A new night brings the same familiar revelations. In one hand stand the treasures that bloom dreams across closed eyes, and in the other the heavy burden of reality counters the balance. From the middle I watch the calm storm that washes away the very tears it rains. It seems that I've long since memorized the lyrics to this confusing ballad, and now I simply mouth the words so that I remember to not forget them. And while these voices of hope and despair attempt to drown out one another, the audience playing the desperate puppet, a single whisper soars above all. What will any of this mean? What can any of this mean?
We are all falling.
To reach for the sky is to avert the eyes from the ground below.
We are all falling.
Don't close your eyes.
We are all falling.
Look down.
8/13/11
5/21/11
A New Light
Eternity only begins, and I had never thought of it in that light. There are so many terms and understandings that we take at face value that on many occasions we forget what they originally meant. Sometimes all it takes is approaching the subject from another angle to realize that one has fallen into this trap and that the ideas we see are not as they appear under a new light. A few days ago I sat studying with a wandering mind when the idea "eternity only begins" materialized from my haphazard thoughts. The words were so simple and far from profound that I was taken aback when I truly attempted to understand what they meant-- that against the infinite backdrop of time and the far reaching grasp of eternity, we sit only at the very beginning of all that is. In juxtaposition to the boundless span of all that will occur, what has occurred and is occurring is only the first drop of many that will form an ocean. See, I had always viewed the idea of eternity in regard to its reach; I had only contemplated the end of the infinite, and by doing so failed to recognize we are and can only be at the beginning. I stand today at the very infancy of time because, oddly enough, that is the only place possible. To attempt to exist in the middle of eternity would essentially be to exist an infinity from now. But none of this is important.
What drove me to write these words was not the idea of eternity but the idea behind the idea. How many misconceptions and misunderstandings ignorantly flaw my understanding of the world? How many whites do I perceive as black? How many ups are down? How many wrongs are right? Most likely too many to know. Since my enlightenment on eternity, however, I have at least discovered one. Ironically it's not necessarily something I've never realized, but an idea I've simply never realized applied to myself. I have at least once before in these writings discussed the idea of contrast. Per my prior words, I described contrast as a driving force behind mankind. Contrast gives life to world, quite literally. Were there no contrast between life and death, that is to say no death at all, what would be the worth of life? Nothing. To again quote Ray Kurzweil:
“Death gives meaning to our lives. It gives importance and value to time. Time would become meaningless if there were too much of it.”
Contrast defines this world. This is a profound idea, but it is not the point I wish to make. What I want to address are the posts that followed that post. For months I wrote about hope, hopelessness, devastation, acceptance, and disparity. I characterized my own feelings as the descent into darkness against the impossible ascension. But having done so, now I find myself the hypocrite arguing the world is too dark but the sun too bright. I defined the world in the terms of contrast, championing the disparity of all and none, and then proceeded to define my own situation in a vacuum. If life is contrast and contrast is life, does it then not make sense to embrace, or at the very least accept, the other edge of the sword? How can I assault the tears of hopelessness that define the tears of joy? How can I condemn the dark that gives life to the light? It's an idea my mind accepts much easier than does my heart, but it's one the latter cannot ignore. The world can be a very dark place. Right now the world is a very dark. We cannot, however, appreciate the air we breath until we know what it is to suffocate. We can not appreciate the beating heart until it stops. We cannot understand what it means "to be" without first suffering those slings and arrows.
It's easy to forget the importance of contrast, just as it is easy to erroneously expect our lives to be both lopsided and worthwhile. Many people spend an eternity attempting to understand life in this light.
Sometimes all it takes is understanding eternity in a new light.
What drove me to write these words was not the idea of eternity but the idea behind the idea. How many misconceptions and misunderstandings ignorantly flaw my understanding of the world? How many whites do I perceive as black? How many ups are down? How many wrongs are right? Most likely too many to know. Since my enlightenment on eternity, however, I have at least discovered one. Ironically it's not necessarily something I've never realized, but an idea I've simply never realized applied to myself. I have at least once before in these writings discussed the idea of contrast. Per my prior words, I described contrast as a driving force behind mankind. Contrast gives life to world, quite literally. Were there no contrast between life and death, that is to say no death at all, what would be the worth of life? Nothing. To again quote Ray Kurzweil:
“Death gives meaning to our lives. It gives importance and value to time. Time would become meaningless if there were too much of it.”
