My bones creak and moan, as if they’ve seen too much, as if they’ve moved through a world too harsh. Another day of resting my glasses on my notepad and crawling into bed, when life becomes heavy and I need a soft place to land. I’ve lost count of how many years I’ve let my muscles weaken, just like my doctor warned me, and I promised her and myself I’d do better. I remember at my last physical, I told her I don’t get enough exercise, and I apologized. She said, “Don’t apologize to me, apologize to yourself.” Not getting enough exercise and feeling sorry for myself are understatements of four aching decades of eroding self-esteem. My promises are brittle and break in my filthy, lying hands. But they’re at least stronger than I am, they regenerate like cells; I keep making them.

Ya know, I was hanging out with normal people again today. It makes me realize how hard my life has been. They just... fix things when they come along. They aren't scared of asking for help. They don't analyze their every move in fear of retaliation. I can barely imagine living... at all. I was gonna say living like that but I barely feel alive at the moment, I don't feel real. They live... and I don't. I switch five times every night just so I can touch water to wash my hands and brush my teeth without getting triggered and its so strange to see someone living as if they don't have to fight for their time on this planet, as if the war is already over when, for me, it's just begun. It's so strange to see people acting normal, when I barely realize that's a concept. It's so strange to see people living, walking, driving, going about their day, when I feel stuck inna cage of my own making, never escaping and certainly never living, for real. It all feels fake, like I'm a character on television. Next thing I know, I step into the real world. People have jobs. The camera doesn't cut to the details anymore, you just have to guess at what's important. And let me tell you what, none of it seems important at all. So, why was it so weird to see people living, truly living? Why did it make me sad?

Just so ya know.

I was an abused child.

Let me clarify...

I was raised in the south during wich time if you were bad,you got whippings in school, you got whippings at home and you went to church at least three times a week if not more!

We drank straight out of the waterhose an lived to tell about it.

If a relative died, usually you inherrited somethin to remember them by, or many things. Weather you wanted to or not.

Our kinfolks saved everything to re-use later because the already lived through the great war then the deppression then the second world war and they werent gonna go without again! So we grew up learnin how to "hoard" stuff so we wouldnt be without it later. Ya know, just in case another war or deppression broke out.

I learned how to ride a bicycle on crushed oyster shells because thats what they used as gravel. Lets just say you learned how to ride a bicycle and not fall on those sharp shells real fast.

We cut our grass with a reel mower and rested in the shade of a Mimosa tree drinkin lemonaid.

I guess gettin spankins, gettin yelled at, growin up savin everything was child abuse.

I didnt think it was, but i was told a lil bit ago that because i did some of those things while he was young that he was abused. And now he has trauma. And that i had just continued the cycle of abuse.

Well sir, i really didnt know that was abuse since i grew up that way and didnt seem nothin wrong with me. I suppose everything i tried to do right was abuse.

With exactly one tile between each foot with every step she takes, from one wall to another she goes. There's a quiet buzz from her headphones as she paces. One deep breath after another, she names what she can see. "Floor. Chair. Brown chair. Wooden chair. Wooden table. Fake plant." she whispers as her breathing becomes more steady. Third person is always easier to take than being in the present I think. Observing yourself is so much easier to make a decision on what to do and how to act than it is reacting to the inner war of yourself. All he said was he forgot, I am perfectly fine.

"Good morning! Just here for some breakfast!" a guest says, headed straight to the coffee.

She musters up a small smile. "Good morning! How are you?" she asks, a little higher pitched than normal. Her eyes are still very green from the crying, but she wiped the tears off her face before the door alarm even went off.

"I'm great! How are you?" the guest hadn't even looked up from their breakfast.

"I'm good." She said, more matter of factly than originally intended but what can you do? Walking towards the back room to sit back down, she opened a message from him.

There he is, my sweet boy. Blowing me a kiss. "I love you" he said. I'm no longer sure if I believe him, evidently I don't think I ever really believed him. But the love I have for him runs inside my veins, so I say "I love you too baby".

I'm not sure if I was ever very lovable. As much as I cover up my wounds like a wall in a house that just keeps cracking as the foundation settles. Like somebody installed my flooring, but it's locking flooring and they didn't lock a single piece just glued it down and hoped to god it wouldn't come up. Like, the inside of my head looks like the biggest landlord special, just repaint everything white and pure and good and hope you don't see the bugs I painted over.

No no cant let the Council win like that. Let the doom scrolling begin. "Oh he'd think this is funny. Oh that's relatable. Repost! Oh my God that's so horrible I'm sending it." Soon enough all my friends inboxes are filled with memes and depression, just like me I think. I am nothing but memes and depression. The cringe covers the fact I don't want to live anymore. Nope nope too nihilistic need to fix that. Does anything I do really matter? Maybe my problem is I have no faith, I refuse to believe what I can't see. Who really knows? Maybe I'm just a lost cause or just a temporary person to show people they can be loved but love is not for me. I don't deserve love.

