Day fifty-one

Postcard to twan

"Wish you were here" it says
on the front. I'm sitting at a table
overlooking the shopping center, people
watching.The autumn air's finally arrived
and humidity lay sleeping further south.
The sun sets and the paint on the sky
reminds me of an early Monet. Your voice
travels hundreds of miles through satellite
cell phone signals to reach my ear. It brings
a steady stillness to my life. And I realize
I love you. Not through Eros nor Storge, but
something that transcends mere friendship
or Phileo. My love for you is Agape, because
at one point in our past lives we shared
the same Soul and we are fragments
of the same being-- Reborn throughout space
and time, always in search for one another
in different forms.

17:52

Ummm embarrassing, but true? yes.

Day fifty

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
2 Corinthians 4:18 (NIV Bible)

Things Unseen

Always the dichotomy, religion
and science. Let's imagine for a minute
like those famous Lennon lines
that science and religion were the same.
That the Big Bang was the same phrase
as Let there be light.
That the six days in the Bible
mere metaphors for an age and time
when people had no concept of the world
outside of Earth. That the six days represented
the sum of around 13 billion years. Lets
Imagine for a minute that Science
was the language of God and the Bible
the poetry. That things left unseen
were mysteries created to be solved
not by mere prayers, but by method
and experimentation. After all,
aren't we God's grand experiment,
to cure his holy loneliness?

20:20

I have no idea where I was going with this...

Day forty-nine

I am reading "Thanks, But This Isn't For Us: A (Sort of) Compassionate Guide to Why Your Writing Is Being Rejected" by Jessica Page Morrell. One of the exercises Morrell challenges writers with is to "write five sentence openings to short stories, novels, or memoirs that you don't intend to write".

Western:

John still felt the heavy vibration from h is left hand after he fired the pistol. It was the first time he had ever shot a gun and he was hoping it would be his last. His hand shook as he tried to re-holster his gun. Not many in his generations were south paws.

Horror:

I asked to be handcuffed, but the police cited regulation and shoved me in a cell in the corner of the jail. The problem was "it" was still out there and as long as I was alone, we would be safe.

Fantasy:

Hemlock laughed as the human tried to lift his ax. Dwarves, much stouter than men, have large muscular arms built from years of working in underground mines. All Dwarves are practically given pick axes as soon as they leave their mother's womb.

Suspense:

His eyes are blurred behind frosted glass as he feels the pulse of the girl he's about to strangle. They had just slept together and she felt too relaxed to see the glaze in his eyes. The fangs of his thumbs dig deep and at once she is startled, thrashing like a pigeon held up by a single leg.

Memoir:

I was only 4 years old when I left the country I was born in. I remember almost every detail. My mother cried all day, her eyes red and bleary. My father purchased a car from a gas station for only $200. The black bucket had leather seats with holes in them and no seat belts in the back. It was cheaper than hiring a taxi to get from Pusan to Seoul, where the airport awaited us. The year is 1987 and South Korea was in celebration and parades were abundant with a life sized Hodori (The South Korean mascot, a Korean tiger, giving hugs to every child.

30:45

Day forty-eight

Hindsight

Everything is perfect
as clear as a digital photograph,
all the memories in full HD.
The skies were sunny and the birds
sang joyful songs. The gray blur
of thunderclouds in the distance
never show in post production. They
were always there, the static
cling always present. But I choose
to ignore. I relive each memory
in Technicolor brights. I forget
that in my dreams that everything's
black and white. The signs were all
there. The way she drifted away,
like an iceberg slowly breaking off
from a glacial sheet. I chose not
to see the disconnection. Tried to fit
a square peg into a round hole. It wasn't
fair for her. My eyes narrowed
and nothing beyond the scope of her
existed. Behind the camera I didn't
notice that she was just a small
part of a bigger whole. The landscape
of friends and missed opportunities
lay among the fringes.

