The worst things in life come free to us

The fun had worn off, the laughs faded, the anger rising- she left before they would wake and it would be noticed. Dark hazy eyes, misled by what was thought to be a light. Morning, but hours before the sun would climb. Slammed gates, barefoot, purple sports bra and black shorts just above mid thigh storming towards the sea. Those two songs on replay in her mind, the past not lingering too far behind, grace drowning without an offer. Quiet mumbles and shuffling feet, innocent shells fiercely sent into the unknown, assailing waves crashing as she. Gravity as well as everything else keeping her down. She was having one of those uncontrollable fights with herself.. the raging, tear wrought thoughts clawing to break free and doing as they pleased. Composing herself for just a moment as the giddy group stumbled by. Sand clenched in both fists, teeth gritting, hair loosening, eyes bared. The eyes. Unsightly and startling but the true window to her soul. The pier about a mile off to the left, she started. A pen and paper could do no justice this time. Throwing the blame as far away as she could but knowing where it truly lie. Shells and rocks bruising her feet unnoted for the night, the slap of wet sand beneath her, the wind whistling without a care. At less than arms length from the salt worn stalks of wood carrying the weight of the pier, she stopped. Anger fading now, giving in. She surrendered to the pier, collapsing with her back against the third one from the shore, accepting that time would always be her opponent and it would always win. It could changed as it pleased from slow to fast, it could make one happy and make one sad, it could build bridges and burn them too, and it did everything with a sense of cruel pleasure.

Everything starts with a white blank page

Remembering the sound of her laugh when he would tell jokes, the flat line gave up and cracked a bit. Her heart still cringed from time to time, every so often her pillows were soaked by the night, and every night her mind was restless and being invaded by the memories. It has been awhile, hasn't it? She remembered the first time she saw him.. and the last, nostalgia was controlling her today- he would of been 21 yesterday. Though the scene wasn't of a fairy tale, the love was. She remembered the sky like eyes staring through her like none before, the unwavering look, the resolute presence. Comforting and still. He was wearing a grey jacket that was only zipped halfway showing his chest, fitting khaki cargos that lie just at his knees, a grey pair of Converse. She noticed his skin stained. One read, Trust your heart if the seas catch fire, another read, Keep the faith, and the last visible one read, And in time this too shall pass. She knew he had stories, she knew he had strength, she knew he was deep and those were things anyone could of told you if they looked long enough. He raised after finished, tucked the chords into his jacket, retrieved a piece of blank copy paper and a black marker that was drying out, wrote his number and short name along with a winky face, crumbled the paper up and threw it at her.. he had always been a writer. He threw his head back and released a boyish smirk when she caught it, as if he was waiting for someone who could hold on to what he had to say. Later she would learn that he wasn't going to be here for long whether it was one thing or another. I wish he was here. He would know what to do. Actually, if he was here the situation wouldn't even exist. I wouldn't want anyone else. Why? I don't know if I can take another one. She knew this feeling before, she cherished this feeling before, she lived to feel this feeling before. Every morning wake to a 'good morning', every night drift from a 'good night'. The last time it had ended faster than she could say goodbye and was more heart wrenching than anything she had felt before. Fearful, restless still. I wish that I hadn't caught that piece of paper, I wish I would have been late to that appointment, I wish I didn't look straight into people's eyes the first time I saw them. It sure would have saved some trouble. That wasn't true in the slightest. She loved every waking moment next to him and every moment she dreamt of him. Every time he grasped her left hand, every time he looked straight into her eyes, every time he traced her figure, every innocent kiss, every time they melted plastic silverware, every breath, everything. Gone, not forgotten. It was bittersweet and raging, she knew from the start that he wouldn't be here for long and that wasn't even what took him away. She had learned from him and what she learned followed her around more than the nostalgia lingering in her every footstep. She had trusted her heart and her seas did catch fire, she was trying to keep the faith and that saying never quite seemed to go away, and she knew that time along with everything else would pass. He would always be with her just because he never left by choice, someone else took him away but it was time. Time to take a step back, time to restart, time to let go. She didn't think it was possible but if there had been one thing she had learned over the last year it was that anything was possible. For better or worse. The off week had done anything but given her mind a break. It relentlessly reminded her of love and loss, of the light and dark, and most of all.. the things she longed for but couldn't have. She had never been the wanting type, never the greedy one, but when that little annoying burn in her heart said she needed something, all else was put to the side and all focus was placed on what that one thing was. She spent the last 13 months thinking all love does was break and burn and end but soon she would watch it begin again. One once told her that beauty is coming, and it is.

