Other Blog

Check out my other blog, which is almost like this blog but newer ...

http://fallingfromanonymity.blogspot.com

I Like To Write

I like to write
because I can be me
or I can be you
or I can be a boy, a girl,
or a monkey who talks
I can make mistakes
and my grammar can be off
and I can misspell a word
or perhaps even make one up
I can order the mix word
I can stop my idea just as I
I can create a world
with volcanoes of chocolate
or one where my dad is still alive
I can make a friend
and happy ending
or I can make an enemy
and bleed across the page
I can invite you to read
or close the cover on your fingers
I can make you happy
or make you laugh
or make you miserable
and I can control your mind
and I know it may not be important
but I will still write it anyway
just because
I like to write

Waves

The beach always makes me think.  The waves are enormous as they hover over the sand like a villain in a dark alley of a poorly made horror film and then crash into the ground; they disappear.  Pummeling one after the next they each take a chance to prove that they are the greatest wave to ever come out of the ocean, only to be absorbed into the ground they smack into without praise, applause or congratulation.  Foam remains of the once majestic water king and is quickly washed away by the next in line.
I always believed that our lives are like waves.  We humbly begin as tiny ripples amongst an ocean of a billion others.  All of us dream of making it to the shore line to prove ourselves worthy to the rest of the world.  Continually fighting and growing we make our way closer to our goal until we peak and crash down into the ground to remain there for the rest of eternity.  A lot of people have told me that is such a morbid thing to think about, but I still believe it is a pretty comparable analogy.
This is why I always come to the beach at night; it is calming and soothing.  My mind is at ease when I see the dark sky above a seemingly endless supply of water, rising and sinking to the whims of the moon.  The sun always bothered me at the beach.  I am always blinded and unable to witness the beauty of death and rebirth that is occurring before me.  I tend to go alone too, since no one seems to understand the symbolism of what I see.  But that is also how I have always been, alone in the world of seven billion people.

The Note

It was about quarter to six when I got home from work, lights all out in my apartment, and I wondered why since she should have been home from work by now herself.  She did not text me at all today but I was so busy myself I had hardly realized until I walked up to my front door, unlit and knob slightly colder than normal.  I walked inside with nothing out of place, but a note was placed upon the counter.  It read:

"Dear Samuel," which is never good when my full first name is used,
"I wanted to tell you in person but I did not have the heart.  It is not that I do not love you anymore, I promise you I do, but I also just was talking with Janine and, well, I think it just isn't fair for me.  I think I settled."

At that moment it was as if the knife beside the note just pierced through my chest.  Settled?    After three years now you finally realized the big epiphany?  One talk with a friend is all it takes?  Settled?  My mind could not wrap itself around this idea after three years.

"I know you think I am crazy."  Perhaps I should have read this part as well before I reacted; perhaps it was a positive thing that at least she knew.

"I truly do apologize. I do not want you to blame yourself or think you're anything less than amazing."  I think this is my favorite part I read.  I am not good enough for you, but I am nothing less than amazing.  The oxymoron for the regular moron.  I got a little bitter by this point, as it became obvious that this whole letter was a sham to make herself feel better.

"I never cheated on you."  As she writes that down, it just becomes implanted in my head that maybe she did.

"I have always loved you."  I doubt it.

"And I hope you never forget what we had together."  At this point of the letter I almost threw it away.  However, for whatever reason, my mind needed to be berated a bit more by this complete bull my now ex was saying.

"However, I am leaving, forever."  And there was the nail in the coffin.  It was finally spelled out.  I just have no idea why she was doing this to me through a letter.  Really?  A letter?  In an era where technology is everywhere almost to a fault, you write me a letter.  I could not even hear her last words to me, I had to read them.

"I should explain the conversation I had with Janine.  We were talking about you and Marc and how you two are great boyfriends and how we love each of you truly and madly.  You give me everything I need before I ask it and buy me little gifts just because it is another day we have been together.  And I smile, but I settled.  I settled for the prince the five year old me wanted, instead of the king the thirty year old me needs.  I know that may not make sense to you, but every Abercrombie and Fitch model walking down the street reminded me of everything I could be having, but they won't settle for me like I did for you.  I do love you, I promise, but I need to go.

Love,
Aimee."

I had no idea what that last paragraph meant, I read it back and forth and really had no idea.  I was genuinely stumped.  I picked up my phone and called her to just ask her nothing more than what that cryptic end meant, and I heard her phone in the bedroom.  I opened the door and saw her on the bed in a pool of blood with the other kitchen knife in her hand and a deep slice across her neck.