15:42

Day forty-seven

I am at my friend, Shin's place and I just drank my first beer in years. It still tastes bitter and strange. I am watching 500 days of Summer. My hands smell like lime and I am writing this blog on my cell phone. This movie is fantastic so far. Tomorrow I have work and Im not looking forward to it. "I like being alone, relationships are messy and stuff and we live in a beautiful city and I want to save the serious stuff for later". I am thinking about going to japan to teach. Two more trips left in the year, one to Orlando and one to Santa Ana. Ive gone to Nashville and Savannah so far. Next year is new york!

15 minish

Day forty-six

Five Haikus

books fall on the ground

they all commit suicide

unread, forgotten

the rain falls again

against the wide window panes

gentle like laughter

Death holds up his hand

flowers fade, leaves change colors

and winter begins

The sound of pebbles

slapping across pond water

remember childhood

Trees sway against wind

pushed to creak and crack once more

hurricane season

Snow falls on the field

the crunch of snow beneath feet

I miss cold winter

16:35

Day forty-five

A Short Ode to Autumn

It's about fucking time you reared

your ugly face. Summer's a bitch and Spring

stopped caring a long time ago.

Autumn, sweet autumn, the trees

grow angry at your sight, some burst

into colorful flames. The evergreens

are through with seasons. They

see no point in emotion. Autumn

your lips are cold and your hair

smells like vegetable rot. You're

covered in pumpkin scent, decayed

leaves, apple cider, brisk crisp, air.

I still love you Autumn. You're

cooler than Summer and not as

icy as Winter. Autumn your full

name's better than Fall. Fall. Fall.

Autumn Autumn Autumn.

Breath of fresh smells!

16:16

Lame hahaha

Day forty-four

Attonbitus

I stand ten feet away from

the door as she enters the room.

Then it happens. The air from my lungs

escapes as though frightened by

a coming storm. My jaw drops

like the wolf in a Droopy cartoon.

The neurons in me seem to temporarily

freeze, disconnecting the body

and mind. My brain tries to interpret

the actions of my lungs and knees,

it knows I look like a fool. I'm paralyzed

and afraid of being eaten alive. Flight

or fight, fight or flight. The adrenaline

moves too slow. My heart pants. The spell

breaks as she walks past. Then,

as though the world is in slow motion

my brain and body speed to the present.

I attempt to regain composure. And I want

to tell her everything, but the flight

instinct finally kicks in and I walk away.

15:52

Day forty-three

I was thinking about writing a poem about my grandmother. About how it felt to hold her ashes in a bronze urn shaped like a cube. How it felt to hold both my grandfather's and grandmother's ashes. The heaviness of the bronze and the texture of the metal. I even wanted to write about the Honpa Hongwanji (the Buddhist temple the ashes are housed at), But I couldn't come up with the right words. Is there a way to write about death without it being so sentimental? Death, I suppose, is arguably the central point of all poetry. Keats wrote in that poem about a Greek vase "Beauty is truth, truth beauty", but I think I like the phrasing "death is beauty, beauty death". Death seems to be the only constant that we know in life. I always go back to Philip Larkin's poem "Next, Please". I think the last stanza of the poem is the most powerful. "Only one ship is seeking us, a black- / Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back / A huge and birdless silence. In her wake / No waters breed or break". I suppose love is a form of death as well. Elizabeth Barret Browning wrote in her famous Portuguese poem, the one that's printed on millions of valentine's cards "I shall but love thee better after death". I'm not sure where I'm going with this. In short, I've been thinking about death lately. Not in a depressing way, but more in a curious fashion, as though I'm a researcher. I want to write a version of "The Divine Comedy" using the levels of hell/purgatory known in Buddhism as Naraka. Maybe one day it'll come to fruition. Whoever wrote this Wikipedia article ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naraka_(Buddhism) ) has a great imagination. I'll have to do more research on the poster's description, evidently whoever wrote the article didn't know how spell "existence".