I was told to 'regret less'

I've watched the sun rise and the sun set, I've seen the clouds hover above me and have felt the breeze sweep me off my feet, I've watched the moon hold steady and disappear with the stars, I've endured. I've endured but I've watched the law become true over and over again.. what goes up must come down.

She sat there locked away in a closet in the far of the condo with her best friend. They lie up against the wall both lost in thought.. or just lost. He was thinking of the girl in Tennessee and she had a block in her head that wouldn't let her think of anything else. Small talk here and there about the day, exasperated sighs about the relevant song that was playing, and the room filling with random thoughts that tried to squeeze their way in. The bottles of liquor lined up as if any amount could wash away the thoughts clawing at her mind. They were ever so present, and now more vibrant than before. She had gone through almost half of whatever was in the clear bottle and though the thoughts were fewer and the laughs were less painful, there was no escape. It was the start of something new with an abrupt halt. He knew her pain, knew her passions, knew her fears- as did she. Willing to delve the depths, to fight the good fight, to run the same race. Time would now pass slower than it had before, watching the seconds turn into hours, the days turn to years, and the months turn to eternities. She knew it hadn't been for nothing, that the conversations were worth more than the skies, that the thoughts were there for a reason. Her best friend looked at her the night before and said, 'I've never seen you smile as much as you have in the last few hours'. Drowning in the river that was forming from her eyes and mind, bleeding out, the fault lie on the fence between the beauty. Understood, of course. Regretful, not for a second. Wishful, every moment. But she'd be lying through her teeth if she said she was okay. She did that often, told everyone she was okay despite the plentiful pains. What was another goodbye? Another good moment lost at the parting seas? Another smile flat again? Another wish that the dandelion forgot? Another burned piece of wood? The woods were indeed lovely, dark and deep. She would return there soon and wait. Wait for the beauty to come again, wait for the tattered valiant flag of belief to be sewn and carried again, wait to become live again but not leave once whole. Handler had it right, it wasn't the diamonds or the birds, the people or the potatoes, not any of the nouns. The miracle was the adverbs, the way things get done. It is the way love gets done despite every catastrophe.

To whom this may concern

To whom this may concern in the near or very far future:

I cannot promise you anything but myself and that should be enough. I am blunt and hope you are too. That's the only way things will ever get done in this world. I hope you like to read, that's why there's wickedness in the world you know- not enough people read. My sarcasm is a way of life and I can only pray that you know how to take a joke and tell one. I like my jokes like I like my pizza.. the cheesier the better. You should always be able to tell 3 jokes, do 2 card tricks, and recite one poem just in case we're ever stuck in an elevator. If there's a time when I'm being irrational which is often, I hope you have the courage to tell me to shut the hell up. I've never been high maintenance in much besides food and I hate making decisions that require what I want even though I know exactly what I want. It's all on you, sorry for the pressure. You never have to buy me any clothes because I'll probably hate them, but you can buy me socks and hoodies (the loose kind)- I love socks and hoodies. Oh, and sundresses, I love those too. I hope you love the beach and to travel because that's what we'll be doing for a portion of our time whether it's sooner or later.. We've forgotten what it's like to love and be loved at the same time.. until now. I hate the cold and love wearing an oversized hoodie with shorts- hope that's okay. It's quite possible that you have brown hair and blue eyes, just saying. Oh, and you might have some tattoos too. I'm psychic, I know. I've never been a fan of doing what society wants me to do, I'll tell you how I feel when you really want to know, tell you where to go and how to get there, and I'll do something completely unexpected and spontaneous every so often to keep you on your toes. I hope you have all your toes. I believe waking up next to you in the morning with Regina Spektor sounding would be rather perfect, don't ya think? Something's gotta make mornings worth it, nevermind that, you'll make them worth it. I hope you can look me in the eyes and see something more without me having to tell you. I hope that we can sit across from each other in silence and be comfortable but more than that, I hope we can be obnoxious and ostentatious around each other too. We'll be one of those couples that people either absolutely love us of cringe at our site because we're so damn perfect for each other. I dream of a day in which we sit and talk the entire time about every aspect of the universe from why donuts are so delicious to the existence of God and why He most likely hates us. If you can write, draw, and play music you probably already stole my heart. Kudos to you though, if you stole my heart you had to find it first. I hid it awhile back in a place so far away from the world. You probably did that with your heart too, I'm a sucker for that. I hope you're never afraid to shed a tear, we'll both be rocks who claim indifference but we'll know each other better than that. I'm afraid of dying, aren't we all? Seriously though, the possibility of nothing scares the living hell out of me. All we've ever known is life, sure we've lie lodged before but not dead. I want to leave the world like this though- laying in the bed, eating a Twix, drinking an Arnold Palmer, listening to some band from back when we were young in the background, and reading your favorite book. I'm picky with food and even pickier with the people I actually like. I tend to like either people who are exactly like me or ones that are on a completely different spectrum.. I guess I'll find out which one you are. Besides the fact that everybody in the world should be just like me, ha, I am in no way perfect. I have my flaws and so will you. As long as you don't wear white socks, fanny packs, sound like a cow when you eat, or do anything that society expects, we'll make it. We can dance randomly if you'd like, I think that'd be a fun time. I hope you love sports, too. I refuse to go to any events in which one (including myself) has not the slightest clue of what he is talking about. I am faulty in the sense of double standards at times, aren't we all? Don't correct me on the little shit, that's petty and rather annoying but I'm sure you'll do it anyways because that's the type I fall for. I hope you can spell (I don't mind you mixing up i's and e's next to each other though), if there is a God I hope He blessed you with that ability and I hope you don't mind my overuse of commas and how I only use two ellipses. What would the world do without commas? Or grammar? That's the difference between 'helping your uncle Jack off a horse' and 'helping your uncle jack off a horse'. Serious stuff right there. I hope you're a sore loser, God knows I am. We'll never be able to play a game with each other 'just for fun', nope, not possible. After a few drinks and a few stolen spaces one of us will throw the Scrabble board across the room, it's bound to happen. And then we'll laugh. Let's laugh a lot, shall we? Well, when you read this we'll probably be next to each other and I'll be impatiently waiting because it's quite possible that I've already interrupted you four times or that you're an awfully slow reader but that's besides the point. Still wondering if I've met you yet.

Onward and upward,
B


Trust your heart of the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars walk backwards.

The windows rattle without you

He felt lodged, exhaling bourbon with his left calf resting on his right quad. Breaking from the obnoxious repetition of the usual scene with those he barely knew. Wearing a worn pair of cargos, sandals, and a button up that kept its form despite its meeting with the corner of his dresser drawer, appearing in a blank stare but nothing was true of the sort. Something inspired by Nabokov stained his forearm. Reminiscing, observing, noting. Whenever he wasn't sure of an idea or situation he rubbed the palm of his right roughly against his nose as if it would present clarity. It was morning, but hours before the sun would climb. His eyes were seemingly lost, starting to take on a redish colour as the eye of Jupiter, lids falling. Deft hands doodling a series of shaded circles, curved lines, and zags into an animal or a person perhaps. Staring through a random, his gaze focused on what seemed familiar in the background. Brunette as unconsciously preferred, she reminded him of another. She felt like a collection of black and white pictures and the sound of a '96 rock band from London from across the room. Not able, but soon.

The catastrophe and the cure

The situation was like playing a baseball game and being in the hole with two outs. Not sure whether to  keep your helmet and batting gloves on preparing to go on deck or grab your glove ready to hit the field. You had to pick one and hope that your decision was right. Your teammate either got out or got on and either way you weren't fully prepared. It all depended on one person. 

It was just before noon, the trees through the window were swaying violently and time was passing ever so slowly. She was in an awkward yet comfortable position on her bed with her knees propping up her Mac and her back sloppily leaning against two pillows covered in dark cases. She sat like this often. Her room was a deep grey blue and there was only one small light present. A few guitars were scattered, there were some book shelves, the fish Pedro was being spastic as usual, a muted television set across from her, some foreign artist was sounding from one of her many playlists, and a pile of hoodies and shorts lie lethargically on the floor. It was a frequent scene but never monotonous. The day was just as she preferred- there was an overcast, it was cool, windy, and quiet. The fact that the day was calm was overwhelming in a sense, for the last few years things had been more than hectic and a calm day with no bothers was never something she complained about or expected. 

