Not the best

blogger in the world. I only update every now and then. But you'll forgive me when you watch this.

Holed up

It’s coming back. I don’t want it to. I want to stifle it ignore it push it kill it. But it never goes away. A few good days. A million bad days. It begs pleads urges forces me to do things say things that I don’t want to. I push everyone away, keep to myself, remain doubled over without a second thought to anyone else. It’s just me. No one can hurt me. If I’m alone, no one can leave me. If I’m alone, no one can hurt me. I push them all away. My mom. My sister. My wife. I barricade myself behind a wall of silence and rage, fear and sadness. Everything comes back to me a gray shadow of its former life. I’m disgusted by the mirror, by the image it casts. The images come flooding back. Violence. Aggression. Anger. Rage. Blood, impact, fractures and teeth. They resided last week, a glimpse of possibility, of hope, crossed my path. But I’ve lost it. I don’t know where it went. But a little piece of me wants it back.

But a big piece of me wants otherwise.

Her

Moment of calm.
Inkling of peace.
Glimmer of confidence.

A faraway place
still within sight
looming on the horizon.

A moment of hope
a passing of content.

I'm lost forever
in her arms.

White Flag

Consumed with heat
Anger
Rage
Sadness

Burn
Ache
Seethe

The fight persists
begs
urges
wills me
to
stop fighting


Give out
Give in

Give up


Let go.

?

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to move on. I lie awake at night asking the same questions, exploring the same thoughts. Maybe it's me. It must be me. It has to be me. What's the other reason? There is none. It's me.

I'd leave me, too.

These thoughts recycle through my head, intermingling with the sound of a nine millimeter's slide being ratcheted back, coaxing a bullet into the chamber. Or maybe I'm looking at someone, and I am surrounded by the urge to throttle them, to see their skin change, their eyes bulge. I see my car suddenly colliding with the freeway median, an explosion of glass and screeching metal.

Now, more than ever, Chuck Palianuk's Fight Club makes sense to me. An army of depressed, lonely men, forced to live out their lives in an uncomfortable existance, where masculinity and emotion has left them begging for meaning. Begging for a struggle. Begging for a challenge.

I understand it. I don't want to, but I do. People see me. They're afraid, maybe. Or angered. Or uncomfortable. Disgusted. Anxious. Paranoid. They make wide arcs around me. They're right to do so. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him. Need him. Hurt for him. His absense has rid me of my sense of being. I'm a shell, molded by friends fathers and excessive junk food. I'm sick. I'm uncomfortable. I'm disgusted with who I've become. I wake up every morning, disappointed to breathe. My teeth hurt from the constant grinding, my gut tired from the knotting, my heart sore from the beating.

I don't know what I am. I know I'm tired of being it.

Wonder

I often wonder
what might have been
what might have been

I lie awake
at night
hearing my breath
breathing my pulse

Maybe it's just
the way it is
Or the way
it's meant to be

Or maybe I'm just me
And I can't
stomach it.

I clench my jaws
knot my stomach
ball my fists
and I wonder why

The sport is the same
The game familiar
But somehow
The rules have changed.

And I'm left
to wonder why.