27:20

Day forty-two

Another Love Song

And there you are. A flash

then thunder crackles

as you enter the room. Scattered

light on the candle lit

ceiling dances rhythmic

pulsing with each inhale then

exhale. Then the heart thumps bass

beats, another layer added as you

inhale then exhale. Breath. Crickets

chirp and lightning bugs burn, A southern

breeze muffles the sounds like

a woolen blanket. Together we feel

most alone, stranded like marooned

penguins floating on melting icebergs.

The distance becomes mere illusion

between us as we sit next

to another. We lay on opposite

ends my yin does not match

your yang. Imperfect circle, jagged,

cracked. It always ends. And all

I say is never again. as it happens again.

21:58

Day forty-one

Portmanteau of the day: Ignoranus

Definition: Derives from the words ignorant and asshole.

Application: Wesley Scroggins is an ignoranus.

All pettiness aside... What kind of generation do we live in when books are banned? Let's all start a bonfire folks and start burning books... I'll bring the s'mores! Let me give you a picture of what's going to happen next. Yes this absolutely is a slippery slope argument for those logic nazi's out there. We ban books first then we ban music, television, various forms of art. Then we start banning the way people dress and the way people speak and any form of art. We thus become people that are "morally" good. All will be right in the world... except one thing. We lose our fucking humanity.

For fucks sake... my blog is going to be banned for profanity.

For a more coherent information please visit my friend's blog:

http://artieismymuse.wordpress.com/2010/09/19/speak-loudly-and-carry-a-banned-book/

20:01

this kind of pissed me off.

Day forty

Sentimental cliche

A list to get them out of my head so I never write them again.

a baby's laughter

the smell of your hair

like sunset, like sunrise, like nightfall, like the changing of seasons

tears shatter

love love love

heart pounding

death

birth

life

The sound of your voice

The smell of your skin

The air you breath

roses

as big as a

as small as a

vast as an ocean

forever and never

darkness

happy sweet bright

Penguins

15:20

Day thirty-nine

A child divided

Where do I fit in? Neither black

nor white, I'm outside false dichotomies.

Am I the child of three countries? Two

that hate each other, centuries

old grudges? Korea and Japan. I am

American I try to tell myself over

and over again. It's not so simple. I'm expected

to speak both languages, know both

cultures. But nothing's ever perfect. I am

a melting pot of two cultures, inserted

into the bowl of a third. I speak English

like most Americans. Eat fast food

watch television. What makes us

so different? Some people think

I'm hispanic or an ambiguous

race. Does it matter? One day

will there be no distinction? A preacher's

daughter once said that races

were like flowers in the field. If all

the flowers were the same, the

world wouldn't be as beautiful. But,

I said what of hybrids of varieties

of orchids mixed for generations.

Should I attempt to revert back

to my heritage. Be proud of places

and countries unknown to me.
To people who hold ancient

connections with my blood?

Or should I do nothing and attempt

to live my life separated from

all ties of my past? Ancient

cultures crumble, new ones

are born do we hold to them

or are we all just hybrids.

15:01

Day thirty-eight

The final days of Giraffes

My daughter won't believe

me when I tell her that giraffes

once existed. She's only six and says

No daddy, giraffe's are make

believe. I describe their long necks--

tall as tree trunks, and their patchwork

skin of brown and tan spots. She laughs

as I tell her that giraffes have blue

tongues and horns. Were they monsters?

she asks, her tone like a dancing

mouse. I clasp my hands with hers

and explain they were as gentle giants.

I show her a picture then show her

a clip from a national geographic

documentary. What happened to them?

she squeals. I shake my head and tell

her they disappeared. Daddy and

daddy's friends scared them off.

she smiles and shakes her head

Be nice and they'll come back.

I want to tell her that she's wrong

that we were careless. That we

neglected the earth. Instead

I say what a great idea as I

read on the front page

Last giraffe dies in captivity.

