small, barely the size of the tip of a fingernail, and rather plain, but we are unable to let them go. The color of each alone is unremarkable, but with so many different ones scattered across our skin, they intercept the light that hits them and they glow. The big pieces are few and rare; it is this collection of small things that make up most of the being that we are.

We are sticky, and if we were not, we would live our lives forever blank.

We are all patchwork dolls, and we will always have some surface space left for new pieces, new memories.

Feeling clearer

than sun’s betrayal,

I still feel

his whispers inside.

I am a woman

with no face,

fleeting shadow

where I once bloomed

in the garden

where he now lies.

Waking up desolate

where I once roamed,

stumbling across fields

of spellbinding bleakness,

seeing darkened eyes

of indefinite color.

I finally realize

that he flies free

sheltered and cushioned

from life’s travails.

At last, I can blossom

ready to soar

I know he is

there

waiting for me,

pooled in jewels

of liquid chemistry,

wandering in tranquility

through uncharted paths

floating blissfully

in unknown world,

circling around

the sleepless moon -

superficial husk

many miles

down the road,

remembering

life before death

as I sip his aura

of promise

of life after death.

All my life I have wondered why am I here. Why I exist. The obvious answers, I had no say in the matter. But what about after the nurturing, the teens years into adulthood. the war that wasn't entertaining, but I was part of it just the same. And why did I survive when countless thousands didn't.

I have pretty much run the gamut through the decades. Various odd jobs until one day, college gave me credibility and a career, but in this life, in this husk of skin I walk around in, that cannot be why I am here. There has to be a better answer.

When I was young, before college, I also ran the gamut with women. It was like, Tag! You're it. When the game ended, so to the relationship. I gained experience as a lover, but one who never at the time knew how to love or even why; but that also cannot be the reason my life continues.

Throughout my life I have been afforded the nasty sight of loved ones falling by the wayside. Grandparents, a mother, a father, uncles and aunts, close friends, and three women who I had grown to love in many special and unique ways, one of them became my wife. But they died. And I am still here. And tears do not ever easily fall. Why? I have become immune to the death knoll.

I am not a hardened man. I have empathy for many and sympathy for others, but thias isn't about others, unless what you read, you see in yourself.

I gave up a long time ago staring into a black sky asking, "When is it my turn? Why not me."

What sort of game does life play to leave a mind filled with sadness and regret for wasted years of youth. Is life so cruel and yet, we cannot see it's evilness. It's bottomless pit of hunger to ravage the heart, mind and soul of a person.

When I died (and I did), my life changed or so I thought. Actually some things did change. No longer a drug addict or alcoholic, that part of my life turned around. In that time, I thought I knew what life was meant to be. A learning lesson of respect for others and also hold in place self-respect.

I wanted to believe life was allowing me to grab the "bull by the horns" and wrestlre him to the ground and cry "VICTORY!" That I finally understood.

But I was wrong. In life there are no victories. Temporary skirmishes won perhaps, just to keep us in a place that seems relatively safe from harm's way and where we feel good about the space on this planet we live and walk about on.

Life is temporary and no matter what we experience, what we do, what we say, one day it will all end, but unless one commits suicide, the terms and conditions of death are never revealed. Life is a dirty, sadistic bastard that plays with our minds.

And I don't want to play any longer, but I have the fear (not courage), to not take my own life.

For all life has dealt me, the cards I have played have really been my choice, though life has pushed me to play the game, but I have found a part of my world life cannot control, but my mind can.

Life is day-to-day, hour-to-hour, second-to-second. During that time, I create a life from within, separate of the life I live by nature.

Until my last breath sighs from my lips, I wiill write, create and entertain. But that isn't what I'm really talking about.

Until my last breath falls away unseen, I will have passion for what years I remain on this planet. That is the life I have created. My alter-ego of a birthing life cannot destroy that, nor will I allow it.

After all, words are the blood that flows through my veins.

********************************************************

I sit and ponder,

the life of a single star,

why the distance is so far.

From whence I stand,

my hand reaches out

and can almost grab one,

yet the star remains ever far away.

One day, I will hold that star,

and no one,

will remove it from my grasp.

6/28/2018 - 5:02 p.m. - 5:04 p.m.

*********************************

(If you look closely to the picture, one body stands atop the rock)

Tears shed, words unsaid

Mournful now, regretful later

Fear silenced words of love

A limp wave, a small smile

Watching as he goes

So many things left to be forgotton

Laughter, dancing, grins

Joyous moments now gone

Has earth no pity?