Contrast defines this world. This is a profound idea, but it is not the point I wish to make. What I want to address are the posts that followed that post. For months I wrote about hope, hopelessness, devastation, acceptance, and disparity. I characterized my own feelings as the descent into darkness against the impossible ascension. But having done so, now I find myself the hypocrite arguing the world is too dark but the sun too bright. I defined the world in the terms of contrast, championing the disparity of all and none, and then proceeded to define my own situation in a vacuum. If life is contrast and contrast is life, does it then not make sense to embrace, or at the very least accept, the other edge of the sword? How can I assault the tears of hopelessness that define the tears of joy? How can I condemn the dark that gives life to the light? It's an idea my mind accepts much easier than does my heart, but it's one the latter cannot ignore. The world can be a very dark place. Right now the world is a very dark. We cannot, however, appreciate the air we breath until we know what it is to suffocate. We can not appreciate the beating heart until it stops. We cannot understand what it means "to be" without first suffering those slings and arrows.
It's easy to forget the importance of contrast, just as it is easy to erroneously expect our lives to be both lopsided and worthwhile. Many people spend an eternity attempting to understand life in this light.
Sometimes all it takes is understanding eternity in a new light.
5/15/11
2/19/11
Chasing Shadows
We spend our entire lives searching for the things we have already found in our dreams.
2/14/11
2/10/11
The Price of Change
At some point in time, someone looked at the world and it's shortcomings and decided that happiness should not cost a cent more than the thought of it. They coined the phrase that "the best things in life are free", and since that day we've come to haphazardly throw the term around as if it meant something. The truth, however, is that nothing good in life is free, much less the best things. We would like to think love was an item that was at large for the taking, that love is a happiness one can find when they're penniless and heart broken. But even love has a price tag, and sometimes that emotional toll can be absolute. Not even the air we breath comes without a price, and though it may seem harmless we pay its toll in free radicals hurting through our bodies. The same goes for the sun, whose rays of golden light afford us everything we know while inflicting tiny fees paid in the mating of cytosine nucleotides. Nothing in this life is free, though perhaps some are better equipped to bear such expenses.
Today I find myself haggling with the world. It knows all too well what I desire, and thus holds all the cards in this transaction. It also knows the valuables I hide to myself in places I keep most safe. This becomes a problem, as I feel as though I have finally found a road to lead me somewhere I want to go, but find myself at a toll booth that asks for the very vehicle I've used to arrive at it. Do I give everything I hold dear for the opportunity to march into uncharted waters? Or do I hold fast to the things I value and turn back to the world I run from? I already know the answer to this question, but somehow I find myself still clinging to the one last thing I must give away.
Nothing in this life is free. Our only hope is that at the end of the day we will find ourselves richer than the day before. Some pay a steep price to ascend, while others pay almost nothing. For me it is everything. I wonder if I am not already wealthy in a currency more valuable that what I will receive.
Today I find myself haggling with the world. It knows all too well what I desire, and thus holds all the cards in this transaction. It also knows the valuables I hide to myself in places I keep most safe. This becomes a problem, as I feel as though I have finally found a road to lead me somewhere I want to go, but find myself at a toll booth that asks for the very vehicle I've used to arrive at it. Do I give everything I hold dear for the opportunity to march into uncharted waters? Or do I hold fast to the things I value and turn back to the world I run from? I already know the answer to this question, but somehow I find myself still clinging to the one last thing I must give away.
Nothing in this life is free. Our only hope is that at the end of the day we will find ourselves richer than the day before. Some pay a steep price to ascend, while others pay almost nothing. For me it is everything. I wonder if I am not already wealthy in a currency more valuable that what I will receive.
2/7/11
Good Sportsmanship
Sometimes you simply have to tip your hat and acknowledge the world on a job well done. I could not have imagined feeling so poorly today... well played.
2/4/11
Despairity
He asks me if I've ever strongly disliked or hated my life.
I just laugh and turn the computer off... I can't even remember the last time I liked my life.
You could cut the irony with a knife.
I just laugh and turn the computer off... I can't even remember the last time I liked my life.
You could cut the irony with a knife.
1/30/11
1/14/11
The Outside Looking Up
Clarity oft brings the world into a focus we would rather keep distorted. A thousand outdated phrases may involve little more than a witty roll from the tongue, but understand that ignore truly is bliss and you might very well find yourself at the door to understanding this life. How ironic is it that despite the limitless curiosity of man, the downfall of many is little more than a deficiency of ignorance? From our earliest youth we are taught to understand, and yet like the magician who reveals his secrets the world's magic slowly wanes and crumbles. In the rubble we work out a meager existence but never truly recreate the wonder that was the illusion. Perhaps understanding is not the objective of this world; perhaps it is the disqualifying infraction.
I find myself running out of thoughts to hang on, watching each handhold break under the weight of my grasp. I will not fall for some time, and doubt that I will jump any time soon, but my attempts to ascend to such a high peak have all been wasted or broken. I stare at a tall and bare cliff that I must attempt to climb. It is too high, I concede, and I now knowingly embrace that it is forever out of my short reach. It had once seemed so close... now it is so very far. Perhaps the worst facet of this tortuous climb is that I can still see its apex above me. I can still smell the faint aroma of all I seek. I can almost taste. But I never will. On days like this I wish I had never raised my eyes to the sky; I wish I had never sought clarity from the depth of distortion. And though I cannot bear to stand here, on the outside looking up, my heart aches to know that the world will always be looking very, very, down.