17:53

Day thirty-seven

I used the graph to make this.

Fair

The smell of pink cotton

candy, funnel cakes, buttered

popcorn fills the air. The sky

shades of rose colored wisps,

an ever changing painting,

slowly dims. The heavy ozone

scent near the bumper cars fills

the air as the zap tap tapping

of electricity dances rhythmically

against the flickering of carnival

lights. Reminisce. Crisp candied

apples-- a father hoists her daughter

on his shoulders. Pigeons coo softly.

Twirling melodies, everything spin

spin spinning as though in a giant wind

up music box. Here inside, the outside

neither exists nor matters. Sadness,

depression mere illusions of a magic fun house

mirror, distorted, concave, convex.

I have wasted my time.

Cris

16:42

Day thirty-six

25:16

Day thirty-five

Disclaimer: This post is a little late in the night and I'm very fatigued.

For this entry I used a creative method of brain storming called a bubble diagram. Basically I start out with five bubbles. My five bubbles contain the words "Color, Smell, Sound, Weight, Emotion" Then for each bubble I write out the first five things that immediately come to mind. So for this example and future reference I'll just display what I've written:

Color:
blue

green

yellow

beige

pink

Emotion:

love

sadness

happy

joy

depression

Smell:

bagels

ozone

chicken

roses

popcorn

Weight:

ounces

pounds

light

heavy

simple

Sound:

tapping

laughter

birds

music

drums

Now for each word under the main word I think of five other words. So for this example we will use green

Green:

trees

grass

christmas

latency

eyes

So imagine a page full of words. You take bits and pieces of words to form lines in poems. For example:

The smell of ozone from the heavy drums of blue lightning.

or

Joy is the sound and smell of fried chicken popping like popcorn on Christmas morning.

You can use any combination of five words, or as many words as you want and you can add five words to as many existing words as you want. As long as the words you are writing come immediately to mind. When you are done with all your words start making connections between random words using existing ones. I spent too much time explaining this. Tomorrow I'll write a poem out of this exercise and post a picture of my actual diagram using paint or something.

20:45

Day thirty-four

Three Masks

I wear three masks. one made

of paper, another of plastic, the last

of metal. The paper mask, flimsy

and frail, wrinkles at the slightest touch--

It creases and bends with ease and a mere

whisper wrinkles it's skin. When I'm

alone I wear the paper one. Too brittle

for public if it's exposed it slowly

disintegrates as though on fire.

The plastic mask molds easily to any situation--

It's the consistency of gel. Words

mold it and it becomes whatever

it touches. When I'm in public

I wear this one. It flows like water

dragged by wind. It will never tear

or break. The last mask I almost never

wear. The metal one never bends or breaks.

It's hard like iron and heavy too. I wear

this gargoyle ugly mask when I'm angry,

Sometimes it is too hard to pick up

and like the paper mask if I wear it

too long it falls apart.

15:08

Day thirty-three

Another 9/11 poem

Is nine years enough to write

another sentimental poem about

this day. It was a boulder thrown

into to pond, the ripples changed

everything. Nine years and we're

still at war. Those three thousand

poor souls not avenged. Would they

want to be anyways? I could write

that watching the towers fall felt

as though I was a citizen of pompeii.

I could write about the empathy I feel,

the sadness, but there is nothing

I can say or do to change anything. There's

no poetry in this. Just nothingness...

the cold numb feeling that always

comes after tragedy as we live

our lives and never forget.