Laughter like wind chimes

Eyes like bluebells

"Goodbye, Rose."

"Till again we meet."

Fear raises his voice

And wonderings arise

Will we meet again?

Good things rarely stay

Oh, bliss of days past!

Forgotton dreams, desolate summers

Words left unsaid

To remain hauntingly evermore.

I just miss you, is all. I miss us. I've made many mistakes in these past several months, said many things I wish I could rescind, been misinterpreted and misinterpreted you for drastically terrible results. I've imagined things I could only dream of saying to you, of things you could say to me, of how we could appreciate and love each other in an unreachable and idealistic yet utterly picturesque manner. I've held so much in, and let so much out. And despite all that, I'm still plagued by turmoil, by doubt, depression, anxiety, fear. Guilt. I've hit all time lows and felt ways I'd hate to experience again.

You've been there for me, despite all the negativity, the pessemism, the emotion. And it only throws me further into a downward spiral of self-hatred and worthlessness. You are the reason I keep the blade from my neck that you put into my hands. You are the drug and I the addict. You are a poisoned cure. And I am tentative to seek alternative treatment.

It upsets me to no end that in trying to get closer, I've only seperated us further apart. In bridging a gap, a caused a fissure, and I can only hope that it might narrow with time. Talking with you now is always a fearful encounter, and one I now avoid if possible. Until I am forced to converse or the hell in my head screams so loudly that I can't help but release it, I favor silence, that I migh not confirm my fears of your disdain, or have you think even less of me than I fear you already do. I'm stuck, slave to my inner assumptions, casting out any shreds of reality I might have left, succumbing to paranoia and despair.

But even now, I try to make amends, I desperately wish to, and yet I'm not even sure if such apologies are expected, or needed. This inner conflict is likely a war compared to the real situation, and yet I can't tear myself from it. I simply hope we can reconcile, reunite, and rejoice. No matter the pain, loving the you I've seen is something I doubt I could ever end, and your genuine and unique friendship is one I would be remiss to lose.

I just don't want this to continue in endless circles. I want peace, inner and interpersonal. I want joy, camraderie, content, happiness. I only hope beyond all odds you might allow me the chance. One favor more, that's all.

You see the hazy vision of a girl floating amidst the endless abyss of space. The darkness is all-encompassing, but the glow emanating from her body brings a warmth to your fingertips. She blooms slowly but surely, a gorgeous blossom in the sky. When you close your eyes, you can feel the slide of her skin beneath yours, a touch so fiery and golden. When you open them, you find that she has vanished, a searing beam of light that you want to hold on to but must let go. The scorching yellow luster of her touch seeps into you, softens your bones and stains your complexion. You breathe in the heat, feel it cool in the space between moments.

You think of what the world means to you, nestled between the miracle of life and an infinite, sentient vacuum. Your world is the girl who carries a torrid supernova in her lungs, who regurgitates stars that glow like glitter, whose heartbeat matches the circle of day and night. She is the girl who remains suspended in the vastness of space, who never speaks but sees everything. The nothingness to which she is shackled to has sharpened her senses, raised her awareness to the unimaginable size of the universe. In comparison, you are so insignificant, so vulnerable, that you may as well vanish. You can feel the weight of the sky in her heartbeat, in the pulse of her slender wrist beneath your fingers. She is your world, without even knowing who you are.

The girl is lonely as she floats in a realm between your reality and hers. You see her through a distant looking glass, a mesh of cloud, fog, and fine dust. If you were to set aside the barrier she conjured to protect herself, she becomes real to you. Her eyes warm up, like dusky orange bleeding into the deep violet of your sunrise. Her mind is naked, open, susceptible. You feel your heart stutter, thrum away with the exuberant energy of your existence, and you feel both minuscule and enormous in your place in the world. You do not know anything about this glorious creature, but it only takes so long to become entangled in someone else’s existence. She is a part of your beginning, and will remain within you until your end. Her heartbeat keeps you alive, breathing vitality into your veins. You share her joy, the burden of her grief. For a single, breathtaking moment, she is less alone.

You kiss her because you can, because you know that she wants it too. Her vibrant eyelashes shadow the jut of her cheekbones, thin tendrils of darkness within an intense light. Her fingers linger on your jaw, drawing a feverish warmth into your numb skin.