I find myself running out of thoughts to hang on, watching each handhold break under the weight of my grasp. I will not fall for some time, and doubt that I will jump any time soon, but my attempts to ascend to such a high peak have all been wasted or broken. I stare at a tall and bare cliff that I must attempt to climb. It is too high, I concede, and I now knowingly embrace that it is forever out of my short reach. It had once seemed so close... now it is so very far. Perhaps the worst facet of this tortuous climb is that I can still see its apex above me. I can still smell the faint aroma of all I seek. I can almost taste. But I never will. On days like this I wish I had never raised my eyes to the sky; I wish I had never sought clarity from the depth of distortion. And though I cannot bear to stand here, on the outside looking up, my heart aches to know that the world will always be looking very, very, down.
12/22/10
Under a Dying Sun
A dying sun waxes and wanes against the horizon but the sunrise never changes. I've been riding waves for so long now that I can't remember what it feels like to sink my feet into solid ground. In a world hell bent on ascending to some imagined apex of satisfaction I find myself always jumping a little lower than those around me, and likewise falling a little harder back to reality. They say time cures all... it doesn't. With every cycle my feet grow a little heavier and the sky seems a little further out of reach. Twelve years ago I could almost touch it, but today it's as though I barely sense its warmth at all.
I can't fathom how much time I've spent testing variables and theories, constantly pulling the sliders in the equalizer of life. It always seemed to me that there should be some golden equilibrium, some perfect balance, that would cover my eyes and supplant my mind back into the clockwork. But I have twisted and turned for years and the sound has stayed the same. Against the highest ascent I still have not learned to lift my foot from the ground. Another sunrise, another sunset. All I can do is envy those who pass by.
But perhaps I lie when I say I've tested every variable, though it certainly feels as if I have. The truth, however, is that there is one key I have yet to place into the lock. It's a solution that I have always kept in the back of my mind but never had the resolve to pursue. Perhaps this was because it was all I had left. When a hundred other keys failed to seduce the tumblers, this was the one ace up my sleeve. It was the last ounce of hope I had left, and I didn't dare risk seeing it die... not even if it meant never knowing its worth. Not even if it meant riding a sinking ship to the bottom of the ocean. But desperation is master of the human mind. Desperation leads us to make decisions we cannot make on our own. To be human is to be desperate. By all means, I am still desperate.
And so I have lit my final match, hoping that it might be the one that reignites a long dead flame. Against a sea of failure I am held afloat by this final prayer. Should it fail... there will be nothing left but to embrace the reality that I am broken and cannot be repaired... to embrace the end before it has arrived.
On a distant horizon the sun has awakened from its slumber, and as does the blade of the guillotine it stands ready to descend and sever the last vestiges of hope. The light it casts is so maddeningly painful that I cannot bear to look into the sky. For all I know hope may have already begun the descent into its final demise, promising one last beautiful sunset before the world turns to black.
I wait patiently beneath a dying sun... waiting for closure... waiting for miracles... expecting darkness.
But today I am alive still, and hope does not yet rest in its grave. I can only hope that means something.
I can't fathom how much time I've spent testing variables and theories, constantly pulling the sliders in the equalizer of life. It always seemed to me that there should be some golden equilibrium, some perfect balance, that would cover my eyes and supplant my mind back into the clockwork. But I have twisted and turned for years and the sound has stayed the same. Against the highest ascent I still have not learned to lift my foot from the ground. Another sunrise, another sunset. All I can do is envy those who pass by.
But perhaps I lie when I say I've tested every variable, though it certainly feels as if I have. The truth, however, is that there is one key I have yet to place into the lock. It's a solution that I have always kept in the back of my mind but never had the resolve to pursue. Perhaps this was because it was all I had left. When a hundred other keys failed to seduce the tumblers, this was the one ace up my sleeve. It was the last ounce of hope I had left, and I didn't dare risk seeing it die... not even if it meant never knowing its worth. Not even if it meant riding a sinking ship to the bottom of the ocean. But desperation is master of the human mind. Desperation leads us to make decisions we cannot make on our own. To be human is to be desperate. By all means, I am still desperate.
And so I have lit my final match, hoping that it might be the one that reignites a long dead flame. Against a sea of failure I am held afloat by this final prayer. Should it fail... there will be nothing left but to embrace the reality that I am broken and cannot be repaired... to embrace the end before it has arrived.
On a distant horizon the sun has awakened from its slumber, and as does the blade of the guillotine it stands ready to descend and sever the last vestiges of hope. The light it casts is so maddeningly painful that I cannot bear to look into the sky. For all I know hope may have already begun the descent into its final demise, promising one last beautiful sunset before the world turns to black.