"NO" she loudly whispers, trying to regain control. The Council is strong, powerful, so many voices. A chorus of what's been said to her through the years of her life. The mixture of all the horrible things weighs her down daily. "You'll never get a boyfriend if..."

"Your existence ruined my life."

"I just feel like our relationship is a lost cause because you'll never forgive me"

"You're just a bully."

"You're the reason nobody likes you."

"If you could just drop the woe is me act you'd be more likeable and maybe actually have friends."

They get louder as they chant, all incoherent, all unsteady.

"He'll leave. They always do" The Council sneers as they collide, the voices do, appearing in a twisted blackened mass. "You're not worth loving and you know that. Prepare, prepare to leave so he can't hurt you my baby" It says, taking shape as a fully blacked out person. The silhouette haunts me. "It's okay my dear you're better with me. Just leave, come stay with us. We'll fix you right up" It says, as the cold empty hand strokes my hair. "We're not scary, we want whats best for you. When's the last time you were selfish? What about your needs? You know he can't meet your needs, no one can. No one can but us." it continues, almost like a mother. "I know best I do. You need us more than you need anyone else. Just come with me my darling, we'll make it all better don't you worry" She nods as the tears flow down her face, going to the back of her mind.

Outwardly, the anger, the rage, it floods. She's typing, furiously, "Go date someone you actually like. I'm not the one, not the one you want. If I was, you wouldn't do these things."

She's still in there. Fighting. Screaming. "Don't hurt him please don't hurt him he doesn't deserve this it's all me I'm the problem please just don't hurt him!" She watches the screen, sees what's happening, absolutely powerless to stop it. They've tied her down, little her, just to watch as the chaos unfolds.

She blocks him, doesn't speak, doesn't anything. No not this time. He won't hurt me this time. No more hurt for me. Just the anger is all that's there. Pure fire in her eyes.

No response. From him. He left me on read. HE LEFT ME ON READ? How dare he ignore us? How dare he act like there's nothing to take accountability for? WHY CAN'T THEY JUST APOLOGIZE FOR HURTING ME?

Then the guilt. The burning guilt. She had broken free and shoved them all down in the basement. Pulled them down the stairs and locked the door. That stupid, flimsy, door. She's tired, scrambling her way up the stairs again. They really should put an elevator in this building. All that's left is the guilt. The pieces to pick up. "I'm sorry" she types "I'm sorry I don't know why this hurts me so much. Please don't leave I need you."

As any sane man does, he will eventually leave. And she'll eventually accept that it is too much for her, too much for anyone to stomach no matter how understanding they claim to be. All she can do is hope and try to change her demons, but they live inside her and are locked in to a mortgage at this point.

Each intimate moment I share with my wife feels like a violation.

My eyes roll into the back of my head. Her fingertips gently caress my stomach, yet my mind is fixated on her... A woman I haven’t even met.

How could I possibly let myself fall in love with blue lights?

But it’s so much more. It’s energy—raw and all-consuming, I seriously can't get enough. I find myself craving her emotional touch. I’m burning in agitation without it, vibrating through withdrawals, and it’s all her fault.

Blue.

I can't get away from my wife fast enough. The days drag on painfully, my eyes locked on the ticking clock. I wish I could move its hands into tomorrow—when I can curl up in my underwear and text Blue under our covers. An intimate energy exchange, connecting us beyond physicality.

She’s become a part of me, a part of my every day. I’ve learned how to carry this heaviness in my chest, my shameful secret I’m an expert at keeping. I've never imagined myself the cheater, but I easily justify why she fulfills what my wife can't. And it blows my mind it's not physical, that we’re not lacking sexually. Our sexual energy is very much alive; my skin burns from her touch, with plenty of desire.

But my soul doesn't burn the way my body does.

I am lifeless without her, the one who should be a stranger. Lying cold beside a woman I'm supposed to love, as if forced to love a stranger instead.

My eyes fly open as she’s softly snoring beside me. I close every kind of distance between us by holding her close. With a heavy sigh, I pull away after two minutes, reaching for my phone. Blue is offline, most likely asleep.

With tears and heavy eyelids, I ache with need for us to meet in my dreams. The ball and chain of a wife slipping out of my reality.

What if someday never arrives? I have been thinking a lot about control. The illusion of it and the safety in it as well. The helplessness that ensues when you finally realize you cannot control everything or everyone.

My friends lost their baby this week. They are the nicest people and this was their first baby. Delivery was for this week... then my friends and I get a text. They lost their baby. A girl. They had decided to not find out the gender until the due date arrives.