15:00

Day thirty-two

Part of a larger project I'm working on with the TF
The formatting is off from the original again

Your shoulder feels stiff like a tree branch. Did I

hold you too tightly? Are you like dandelion seeds

ready to blow away at a mere whisper? I must

look like a fish to you as my mouth opens and closes

trying to find the right words to say. When you mention

the note I’m relieved. My brain says over and over again

“you got the message, you got the message!” I can feel

the adrenaline rush slowly end. Pieces of gravel stab

into my back, I can still feel my arms and legs. A good

sign. There’s a hot feeling on my left arm. The one

that’s not touching you. Someone smeared something

red across my forearm. I let you go. Dab my left arm

and realize that I’m bleeding. You look worried, about

to cry. I try my best to smile and say in a bad British

accent “It’s just a flesh wound”. Tad shakes his head

and frowns as he says “I called your mom, she’s coming

to pick you up”. I mutter “thanks”. The one thing I need

right now is you to see my crazy mother. “So you live

around here?” I ask. Your face turns from sadness

into anger faster than the chameleon’s tongue I saw

on a nature special, so quickly that I don’t have time

to react. Did I say something wrong? My body aches

as it finally realizes that I’ve been in a crash. Lightheaded,

I apologize. Try to smile as I wince at the pain. It felt

as though I was body slammed by my favorite wrestler.

A hear a car coming and honking. I close my eyes. My

mother has arrived.

21:27

Day thirty-one

Night

I lived Dugan's seven day diary* once. The droll

week passed by in a blur. I remember the evenings

the most. Driving the freeway south at an hour before

midnight. My neighborhood hidden by night. The lights

of my car reveal forgotten homes, ghostly sculptures

grooved against artificial hills. Near my home I greet

the mother and daughter deer that graze in the front

yard of a foreclosed home. They both freeze and look

up at me. The mother's ears twitch, she can hear my

breathing, rhythmic against the sound of a low rustling

breeze. I want to wave at them, but I know better. Last

week as I raised my right hand they danced into

the shadowed wood. Leaving me nothing but the sound

of hooves against dry leaves. We pause and stare at

each other as if any sudden movement would make

the world collapse. I wait for them, but they do not

move. I say "hello" and again they dance. I want to tell

them I will not hurt them, I want to explain I am

safe. But they know better. They know men lie

and as though they were looking into my soul,

they knew that I had the potential to be dangerous

like a polished rifle barrel or the loud crack of thunder

before their family member suddenly falls dead.

*Alan Dugan's On a Seven Day Diary:

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-a-seven-day-diary/

17:45

Day thirty

Day Thirty... oh what a milestone! Who would have thought I would survive thirty days of consistent writing. I will tell you that it was not easy... not easy at all. Sometimes it was a chore and other times a pleasure. I suppose that's what writing really is. Today I felt unusually happy at work. Perhaps it was the absence of a particular co worker or the conversation I had with my favorite girl :). I suppose I found my rhythm today. I feel bursts of creativity, like bursts of energy after you've reached a certain painful point when running. Some people call it getting over a wall. I need to stop making excuses and start writing more. I'm not afraid of how terrible it will be. I know the majority of the stuff I write is pure crap, but maybe a sliver or a fragment of something good may come of it. I read a story in a book called "Art & Fear: Observations On the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking" that compelled me to think about the writing process in a different way. In the book (I'm paraphrasing deeply of course) there's a story of a college pottery class. The professor divided the classroom in half. One half of the classroom had a single semester long project. Create the "perfect" piece of pottery by the end of the semester. The other half of the classroom was assigned the task of creating as many pieces of pottery it could during the entire semester. Well it turns out that the quality and the style of those students assigned the task of making as many pieces of pottery as they could, was much better than those students who had a singular piece to turn in. So if I keep writing I suppose I'll get better. I suppose 30 days isn't a long enough period to critique myself. At the 60 day mark I'll have compiled enough writing to do a self assessment. I suppose I have some talent in writing, but Stephen King once said "Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful individual is a lot of hard work". Indeed I have a lot of handwork ahead if this experiment is to succeed. Fifteen minutes sometimes feels like a second, other times it feels like an eternity. What do I hope to gain from this project? I hope that something I write here, will eventually be edited and published in a journal or magazine. I hope to become a better writer in the process of writing everyday. I had no set expectations and will see where the river will take me. My fifteen minutes comes to an end, although I do not limit myself to only fifteen minutes, I try and come close to it as possible. It's just a box / barrier I've created to see what happens, to add a little pressure. I wish happiness to all who read this.

