Please Eternal Sunshine the last 5 years of my life


Over myself, over my futility, and over my heartbreak.

I am just over the nothingness of what I am to him, to me, to all of this, this very world I live in.

I can’t take it.

I hate every tick of these sentences, every beat, every moment.

I hate every word that I write and nothing is getting better and I am in this very blank space, vast and empty, a sheet of white paper against a white wall.

I am too old to feel this.

I am too sensible to be here, in this state with my heart.

I am too aware to be this ridiculous.

Why??? Why did I let this happen? What should be remembered with a crooked smile on my face and glimmer in my eye, is instead so painful…my bones ache.

Going into radio silence.


The Lucid Life


Photo by Eike Klingspohn on Unsplash


I just want to sleep.

After laying there for an hour or two, contemplating all the things that I have done wrong, all the things that could go wrong and all the wrongs done to me, I have to force myself to think of something benign (coffee cups, turtles, The Carpenters) to bore my brain into sleep.

Then, when my eyes are closed and I am slipping away, only then, do I feel like I may actually be truly happy.  Even in soggy, dark dreams, thick with malice, I know there is a way out, around or through.

That life, when my eyes close and my head sinks deep into my pillow is so unlike the waking life of heartache and unfortunate events that bury me deep under mucky clumps of heavy earth, crushing my heart, flattening my lungs as it does so easily.  Dreaming of demons or devils, monsters or madmen, people I miss and people I will never know, all of it makes me cling to every last second of that sleepy-time fantasy world.

I know I can dip in and out of this precious space, never really losing anything, never really winning anything, but experiencing everything.  Is that the definition of a coward? Or is this malaise a symptom of one fucked up event after another filling up my calendar? This endless staircase of hurt is exhausting.

First world problems…I know.

Waiting to Drown

The tea is cold. And there is noting worse than cold tea that was supposed to be hot, and sooth your voice and warm your chest.  I am leaching out into the water and soon there will be nothing left but a useless bag…bitter and ugly, ready to be tossed into the bin. I can’t float, and every day I am more and more useless.

( )

Turning corners

I’m not searching for you anymore.

I don’t wake up and look for your words, your ping, your voice. 

You did it.

You pushed me far enough out of the envelope of you, that I don’t keep any hope, not a drop drying on the glass.

I don’t look for you.

I’m sad to admit my freezing, but this is your doing and I tried everything to stop it.

Are you happy now? Are you?

Moss beach was the last happy time with you.

Was it even real?

See… have made me question even my memory of happiness.