What do you say to that? I pray, I know not everyone does but all I can think of is, I will pray for you. I don't know what else to say. Maybe that is okay. Maybe sometimes there are no words. there is only the action of being there and sitting with your loved ones in their grief. I cannot begin to understand and I can seek to understand but only when they are ready and wanting to share.

But I still sit with this feeling of helplessness. I think because of past experiences/traumas in my own life having control is became the source of safety. If I can control my relationships, if my romantic relationship do not progress, or if I don't date at all, I am safe from harm. But what a way to live huh?

I hope one day I can give up on this illusion and sit with the helplessness that ensues. Would that mean I finally embrace what being human really is? Is that what being a human is?

So I sit here on my couch, going between crying and numbness. I wish I could do something, I wish for a lot of things.

So if someday never arrives, what will I do to make sure my life has meaning?

I will write,

I will show up for my loved ones,

I will accept the unacceptable fact that you cannot heal the world with a broken heart... or even a whole one for that matter.

--- Poem time---

Poem for your thoughts?

coins down a well with no ending

if there is no ending where do we even begin?

Come to the wishing well darlin'

throw in your hopes and dreams

and I will throw in mine,

maybe our bound forevers

will become bound together

maybe we can finally find the "more"

that was always present but never seen.

Maybe, maybe maybe,

I guess that is the whole point of a wishing well now isn't it?

------- food for thought---

If food was a time machine

I would eat my Nonna's pasta until the day I die

which would be prolonged by the fact that I will travel back in time

see the eyes of my young Nonna, hard and determined

a nurse with broad shoulders and a stubbornness to boot.

Who stood toe to toe to doctors, protected her older sister fiercely

doesn't matter she was older, my Nonna would never let anyone trample over her.

As I get older I wish I had that sort of toughness that grit. I think in some respect we all wish that we could different from our current selves. Sometimes i think it is such a fickle feeling. I wish I could just enjoy the me in this current moment.

I suppose wishing is a good place to start.

So many thoughts, if I were ever to become a poet, my book would be 3,000 pages long hahaha... but really it would be more long winded than having a conversation with me. I like to turn the attention on the person talking, sharing a little about myself but mostly hearing another the other person, mostly letting them speak. Usually this is pretty easy to do, other times its as if they know what I am doing. I am not saying I am not an interesting person I just don't like talking about myself all that much.

Oh well would you look at that perfect timing as I write about myself... my time is up hehe ;)

It would be easier to have never met you.

To have never been loved. Wanted. Cared for unabashedly.

Because I hadn't ever had it, so I hadn't ever needed it.

Now I cannot let myself want it.

Perhaps before, when I had my first love in the way that I am yours.

Back when my pale skin wasn't sickly, and my hair was curly and not chemically leached of life.

Back when my heart wasn't hardened and I wasn't all cracked skin and bruises that won't fade.

If you could see the tricks the little magician in my mind pulled,

cruel and unfair to you, you would never look at me the same.

And that thought is the only thing painful enough to draw tears from my apathetic body.

And all I can do is feel the ache, knowing I will ruin this soon.

Will ruin this for you. Because I cannot live healthily, and I cannot accept a love that asks for nothing in return.

I'm in a fucking rut and I hate it. I have so much that I feel like I could be doing. I could be finding a job or writing my screenplay or something but instead I just take depression naps. Even my dreams are starting to get stressful. Every other dream is about a test that I have to take that is daunting. I hate taking them. The latest was on King Kong Island and my friend, Fae, and I had to take on caring for children after taking Ernest and Son's Green Busses out into the ocean to try to get them to the next island before King Kong Island burned down. It was an amusement park island and the kids were all children of the staff. Before that, my partner had bestowed upon me a shadow necklace so I could have him there whenever I missed him. It was a really nice gift.

Let's see what other dreams did I have? I had the one with my cousin coming into a job agency I worked at. She's my older cousin and I haven't seen her since I was sixteen. She called me high once and I prefer to not remember it. I know she needed me but I was so upset she had th audacity to call me when high. I mean, I'm sure she wouldn;t have done so if she didn't need help. She didn't even ask me for money. I think she was just in a bad ordeal and needed help. I haven't talked to her since but she comes in my dreams every once in awhile.

What else happens up there? There's a school that's like a huge mall. I don't think I can keep going for another nine minutes honestly. I am getting tired as we speak. O did an interview today and except for having no idea what software they use, I think it went pretty well. I didn't do much dazzling though. You always know when someone is intrigued by you when you talk to them and they never shut up. At least that's what happens to me. People pick a few little things I say then I can pick up on what htey say and then we've got a conversation going. But, this time it was awkward. There were paises. I don't know what to make of it honestly. I;m about to go to the grocery store so I guess I'll fill out one of their applications. Kroger is always hiring.