Bathroom Break

I was having a conversation with him about the economic crisis we are having in our house; the fact is we can barely afford Spaghetti-O's for our two children every night for dinner.  He constantly ignores me though every time I bring it up, either claiming the problem exists only in my mind or that there must be something more interesting to converse about other than the dilapidated cabinets that hold a box of saltines and a colony of termites.  Tonight was different though, I felt, as he was going to have to give me answers.

"Mallory got sent home from school again today," I started the conversation.
"For what now?" he replied.
"Some kid made fun of her lunch, so she punched him."
"That's my girl."
"You really don't take any of this seriously do you?"
"She defended herself, isn't that..."
"That what we want her to do?  Punch people at any sight of adversity?  Any difficulty in her life?  Well then, why doesn't she start punching you for this hell hole of a home?"
"Hell hole of a home?  Excuse me?   Who do you think you're talking to?  If it weren't for me we wouldn't be in this home."
"So what?  Where would we be?  On the street?  Oh no, perhaps the ants there are slightly kinder than the termites here."
"Ha, ha, ha," his laughs are sarcastic and deliberate, "maybe they are.  Maybe they could lend us some of their money that they pick up off the ground."
"It'd be better than what we make."
"Than what you make..." he mumbles softly.

Right then my world froze.  He just placed the blame squarely in my hands, like slop in a pig trough, waiting for me to react to his words.  He knew what he just said and he knew that it angered me, but I kept my composure for just a moment.

"And Huxley..." I began to say until I was cut off.
"What about Huxley" he butted in.
"Huxley was crying today about how he can't have Spongebob fruit snacks like everyone else."
"Again, not my fault."
"I don't see how you can keep avoiding accepting this."
"Because none of this is my fault.  I work day in and day out.  And you work half the goddamn year!  You go to school, play with kindergartners and then come home and complain.  Nag.  Nag.  Nag."  The last three words very slowly stated, as if trying to entice a swing from me.
"Don't go there you know I don't like when ..."
"Why?  Because you know it's true?" he begins to interrupt but I keep speaking.
"... you go there.  No it's not true!  Are you kidding me?"
"I make most of the money in this household,"
"Because there is nothing I can do!  It is not my fault that education does not pay its teachers..."
"You need to stop because you know that you are wrong here."
"Wrong?!  Wrong that I have a low salary for a job that is incredibly important."
"You work half a year!  You are lucky to get what you are making."
"I am not getting into this argument.  We still are flat broke regardless."
"Not regardless.  Because of this!"
"Listen, we have no money.  That is the problem."
"And it is because..." he begins to egg me on.

I literally began to turn red with anger.  I could feel my face heating up and my head start to swell with profanity.  I began sweating just a little and tried to wipe it away as quickly as it formed as to not show him that he was getting to me.

"...exactly."

I was furious at this moment, but could not even begin to formulate words appropriate to defend myself nor debunk his ignorant thoughts.  Before I could finally begin to say anything, he interrupted my thoughts.

"When you decided to put our family in financial strain, we agreed to move forward the best we could.  This is the best we can.  So stop this constant, every Tuesday night argument that I have no reason to be a part of.  Just realize that Mallory and Huxley are fine.  They are gaining character.  Life isn't easy."

He patted me on the head and walked to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Obsession

She stares at him,
It is funny to watch,
She thinks it is all lovey dovey
but it seems more like
deer in headlights
to everyone else.

She is young though,
just turning eighteen,
and he a grown man of
thirty.  She follows him
like a sheep and every
morning, like a dog,
waits by the door.

Sometimes I will tell her,
Stop waiting for him,
Stop giving in, just move forward,
He doesn't even know
your name, but she repeats his
every word and thought,
some obsessed repeating parrot.

I find it sad, but I am just a voice.
One day she will realize
that she is just a peacock
fluttering for attention
in a forest of flowers and butterflies.

The Multiple Stories of Balloons, Pencils and Pillows.