I wait patiently beneath a dying sun... waiting for closure... waiting for miracles... expecting darkness.
But today I am alive still, and hope does not yet rest in its grave. I can only hope that means something.
10/29/10
10/27/10
The Burden
I promised myself I would write this. For a long time this date has been marked on my calendar as some sort of beacon across a sea of passing numbers, but now that it's here I find only a loss for words. October 27th was the day I would finally be honest with myself and admit my failures. It was the day I would evaluate my life and plot a course through the twelve paged maps that have not been printed yet. It was also the day I would pardon the last fifteen years and open a new chapter. To say I expected a lot may be an understatement, but to say I expected little may be equally as true. I've made these ultimatums before and they have yet to persist into anything of value. But October 27th was supposed to be different. October 27th was special.
Several months ago I wrote of the butterfly, and the age old saying that its wings can spread a destruction seeded from the smallest if forces. I described items that I have held on to with the utmost secrecy and intimacy, but I only did so in the most vague of terms. In truth I never intended to draw that veil as far as I did that day, and after doing so I never expected to fill in the cracks. But today is October 27th. Today is different.
Many years ago I met a girl online. From the instant I first spoke with her I did not deem her to be someone to whom I had any affinity towards, and certainly we had little in common. She was the type that casts the world an ambivalent eye and proceeds to ignore its rules, quite the opposite of who I was and am. Despite this disregard for authority, she was quiet, shy, never seemed to have a voice of her own. When she did voice herself, she always did so from behind a mask of hardened feelings. Somehow I think I always knew she was hiding something, but whether I could not decipher her secrets or whether I did not care... I cannot remember. Its funny how life erases the details but never takes the image entirely. Sometimes I wish it could.
Her name was Melinda. Months passed and still we knew very little of each other, even though we were associated, vaguely yet closely, by mutual acquaintances. I began to sense that she liked something about me, but in the end I never pursued it. She was still oil and I still water; she was rash and I much too conservative. To be honest I never really thought long on her and she was always just a face in our crowd. Then she exploded. Not literally, but figuratively she poured from every crack in her mask that she could muster. On a night no different from any other, Melinda told me things that I assume she had never said aloud. Behind that bitter facade I saw innocence... I saw beauty... I saw desperation... and I looked right past it.
I want to say I didn't understand the gravity of what happened that night, but I cannot make that lie to myself. Today is October 27th... today the truth knows no bounds. I knew what she was doing, and I knew why she was doing it, but for some reason I didn't care. I have always considered one of my largest flaws to be the tendency to resort to feigned indifference when confronted with the emotions of others. I wall up behind sarcasm and write off things that I know cannot be ignored. On that night I played the same hand that I always do, responding to pure emotions with ambivalence and cheap humor. If I could describe the response I gave her in a single word, that word may very well be cruel. And all the while, a state away there was a girl with a keyboard begging me for some semblance of emotional support, some metaphorical shoulder to embrace, while I did nothing but make light of her darkest and deepest secrets. She went out on an enormous limb that night. I should have helped her down. I threw stones instead.
The next day Melinda did not get on her computer. The following day she was also absent. This was not an impossibly strange event, but nonetheless it was somewhat odd. On the third day a friend of Melinda told me what had happened. On that night, or perhaps it was the following day, Melinda has swallowed a bottle of pills. Unknown to myself, Melinda had liked me for some time. She had expressed herself that night because she thought I was someone who could look past the mask and tell her she was beautiful. Maybe she thought I could save her. I can only imagine how the words I spoke that night must have felt like daggers thrust upon an open heart, each one tearing open wounds she had hoped to close. I bear the burden of hundreds of mistakes I've made in my life, but none are as heavy as the girl I failed that night.
But however badly I may have hurt her, and she doubly to herself, a bottle of pills could not steal her away that night. She overcame them and was left to pick up the pieces. A week or so later I spoke to her, but at that point everything had changed. The feeble bridge she had extended to me that night had been wrecked in a violent storm, and in the aftermath we were left to speak only from across a great crevasse. She was behind her mask again, and I was behind mine as well... still making light of dark things. To a lesser extent, but to an extent nonetheless. Shortly afterward I lost touch with her completely, hiding that night away in the depths of my memory and feeding its intricacies to the hungry beast we call time. Years passed without a thought of Melinda.
Then on a boring day several years later, I began to think of old friends and acquaintances and wonder what hands life had dealt unto them. Like an old yearbook recovered from a dusty shelf, I began entering names into search engines and flipping through pages of false results, searching desperately for that golden link of truth. It was not terribly long before Melinda came to mind. I casually cast her name over satellites in the hope that they might return some iota of relevance. Nothing. Strange, I thought, that someone like her would fail to yield a vein of information. Several hours passed and nothing crossed my path. In frustrated defeat, I gave up, despite the nagging feeling I was missing something.