She sat there writing, just wondering about how she got where she was. Where the page was turned, when the clocks had made their runs, who said to flip the switch, and why some filters were flying and others were burning. Maybe she was imagining it all, maybe it was just the course of life someone else had picked out for her. Getting away however, was on the top of her to do list. She dreamed of Amsterdam or somewhere with a city that never slept, just something different. Along her forced wager she forgot who she was and what she stood for but she was okay with that for now. They say to never be content with anything in life but she was content, at least in this moment. She was a quiet being with a loud soul, a storm cloud and a bass drum. Never announcing her presence but you knew she was there. She had come to the point where she cared too much and now claimed indifference, she enjoyed the simple things like talking to people and finding out their stories or letting the whispers of the leaves caress her face. A simple life with experiences was all she asked for, who knew it would be difficult. 

How did she get here? To this point where absolutely nothing mattered. Was it everything, just parts, or one event? How would she get out? There had to be a way. She had never been like the rest, never gave thought to what others thought about her, never gave in to being like everyone else, never sought the in-crowd, she just slid through the cracks and kept her life to herself. They say the ones who are different are the ones who make it, but really I just think those are the ones who see truth. Her life hadn't even started and yet she felt like she had lived a few lives. 

There was a knock on the door, a soft but impatient knock. Irritated because it was most likely a random trying to sell her some unwanted magazine of some sort, she got up wearing an oversized grey hoodie and her favorite pair of shorts. The person at the door was anything but a random. She stared through the blinds and released a sigh that was long overdue. That god-awful lump in her throat only got bigger as she pressed her forehead against the door before opening it. 

The catastrophe and the cure stood before her. 

Chicago, Jesus, and a warehouse

It was Saturday, the eleventh of August. The ominous clouds were crying and a needed misspent night was ahead. They told her parents that they were going to church, which was a plausible scene for them at this point in their lives. That was their home for almost two years now, it was the one place they could go other than her car that allowed them to think freely, not be judged by the people surrounding them, and that welcomed them for as long as they wanted to stay- so they thought. They had grown weak in will, weak in faith, and weak in accountability. They had thought for the last year and half that they could do something great, they thought they had great people surrounding them, and they thought that a relationship with a prophet made things worth it- at least for a good amount of time. It was truly lamentable, watching their lives spiral down to the depths of the trenches. As their relationship grew stronger, their relationship with God was drowning and for some reason they were okay with it. When the last October came around they both realized the forsaken realities of life, when January came around they tried to reduce the pains through acts unlike their true selves, and when August came around there was no turning back. He was her partner in crime and she knew him better than he knew himself, she could read his mind, she always knew what he was feeling, and he could never figure her out-she liked it that way. He was from Chicago, had a white smile that could light up a dark room, he was about six feet tall, had brown hair, crystal blue eyes, an awful taste in music, a family that was just as bad as hers, an annoying obliviousness, a heart that could hold all the love in the universe, a never ending appetite, a completely undeveloped frontal lobe, a contagious laugh, and a killer Boston accent that could make her laugh until the sun peaked in the morning. She would literally do anything for him and that night's 'anything' was taking him to see his girl of the week. She hated it with every fiber in her body to see him reach for the door handle, get out of her car and kiss the stretched faced girl in the back roads of who knows where, but she just loved to see him happy for a moment. She never had a relationship like this before, it wasn't even a friendship- they were simply doing life together. It was never of importance if they had feelings for each other, if they were going to be together it would have to wait because none of them would speak up. She loved him with every ounce of blood in her body, she treated him fairly, she taxied them around, she scolded him when he did foolish things, she watched him cry twice, she was so opposite of him but their relationship worked in unimaginable ways, she didn't care for anyone else. They approached each other with otherwise offensive names as terms of endearment and laughed about it. Both lived for each other, the world that they had once loved had become numb. They saw the world the same way but acted differently. They fought and fooled like lovers, talked and trusted like brothers, but thought and sought like strangers. She had a car, and they had each other- that's all they ever needed despite their differences. After the rendezvous with the stretched face girl they knew without speaking that church was the last of places they would be that night.

Her: Where are we off to? You know this area better than I do- still one toned from the kiss she just watched
Him: I don't know, just drive. We'll find somewhere to go.
Her: Whatever you say.