I.  He lies awake in his bed, head cushioned softly atop his pillow, staring drearily at his ceiling.  Above him floats several balloons from his 30th birthday party from that day, a slowly rotating ceiling fan and a spider so timidly crawling from one side of the room to where he now lies.  He became so incredibly anxious now, with his life flashing forward quicker than he could ever imagine and having no worthy accomplishments to show for it.  "Thirty," he kept repeating in his head.  "Thirty short, short years.  And in another I am sixty."  The spider timidly walks towards the man, who is staring directly at it unfazed, and starts to spin a web to drop down towards his face.  "How did I become this old?" he reflects, still staring at the dropping spider.  "Look at him, so majestic and strong.  Building and constructing his dreams, his hopes and his strength.  And he is probably not even a few months old."  The spider continues to trickle down, forcing the man to finally gets out of bed as he notices how close the spider is getting to his face.  He grabs a pencil from his desk and places it right below the spider who gently lands on it.  With pencil in hand, he walks it to the front door and tosses it out into the bushes.  He walks back to his bed, puts his head on his pillow and looks at his 30th balloons dangling closer to the fan.  "Thirty..." he whispers as one of the balloons hits a fan blade and pops.

II. "Pencils down," the proctor says, with all of the students exhausted from the exam.  Terry, a straight A student, puts down his pencil and waits for the test to be collected.  "I'm sure you all did a great job and you worked really hard for this," the proctor says as she collects their papers.  When everything is collected, the students are instructed to leave and not discuss the test.  Terry walks out of the exam and hops on his bike to go home.  He contemplates some of the questions in his own head, still not satisfied with some of his answers.  Becoming increasingly depressed, he parks his bike in front of his house and walks into his house.  "SURPRISE!" a burst of excitement and balloons fill the room, as Terry looks nonplus.  "You did it sweetie!  You took the exam!" Terry's mother says.  "Yes, but I do not even know if I passed..." he retorts.  His mother, completely delirious with enthusiasm, pulls out a cake from the kitchen.  Still befuddled and slightly agitated, he yells, "Mother, I just want to go to sleep now!  Leave me alone!"  His mother, still excessively proud, runs into his room and grabs a pillow and hands it to Terry.  "Here is a pillow, rest your head on that couch over there but you are not leaving this party."  He reluctantly obliges as the rest of the guests cut into his celebratory cake.

III.  The light flickered on, and I, with nothing but the clothes I was wearing, sat in immense confusion about what had just happened.  I was walking my dog Sir Barks-A-Lot in the park when he ripped the leash out of my hand and then my memory goes incredibly fuzzy.  And then I woke up, sitting in a room full of pillows with no idea what to do.  The room was completely and entirely covered in pillows like some insane asylum, except there were no doors.  It was just me in a room of pillows.  I figured I was doomed to this until I had no energy, since I was not left food nor water.  I looked up for a second to realize there was a balloon floating close to the ceiling.  There seemed to be an object inside of it, but the balloon was too opaque that I had no clue as to what it could be.  Immediately, with my stomach growling, I thought it was food and quickly tried to get whatever I could to get the balloon.  The pillows however were firmly cemented to the wall and there was no way to rip them off or use them to my advantage.  So I sat back and looked at the balloon taunting me with its height, and began to figure out what could possibly be done to obtain it.  I feared, too, that this could all just be a diversion and really nothing beneficial would come out of the balloon, but I had no other option at that point.  So I jumped, climbed and screamed to try to get the balloon but to no avail.  I threw my clothes at it but nothing knocked it out of its high and mighty place.  Finally, out of what I believe to be sheer luck, my shoe hit the balloon in such a way that the pencil inside of it popped the balloon from inside out.  Then I realized, I just spent so much time trying to get a pencil out of a balloon.  I began cursing when a piece of paper also followed the balloon.  I looked at the piece of paper trying to see if there was any clues as to what I can do to get out of this room.  It was just a simple white piece of paper, just like the white pillows that filled the room, and I sat down and wrote this story.

IV. She smiled, looking into his tired smile filled with hope and optimism, seeing their wedding day coming up in a few days... and he slept, drooling uncontrollably.  She woke up early and concocted a breakfast for him, still sleeping.  It was a simple breakfast; bacon like pencils, rigid, slightly burnt and thin; two eggs with yolks like balloons filling up the plate; and a glass of milk as white as the pillow he was drooling on.  She smiled and went back to bed to hug her future husband.  When they both awoke, he rolled over, looked at her and said, "If I could write you a love letter I would, and throw you a party write after and finally end up in this bed, I would..." and she became confused, "but we have no bacon anymore and it is hard to pay this rent, and then we want to have children right after?  I think we spilled the milk here, and I am unsure if we can clean it all up and marry."  She was in a bewildered state, barely awake and upset at what was just said.  "You didn't need to write me anything or inflate my ego or comfort me when I go to sleep... you just needed to say I do..."  and she sat, sobbing uncontrollably.