Another year passed, and I found myself again at this same old habit. Melinda's name naturally came very quickly to mind, as I had not unearthed anything in my prior attempt. An hour or so brought on similar results, and I almost had conceited my search again when I finally found something. A new string of words through a search engine had led me to a MySpace profile, which I quickly noted was not Melinda's. Instead, I found only one reference hidden at the end of the profile. It read "R.I.P.", with a name and a date underneath. The name was Melinda's. The date was October 27th, 2004. My heart sank.
An exhausting and thorough search led me to later uncover the entire story, in its cruel and tragic entirety. From various pieces scattered across the internet, I pieced together the sad tale of a girl who had taken her own life. I read about a girl who was lost. I read about a girl who was depressed. I read about a girl who had friends but still felt she was alone. I found descriptions of the mask I had known, and not the girl I had seen underneath... I wonder if anyone had seen her so clearly. Something tells me they had, but I do not know why they did not succeed where I failed.
Finally, I read about a tragic night in 2004 that I can only hope brought her peace. Every detail cemented itself in my mind and every perspective cast a new light. And though I know what happened, I can only imagine what she went through on that last night... in those final minutes. I have stood on that cliff. I too have looked down and envisioned those last steps. Melinda took them. And though a handful of pills had failed to steal her away so many years ago, on that night a gun had little trouble.
I'm sorry.
Always remember, never forgot,
M. D. R.
October 27 2004.
Several months ago I wrote of the butterfly, and the age old saying that its wings can spread a destruction seeded from the smallest if forces. I described items that I have held on to with the utmost secrecy and intimacy, but I only did so in the most vague of terms. In truth I never intended to draw that veil as far as I did that day, and after doing so I never expected to fill in the cracks. But today is October 27th. Today is different.
Many years ago I met a girl online. From the instant I first spoke with her I did not deem her to be someone to whom I had any affinity towards, and certainly we had little in common. She was the type that casts the world an ambivalent eye and proceeds to ignore its rules, quite the opposite of who I was and am. Despite this disregard for authority, she was quiet, shy, never seemed to have a voice of her own. When she did voice herself, she always did so from behind a mask of hardened feelings. Somehow I think I always knew she was hiding something, but whether I could not decipher her secrets or whether I did not care... I cannot remember. Its funny how life erases the details but never takes the image entirely. Sometimes I wish it could.
Her name was Melinda. Months passed and still we knew very little of each other, even though we were associated, vaguely yet closely, by mutual acquaintances. I began to sense that she liked something about me, but in the end I never pursued it. She was still oil and I still water; she was rash and I much too conservative. To be honest I never really thought long on her and she was always just a face in our crowd. Then she exploded. Not literally, but figuratively she poured from every crack in her mask that she could muster. On a night no different from any other, Melinda told me things that I assume she had never said aloud. Behind that bitter facade I saw innocence... I saw beauty... I saw desperation... and I looked right past it.
I want to say I didn't understand the gravity of what happened that night, but I cannot make that lie to myself. Today is October 27th... today the truth knows no bounds. I knew what she was doing, and I knew why she was doing it, but for some reason I didn't care. I have always considered one of my largest flaws to be the tendency to resort to feigned indifference when confronted with the emotions of others. I wall up behind sarcasm and write off things that I know cannot be ignored. On that night I played the same hand that I always do, responding to pure emotions with ambivalence and cheap humor. If I could describe the response I gave her in a single word, that word may very well be cruel. And all the while, a state away there was a girl with a keyboard begging me for some semblance of emotional support, some metaphorical shoulder to embrace, while I did nothing but make light of her darkest and deepest secrets. She went out on an enormous limb that night. I should have helped her down. I threw stones instead.
The next day Melinda did not get on her computer. The following day she was also absent. This was not an impossibly strange event, but nonetheless it was somewhat odd. On the third day a friend of Melinda told me what had happened. On that night, or perhaps it was the following day, Melinda has swallowed a bottle of pills. Unknown to myself, Melinda had liked me for some time. She had expressed herself that night because she thought I was someone who could look past the mask and tell her she was beautiful. Maybe she thought I could save her. I can only imagine how the words I spoke that night must have felt like daggers thrust upon an open heart, each one tearing open wounds she had hoped to close. I bear the burden of hundreds of mistakes I've made in my life, but none are as heavy as the girl I failed that night.
But however badly I may have hurt her, and she doubly to herself, a bottle of pills could not steal her away that night. She overcame them and was left to pick up the pieces. A week or so later I spoke to her, but at that point everything had changed. The feeble bridge she had extended to me that night had been wrecked in a violent storm, and in the aftermath we were left to speak only from across a great crevasse. She was behind her mask again, and I was behind mine as well... still making light of dark things. To a lesser extent, but to an extent nonetheless. Shortly afterward I lost touch with her completely, hiding that night away in the depths of my memory and feeding its intricacies to the hungry beast we call time. Years passed without a thought of Melinda.