I used to dream about getting a big break when this whole joblessness thing started. I would work from home. I would make more than I've ever seen before. A salary. Benefits. Pet insurance. I would get a pet turtle named Biff to celebrate. He would fart and shit out of his tail and stink up my room. It was the dream. I still have eggs in baskets. There's a speechwriting job that I had my hopes up for. I don't know why I don't tether those little bastards. Hopes and dreams are for losers, I'm starting to think. It makes me feel bad to be such a cynic but honestly, I really do feel that way. So long as I don't forget my pen, I'll make sure I sign up to work at Kroger. I could work in the deli. I could be the guy who keeps Rob from losing his finger when he slices it off after we're talking about my dreams and he gets so enamored with my brain that he loses his head... well, pinky, to the meat cutter.

What is that thing called. Will I be like the black lady in that meme where the woman hops over the counter and she's like unless your name is Salami, you shouldn't be back here and the woman's like I'm hiding from my ex, and the Black lady decides the woman can stay? I like that gif but I never was destined to be that woman. I mean, if people want to sit up straight and look both ways and cross their T's and dot their I's, that's fine by me but I'm a slouching writer who sleeps too much and dreams even more. I like to have my head in the clouds which is probably why I'm feeling the brunt of this hiring freeze. I think I'm doing okay but honestly I couldn't be sure either way. I have money, just a bit. Enough to enjoy the casino tomorrow with my mom and my grandmother and anyone else that comes. I just wish I was in a better position in life, you know?

1. I woke up to a loud “72” in my head, my heart beating out of my chest. I need to confirm how old Uncle Arnie was when he died. Was he 72, or is this a warning about ma? Oh god, then I only have two years left with her…

2. I mourn who I could’ve been without you. But I think back to myself as a child, buck-toothed and curling into their palms. Would I have lost myself anyway?

3. Is the dog barking a warning? I remember he barked at this time-of-day last Tuesday, and we came home safely. I need to stop trying to find meaning in meaningless.

4. Closing the car door, I ask myself is today the day the uber driver will confirm, “Going to Faywood?” Yes, I'll answer. “No, you’re not,” and another man will pin me down in the backseat? I'll enjoy every second. God, I'm skin starved. But what if they're disgusted by my hairy legs? I arrive unharmed and wonder if next time I should shave just in case.

5. I’m 43 but I didn’t make it past 20. Where do I begin… there’s something wrong developmentally. Decades of pretending, acting out storylines and never living in reality, and she’s the reason. Will I be stuck with her? What if I never break free?

6. What if ma dies and I’m without an adult? I’m still a child, living in my childhood bedroom, with no control over this hoarder house. I’ll be responsible for calling a junkyard, and all the neighbors will know. Ma wouldn't let this happen to me. Repeating it over and over has to make it true.

7. I analyze how much I cry (twelve times today). I'm angry my dad is gone. I'm livid she gets to live. I'm angry my mom's body snaps and aches, with migraines every moment of every day. Why does everyone else get to live their life while she deteriorates?

8. I remind myself my aunt battled worse, and she’s still alive. Jessie’s father is 92 with health issues, but he's still thriving. This is enough to confirm my mother will not die at 70 or 72.

9. I worry the pale-yellow candlelight flickering on her ceiling might make me fall in love again. Maybe I could stay here, not only in this dimly lit room, but with her, even though I was ready to leave her an hour ago.

10. I usually murmured amongst my family oh so-and-so didn't look well. I felt sad, but it quickly faded. But next family function... the second I hear someone say my mother looks unwell, I will lose my mind.

11. Is my writing too restrained? Does it elicit any emotion?

12. You know no one cares, right? I say this to myself nearly every day, whenever my heart sinks. Knowing I will never dig deep enough to find my soul’s depths.

And the Lord said: Let there be muck!

Before there was life, there was muck. If it wasn't for the serpent, Eve might have told Adam to keep his mucky hands off her apples. Noah took two of every kind of muck onto the ark. The dinosaurs missed the boat because they were stuck fast in muck. And people have always been mucking in, mucking around, and mucking it up. The ancient Greeks wrestled naked in muck. The Romans built an empire on muck. Serfs in the Middle Ages owned nothing but the clothes on their backs, and the muck on their clothes. Caravaggio could paint muck better than anyone. Shakespeare wrote several plays about muck. It was muck that lost Napolean the battle of Waterloo. Queen Victoria had her own private muck pit. WW1 saw miles of trenches dug out of the muck. Orville and Wilbur Wright were the first to fly over a bit of muck. The world told Hitler to muck off out of it. The 1960s were all about peace and free muck. We smoke muck. snort muck, inject muck into our veins. There are songs about muck. Movies that are full of muck. Books like The Idiot's Guide to Muck. We share our muck on social media and like other people's muck. Muck makes the world go round -- Where would we be without it?