Even with your eyes closed, you can feel her on every part of you. Her sunny mouth lingers on your bottom lip, before nudging down to kiss below your ear. Pressure glimmers in your belly, thickening until it feels like a nebula dangerously stretching across your insides. It heats your body, bringing it color and viability, flushing and trembling. The glide of her tongue against yours provokes an unmistakable spark, a feeling so ardent that you are nearly torn apart.

Ultimately, her orbit has shifted, ever so slightly, to overlap with yours. You are now a part of each other’s worlds, whether you are aware of it or not. The aching absence of space tugs you together, tangles your hair, mingles your breaths. She burns swiftly and ferociously, casting her brilliant rays unto your cool blue. You have not changed who she is, but you have most definitely altered her world to accommodate you, your hopes, dreams, interests, love. You begin your first revolution as a new entity. Nothing has ever felt so outlandish, yet you know you belong. Here, change is not a matter of otherworldly capacity, and instead one of will.

You have shown the girl who swims amidst stars in a navy winter sea what it means to be a part of something bigger than herself, more immense than anything she can imagine. You are too tightly tied to your bodily existence to comprehend the infinitesimal shift in the universe that you have caused. Instead of hurtling past her like an asteroid propelled off-course, she has tugged you in with her gravity. You circle one another, solitary pieces of a larger notion. She has found a friend.

Earth and life coincide, existing alongside one another with a set of unwritten rules. As such, the fragility of space and love are indefinitely bound together. The gravity between objects strengthen as space is removed, and they become more tightly coerced. Like that, you have clasped onto her, forever spinning in her vicinity, a permanent fixture in her world. You have changed one another for the better; simple and quiet, yet exuberant and memorable.

I was going to write on the topic of that odd phenomenon of Free Will that has perplexed us on and off and on again... Specifically on the question: how it is possible to do something "against one's will?" ...but the requested pearl of lucidity in this challenge lolled around in my writer's touch like a greased marble and then cowered somewhere under the refrigerator... reminding me that in this arena we do not play for keeps, and that indeed I don't know jack... and so I could not collect any game pieces. It got me thinking on something seemingly unrelated, as I was later today picking mulberries off the tree near my local cemetery (strange but true!). As Mankind, we pride ourselves on having gotten quite far up off our knees from the stone ages, to agricultural innovation and the age of iron; eventually to industrialization, and this digital epoch. And a funny thing struck me as I swiped my purple stained fingers over my cell phone screen looking for information... we have really not gotten very far at all from being... just hunters and gatherers... after all.

#ProseChallenge #WeekLXXXI

Hurting makes no sense. You can remember everything for what it was, and that can hurt, or you can remember it for what it wasn't and that can hurt.

Memories are fickle things. I remember crying, and I remember laughing. But, I do not remember the happiness I felt with you there. I do not remember feeling loved, or wanted. It was like I existed and that was all.

But in your memories, there is a different story. The story is about how great you were. How much we took you for granted. How you were the best thing that happened to us, to me.

But, if I took you for granted why was I always crying when you forgot about me, when I was the last person to know the important things. If I took you for granted how come I became the most hurt by everything that happened after.

I guess this is the after. Right now, with me on my birthday crying because you still have everything important to me. And there's nothing I can do about it. I can't just get over myself. I can't just pretend I'm not hurt. I'm all alone, but I still remember for your birthday I gave you a party. I gave you friends. I gave you happiness. And yet, you took all of that away from me.

Memories really are strange things, because I can see all the things you do, I see right through your lies. I remember them. But everyone else cannot. They give you a second chance. Then a third chance, and a forth. And suddenly everything become my fault. But, we both know who has the better memory. And we both know who lies.

Someday maybe these memories won't hurt. And someday maybe everyone will see what really happened. But that is not today, all I have is hurt and loneliness.

I don't know who I am.

It's quiet silly since I spend so much time alone with myself.

But who exactly am I?

I write. I like to write plenty of things-poetry and stories but am I really a writer? From what I see, everyone who writes anything is one, but am I? Am I good at it? Am I wasting my time- am I really wasting time on what ten strangers and two family members see. Is everything just in pity?

I love it though! I love being in control of my own stories an worlds. I love finding new things to say and think. I love it but who reads it? Is there a point to writing to an empty audience of people just scrolling passed? I hope there is- and I've been patient in being seen too. But to be honest I feel like Homer slowly slinking back into the bush as time passes by. Am I a writer? I can write... Am I a good one? That's really up to those ten people to decide... However, I am hopeful.