Then on a boring day several years later, I began to think of old friends and acquaintances and wonder what hands life had dealt unto them. Like an old yearbook recovered from a dusty shelf, I began entering names into search engines and flipping through pages of false results, searching desperately for that golden link of truth. It was not terribly long before Melinda came to mind. I casually cast her name over satellites in the hope that they might return some iota of relevance. Nothing. Strange, I thought, that someone like her would fail to yield a vein of information. Several hours passed and nothing crossed my path. In frustrated defeat, I gave up, despite the nagging feeling I was missing something.
Another year passed, and I found myself again at this same old habit. Melinda's name naturally came very quickly to mind, as I had not unearthed anything in my prior attempt. An hour or so brought on similar results, and I almost had conceited my search again when I finally found something. A new string of words through a search engine had led me to a MySpace profile, which I quickly noted was not Melinda's. Instead, I found only one reference hidden at the end of the profile. It read "R.I.P.", with a name and a date underneath. The name was Melinda's. The date was October 27th, 2004. My heart sank.
An exhausting and thorough search led me to later uncover the entire story, in its cruel and tragic entirety. From various pieces scattered across the internet, I pieced together the sad tale of a girl who had taken her own life. I read about a girl who was lost. I read about a girl who was depressed. I read about a girl who had friends but still felt she was alone. I found descriptions of the mask I had known, and not the girl I had seen underneath... I wonder if anyone had seen her so clearly. Something tells me they had, but I do not know why they did not succeed where I failed.
Finally, I read about a tragic night in 2004 that I can only hope brought her peace. Every detail cemented itself in my mind and every perspective cast a new light. And though I know what happened, I can only imagine what she went through on that last night... in those final minutes. I have stood on that cliff. I too have looked down and envisioned those last steps. Melinda took them. And though a handful of pills had failed to steal her away so many years ago, on that night a gun had little trouble.
I'm sorry.
Always remember, never forgot,
M. D. R.
October 27 2004.
10/22/10
Sitting in the Dark
Watching from the furthest peak,
the world looks so small.
I feel I've felt this place before,
I think I've walked these halls.
Sulking in this sunken chair,
a puzzle piece resolves,
a thousand weights my shoulders bear,
but I know I've walked these halls.
The sinking sun sets in,
a familiar truth rises free,
I know I've walked these halls before,
but the truth is I never leave.
the world looks so small.
I feel I've felt this place before,
I think I've walked these halls.
Sulking in this sunken chair,
a puzzle piece resolves,
a thousand weights my shoulders bear,
but I know I've walked these halls.
The sinking sun sets in,
a familiar truth rises free,
I know I've walked these halls before,
but the truth is I never leave.
10/16/10
10/4/10
The Lightness
The world collapses upon itself and my mind wonders how it ever held up. I had sensed a change, a new scent to the otherwise stagnant air, but found only the shallow secrets of who I am. I wish I could say reality swept in quickly and painlessly, but I've walked this road before and know all too well how difficult it is. When the walls came down I had ignorantly and eagerly watched from the sidelines, celebrating the cracks in their otherwise solid foundation. But I found only what I placed inside... a sullen reminder of what this life has become. Perhaps that is all it ever was.
I made a mistake. Days after illustrating the painful toxicity of hope, I went against my own intuition and swallowed it vigorously. Hope is addictive. Hope turns a meaningless conversation into the seed of a flowering miracle. It mutilates a casual smile into something solid and concrete, building faith upon false pillars of trust. And after the collapse, when the floating debris of your dreams have settled, you reflect on your mistakes as if it were some other foolish person who had been deceived. I sat three feet from everything I've ever wanted... I could have reached out and touched it in desperation. In reality, what seemed so close may have very well been a thousand miles away, out amongst the stars in the night sky. They had aligned so perfectly. Hope convinced me maybe I had as well.
The world is a lonely place when hope fails. The most casual of acquaintances serve only to remind one of the disparity between two persons. Where you might have before returned a smile, it becomes an impossibly difficult act to feign. The skies blacken and swoon in even in the brightest hours of the day, casting a shadow everywhere your eyes pursue to avoid it. It is the coldest shadow I've known, but it is one that the sun will eventually purge. When the world collapses it requires a short while to recover. At least. And though you may eventually build the walls back up, hiding your secrets behind painted lies, there are always cracks and holes to remind us what lay inside. There are always the silent whispers of logic seeping from our wounds, reminding us the risk we take with hope.