15:15

Day twenty-nine

Epithalamium of the Strawberry Banana Smoothie

Oh strawberry! How red and ripe your lips

Soon you and banana will be joined together

in holy matrimony. You're a berry

like no other. Your seeds show on

the outside, scandalous. You have no shame

as you wear the color of passion. Unlike

the other berries you need no bush

you thrive in patches on the earth.

Strawberry you get along with everyone

milk, cream, even shortcakes love your

sweetness. How did fate intertwine

you with the yellow hanging fruit?

Banana, your sweet flesh cultivated

in jungle heat has no equal. Unlike

the vile plantain you aren't starchy

or bitter when raw. You were born

in an elevated position. It was a shock

when your marriage to strawberry,

a common ground dweller was announced.

Soon the two will become one. Ice will

help you blend together as you

twirl together in the blender of life.

Days before your matrimony you were

still green and bitter. Time guided

you to your true potential. May the

fruit gods bless you with happiness

as you are slowly devoured.

________________________

My friend Terry calls bananas, nanners.

It disturbs me a little, as though he

were talking about eating pieces

of his grandmother. I wonder if

you could buy a seedless strawberry...

would it be a naked strawberry?

15:02

Day twenty-eight

Wrote a comment on my favorite blog. http://artieismymuse.wordpress.com/

Read it, devour it, love it.

17:41

Day twenty-seven

Harold the good Troll

Once, like all stories, in a land very far away and long ago

there lived a family of Trolls. There was a papa troll, a mama troll

and two brother trolls. The older brother was named Urt, a fine troll name.

The younger brother was named Harold. The Trolls lived in a cave

just outside a very small village. For many years the Trolls stuck

to their cave eating their favorite food. Rocks. Shiny rocks, dull rocks

jagged and smooth rocks. They ate them all. Now Trolls don't age

as quickly as you and I. For every 100 years they age about 5. Another

important thing to know about Trolls is that turn into the very thing they

eat if they are caught out in the sun. Trolls are known to despise humans

and they try to avoid them. They stick to caves, rivers, and sometimes under

bridges. Harold was a very special Troll. He wasn't like other Trolls.

His mother would always say "Now eat your rocks and you'll grow big

and strong!" Harold. Hated. Rocks. He didn't like the way the crunched

or felt. Rocks were just disgusting. Trolls are supposed to be very mean

and rotten creatures. For fun they stomp on flowers and kick little forest

creatures like footballs. Harold didn't like to stomp or kick, but he loved

to laugh and sing. He tended to the flowers his brother stomped

and bandaged the little forest creatures his brother kicked. Harold was

a good Troll. He laughed and sang all the way until sun up, when all trolls

hide from the sun to sleep. Harold would sometimes even sing in his sleep!

There aren't very many trolls around now, but if you're near a cave, be careful

and listen for growls and grumbles. If you hear laughter or a quiet song, maybe you've found

Harold... then again maybe not.

The End.

15:01

Day twenty-six

Images: I close my eyes for 10 seconds then type what I see.

Dragonflies dancing on water. Hovering then fluttering away.

Sun rises, bright pink and purple hues. A cloud collides into a mountain then embraces it.

The first rain drop to hit a pond rippling, followed by a million flurry of others.

The base of a waterfall, the loud crash of water against rock. How violent and peaceful.

A cool October breeze rustling leaves, twirling around in a cyclone.

Waves and waves of 0grass swayed by the wind.

Car crash, the smell of burnt rubber, oil and engine fluid. The steam slowly rising off the hood.

Your hair blown by the wind on top of the 178 step lighthouse.

The world from the top down. Seagulls circling inland, the sound of the ocean in the parking lot.