She gripped the grafts in the steering wheel of the mustang, put her headlights on, and headed to nowhere. It was a usual occurrence and one they particularly enjoyed. In those moments they were free; free from having to think, free from having to worry, free from the pains. They had come to a point in their relationship where silence was comfortable, they could still hear what each other was thinking- or at least she could.

Him: There's an abandoned warehouse down not too far from my house, we could go there and just chill.

She was up for anything so he showed her the way to the old metal shack and she pulled into the small lot, hearing the asphalt crunch beneath her tires. She parked, expecting a usual night of lust to fill the voids that drowned them. Lust, ha, he hated that word because he didn't think it seemed fit but it was nothing more and nothing less of that. They were still silent, listening to the song that explained their lives. The sky was angry and every few seconds, it looked as if it was daylight. Timely flashes in front of their eyes. They sat there naively trying to capture the lightning just as it struck the open field that lie before them. Laughing when she caught the moment twice in a row and he was still unsuccessful, they continued this sort of fun. Fun: they forgot what that truly was. He reclined back into a familiar position that most times indicated what the plans for the night would be- they had a silent sexual relationship as well, for that's the way it simply was. This time differed however. She reclined her seat in sync with him, took off the belt across her chest, and put her feet up on the black dashboard. There were a few times in the past in which they had deep, intellectual conversations but this night opened new worlds for them. The two started the conversation in usual anger about their fathers, which then would lead to some repetitive comments about sports and school, which would then lead to the topic of people. People they loved, people that they were indifferent towards, people like them. He told stories of the girl from Tennessee that stole his heart and never quite gave it back, she told stories of boys she would always return to no matter the circumstances, and they each told stories of the lusts they engaged in that had no significant meaning. While he was an unintentional open book, she hated opening up to people, especially those who stayed close. She never liked people getting too close and for some reason he slid through the standards and became an exception. Her demons hid there, inside her.. If people got too close she knew they would take over. Granted, he knew nearly nothing about her but that's the way their relationship worked- as she would say it. There were brief moments of silence and many moments of soft, contemplated chatter. She had him ask her questions and she promised to answer truthfully. She always told him the truth- she could lie to anyone in the world and make them believe the most ridiculous stories but with him she found that he was worthy of the truth, he needed truth to stay grounded, to take a glance at reality. She was his truth teller. Indie music was playing in the background, they had compiled a group of songs that explained their lives.

Him: What's your biggest fear?
Nervous laughter.. Her: Besides sharks and tornadoes? Death. I know that's completely irrational because when death is present, you are not, but it scares me that this life we claim to be living is just our brains at work to keep us from going insane.

There was a burst of a blue and silver can, my God they needed help. They had brought up their mutual fear of dying before but this time was more intimate. On the verge of tears, they continued.

Her: I mean, we've been spending the last year and a half at Unleashed. What if our minds just made up the idea of life as an illusion because we're so scared to die and so that we can think we can be saved from something. What if it's all a lie? What if nothing is real? What if we're wasting our time trying to be perfect when we could be out enjoying the world and being happy. We're both not happy, we haven't been for a long time now.
Him: I know but that doesn't really make sense. Too many coincidences, too many things that just can't be explained. Who would of made up the bad things then? I get scared a lot, I hate thinking about this. I want to do right but I want to live just in case there's nothing. That's what I'm afraid of, nothing. We grew up too fast ya know?
Her: We never had a chance to make it out innocently.

They kept this going for awhile until reaching the conclusion that they would try and take life for what it's worth. It was humorous because they knew they would be back to wishful thinking on the next adventure. They sat in her car, which was now rather steamy and time was running short. It was nice, this time. Just having a conversation about life, about love, about running away together to Chicago. They could make it on their own and they knew it. They always talked about leaving home, buying a trailer until they made enough money to get out of here. They would never have the guts to do so but it could have worked. They closed their conversations, deciding it was time to leave the warehouse and make his curfew, as always. As she drove, her mind was spinning at an unfathomable speed, trying to process everything she just heard and said. He was talking about something but her attention was not directed towards him. She realized that this was the life of men- ending up at the most random of places with the most unexpected people trying to process this illusion. Everybody ended up at an abandoned warehouse at some point in their life with little knowledge of anything. Lightning flashes were the quick ups and downs and represented that darkness was almost always present despite the quick lights in life. It's the way their relationship worked- as she would say it. Men were slaves to the ground of which they walked, slaves to the mind of which they thought, and slaves of the warehouse in which they were brought.