It is a cycle. How many times have I built these walls? How many times have I covered my scars with fantasies? I've walked this path so many times that I know it by the heart it has broken so freely. The cycle repeats and all I see are the same mistakes I make over and over... the same boulder I've been pushing all my life. I question existence, hope, love, hate, and everything in between. And In the very moment that I decide escape is the only true solution, the winds of change slap me forcibly upon the cheek. I have walked this road a hundred times and suddenly I find myself in front of a fork I've never known before. The world explodes.
The lightness fills my veins and suddenly I breath air through new lungs. Shadows resist and falter against a bubbling smile beats me so brutally that I am left in genuine bewilderment. Tears stream from my cheeks and I realize something so chokingly profound that I cannot breath... I am alive. For the first time in what seems like an eternity I'm watching the world through my own beating heart. It is magical and wonderful and everything my dreams have promised it to be. But it is fleeting. In an instant it leaves me broken on the floor, twisting my mind in a thousand directions at once. I don't understand any of it. I don't care.
I call it the lightness. It is a transient sensation that takes hold of me when I am least expecting it. I do not know, unfortunately, what incites its effects or what prevents its permanency. I do know that I have felt its grasp at least three different times during the last two weeks, each time presenting with different but similar symptoms. To put its effects into words is difficult. I can only describe it as a concentrated euphoria, a natural high that drags me from this weary shadow and opens my eyes. For a moment I feel truly wonderful, and then it is gone. I regress to the shadows and the walls are resurrected from the rubble.
But something has changed hasn't it? There are new stars in the sky and perhaps it is they who can finally lead me from this place. Are they are the key to ascension? Though I cannot cannot know for sure, I find myself looking to the future in desperate anticipation. The winds smell of change... the stars show new constellations... and all of a sudden the addiction begins anew.
I made a mistake. Days after illustrating the painful toxicity of hope, I went against my own intuition and swallowed it vigorously. Hope is addictive. Hope turns a meaningless conversation into the seed of a flowering miracle. It mutilates a casual smile into something solid and concrete, building faith upon false pillars of trust. And after the collapse, when the floating debris of your dreams have settled, you reflect on your mistakes as if it were some other foolish person who had been deceived. I sat three feet from everything I've ever wanted... I could have reached out and touched it in desperation. In reality, what seemed so close may have very well been a thousand miles away, out amongst the stars in the night sky. They had aligned so perfectly. Hope convinced me maybe I had as well.
The world is a lonely place when hope fails. The most casual of acquaintances serve only to remind one of the disparity between two persons. Where you might have before returned a smile, it becomes an impossibly difficult act to feign. The skies blacken and swoon in even in the brightest hours of the day, casting a shadow everywhere your eyes pursue to avoid it. It is the coldest shadow I've known, but it is one that the sun will eventually purge. When the world collapses it requires a short while to recover. At least. And though you may eventually build the walls back up, hiding your secrets behind painted lies, there are always cracks and holes to remind us what lay inside. There are always the silent whispers of logic seeping from our wounds, reminding us the risk we take with hope.
It is a cycle. How many times have I built these walls? How many times have I covered my scars with fantasies? I've walked this path so many times that I know it by the heart it has broken so freely. The cycle repeats and all I see are the same mistakes I make over and over... the same boulder I've been pushing all my life. I question existence, hope, love, hate, and everything in between. And In the very moment that I decide escape is the only true solution, the winds of change slap me forcibly upon the cheek. I have walked this road a hundred times and suddenly I find myself in front of a fork I've never known before. The world explodes.
The lightness fills my veins and suddenly I breath air through new lungs. Shadows resist and falter against a bubbling smile beats me so brutally that I am left in genuine bewilderment. Tears stream from my cheeks and I realize something so chokingly profound that I cannot breath... I am alive. For the first time in what seems like an eternity I'm watching the world through my own beating heart. It is magical and wonderful and everything my dreams have promised it to be. But it is fleeting. In an instant it leaves me broken on the floor, twisting my mind in a thousand directions at once. I don't understand any of it. I don't care.
I call it the lightness. It is a transient sensation that takes hold of me when I am least expecting it. I do not know, unfortunately, what incites its effects or what prevents its permanency. I do know that I have felt its grasp at least three different times during the last two weeks, each time presenting with different but similar symptoms. To put its effects into words is difficult. I can only describe it as a concentrated euphoria, a natural high that drags me from this weary shadow and opens my eyes. For a moment I feel truly wonderful, and then it is gone. I regress to the shadows and the walls are resurrected from the rubble.
But something has changed hasn't it? There are new stars in the sky and perhaps it is they who can finally lead me from this place. Are they are the key to ascension? Though I cannot cannot know for sure, I find myself looking to the future in desperate anticipation. The winds smell of change... the stars show new constellations... and all of a sudden the addiction begins anew.
9/25/10
The Inside Straight
I see a miserable man and shake my head at the irony of the universe. He is penniless, has no education, and is constantly plagued by poor health. At the same time, he has in his possession the one thing I crave more than life itself.