Violins and Cellos playing by themselves in a circle in the air, rocking back and forth.

Air swirling orchids and petals into a funnel cloud. Twilight colors

Baked bread and honey. A child's wide eyes an old baker's wide smile.

Chocolate elephant sculptures.

The horse head nebula, a thousand galaxies, a billion stars.

You sleeping, the sound of your quiet breath, your peaceful face.

15:15

Day twenty-five

Waving Girl

Handkerchief by day lantern by night

you stood watch at the mouth

of the Savannah river. Day after

day, night after night, nothing

deterred you for 44 long years.
Winter, spring, summer, autumn

would whirl around as you waved

and waved. Did your arms ever

grow weary? Your statue stands

like a sentry. At night when the world

is still, a hushed whisper floats

through the air, the sound of

fabric against wind and the ships

still greet you. Were you waiting

for a sailor lost at sea? Waiting

for a certain ship to return?

Why did you wait so long,

when so many others would

have given up?

16:34

Day twenty-four

Personal

My girlfriend broke up with me a few days

ago. I think it was for the best. She didn't love

me. I wonder how long she actually knew. I wish

her the best. It's exactly like the song, "Breakeven"

from The Script: "Her best days will be some of my

worst / She finally met a man that's gonna put her

first / While I'm wide awake she's no trouble sleeping /

'cause when the heart breaks no it don't break even."

Sometimes my mind is preoccupied with notions

of what could have been. Such a strange phrase.

I've turned back to focus on writing. I bought

this book, Write: 10 Days to Overcome Writer's Block. Period.

by Karen E. Peterson. She has a Ph.D. in psychology

and a a couple degrees in English. In her book she says:

"If you are a writer at heart, you need to express yourself

to feel fully alive. If you don't write, then something might

go unsaid--and you'll remain hidden". I haven't read

all of the book, but it seems promising. I'm thinking

about returning to the motherland. My uncle has

generously offered to find me employment. Right

now I'm not very happy with my employment

situation. There's nothing left to be said for today.

15:27

Day twenty-three

Preposition

Under the canopy of stars

amid the Nebulae hides a place

beyond all things human. Heaven's

across space a million light years away.

Between all this space lay prayers crawling

through aether traveling to meet the ears of God.

Over the bright gas giants, the flecks of space dust,

towards the bright light's source. Both space and time fold

inside each other. Prayers flutter through this void and fall

against the quiet darkness. Until, like a flash of lightning they're heard.

16:55

Day twenty-two

I want to capture the feelings, hold them

in my hands. Squeeze them tightly and watch

them crumble. I want to feel again. I'm numb.

Not sure what to do anymore. Panicked. I'm angry,

hurt, bits of happiness cut through the canopy

like strips of light passing through leaves. There

is still a storm on the horizon. Looming with uncertainty.

I wish you the best, but I can't bear to tell you-

to tell you that I want you to be happy. I want you

to find someone you can ultimately connect with

on a level higher than our own. When you asked

if you wanted to be best friends I wanted to say yes

but I was afraid. That I would get hurt again, that I

would do something crazy, like smash the next

guy you date into a wall with my car. I'm not violent,

but there's always the possibility. There's always

the possibility that ten years from now you

and I will pass each other. There would be an awkward

moment pass between us. The slight shift as we

recognize each other then, something I fear most,

there will be silence. And we will pass each other

to unknown destinations. Regret, regret, regret,

slammed into my chest like balled up fist. Rationally

I know this wasn't my fault, that we weren't meant

for each other. But I am irrational. In a frenzied state

of hurt and confusion. Did I really do my best? Did

I frustrate you too much? Did you just need some space?

These questions will never be answered. They will be written

down, balled up and tossed into a fire- a sad sacrifice

to the god of endings and break-ups. But the god

of new beginnings will lay its hand on my shoulder

and smile. I'm done.

16:14