He looks at me and feels similarly disgusted. I am well educated, financially secure, and enjoy amazing health. Though I am miserably alone and indifferent to world, I don't believe he notices. I don't know that he would even care.
And despite the fact we each hold valuable commodities, we understand that the road to misery lay ahead. What a cruel joke fate plays with us. Or perhaps the joke is that we allow it to.
He looks at me and feels similarly disgusted. I am well educated, financially secure, and enjoy amazing health. Though I am miserably alone and indifferent to world, I don't believe he notices. I don't know that he would even care.
And despite the fact we each hold valuable commodities, we understand that the road to misery lay ahead. What a cruel joke fate plays with us. Or perhaps the joke is that we allow it to.
9/24/10
Toxicology
"Alle Dinge sind Gift und nichts ist ohne Gift; allein die Dosis macht, dass ein Ding kein Gift ist."
"All things are poison and nothing is without poison; only the dose makes a thing not a poison."
-Paracelsus, father of toxicology
Hope is no different. In moderation hope it is a powerful panacea against the constant volleys of life's troubles. Hope can fight back tears. It can invigorate the heart with unjust fervor. In some situations, hope is capable of even pulling us back from the fingertips of death itself. A life without hope would almost certainly lead to an abrupt demise, perhaps at the hands of none-other than one's self.
Hope is also a poison. As Paracelsus realized long ago, too much of something is always toxic. The human body is little more than an elegant balance of biochemical reactions, each only a quantifiable distance from disastrous extremes. And even though hope itself is not widely recognized as a biological function (I would argue that it is), in reality it operates no differently. To gorge oneself on hope would be to live to upon the edge of a razor; sway too far in any direction and all is lost.
Acutely, hope leads to rash decisions. One might purchase a life's savings worth of lottery tickets on the merits of hope. Equally disastrous would be to forgo the most sensible of fleeting opportunities in search of a miracle. More often than not, however, hope is instead prone to display chronic symptoms. It incubates and breeds into the slow decay of one's self. One could perhaps describe hope on the mathematical terms of a function regressing to zero, slowly sapping life with every second that passes. As every day of life hangs and falls to back to the Earth, one draws closer to an empty and desolate future. As horrifying as the impatient dehydration of cholera or the insidious grip HIV, hope is a slow-rot of one's existence before his or her own eyes. For some the disease may pass, leaving the broken fragments of what once was a human being. For others, it will consume us whole.
I have consumed hope... we all have. But I consume it as rapidly and desperately as the air I breath. Now I find myself standing on the razor's edge, circling closer and to addiction with every day. The acute stages have come and gone, and every sunrise reminds of their scars. Opportunities lost, time gambled, emotions ablated. But there is still time left. Wounds may still heal. I can still hope.
"All things are poison and nothing is without poison; only the dose makes a thing not a poison."
-Paracelsus, father of toxicology
Hope is no different. In moderation hope it is a powerful panacea against the constant volleys of life's troubles. Hope can fight back tears. It can invigorate the heart with unjust fervor. In some situations, hope is capable of even pulling us back from the fingertips of death itself. A life without hope would almost certainly lead to an abrupt demise, perhaps at the hands of none-other than one's self.
Hope is also a poison. As Paracelsus realized long ago, too much of something is always toxic. The human body is little more than an elegant balance of biochemical reactions, each only a quantifiable distance from disastrous extremes. And even though hope itself is not widely recognized as a biological function (I would argue that it is), in reality it operates no differently. To gorge oneself on hope would be to live to upon the edge of a razor; sway too far in any direction and all is lost.
Acutely, hope leads to rash decisions. One might purchase a life's savings worth of lottery tickets on the merits of hope. Equally disastrous would be to forgo the most sensible of fleeting opportunities in search of a miracle. More often than not, however, hope is instead prone to display chronic symptoms. It incubates and breeds into the slow decay of one's self. One could perhaps describe hope on the mathematical terms of a function regressing to zero, slowly sapping life with every second that passes. As every day of life hangs and falls to back to the Earth, one draws closer to an empty and desolate future. As horrifying as the impatient dehydration of cholera or the insidious grip HIV, hope is a slow-rot of one's existence before his or her own eyes. For some the disease may pass, leaving the broken fragments of what once was a human being. For others, it will consume us whole.
I have consumed hope... we all have. But I consume it as rapidly and desperately as the air I breath. Now I find myself standing on the razor's edge, circling closer and to addiction with every day. The acute stages have come and gone, and every sunrise reminds of their scars. Opportunities lost, time gambled, emotions ablated. But there is still time left. Wounds may still heal. I can still hope.
Broken Constellation
I feel as if I spend my entire life waiting for stars to align, and then every time they do I am the one who is out of position.
9/22/10
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