On Acceptance of Mortality

Death is a monster that lurks

Casting his ominous shadow

He strikes when we least expect;

A ruthless and honest beast

A piece of all of us

The unspoken truth that awaits.

We may cry, and fight against

But his will is strong; it is righteous.

And as our time expires

It becomes clear;

The pain lessens

And acceptance,

Brings peace.

The rabbit hole

There she is now. Floating, falling, faster and faster down the hole. Where does it lead? She wonders. A kind of acceptance, as she allows herself to be taken. Will it hurt? It chose me, she thinks. But I want it to mean something. Perhaps I'm foolish, it's just random. It could've been anyone. It's dark in here. Shadows cast along the sides, but there isn't any light. Then how? She wonders aloud. Why me?

She shouts.

Falling still; it seems endless. How long has she been falling now? It seems like hours, but only minutes, surly. Time is irrelevant, is it not? This could go on forever, but what would that mean, really?  If time is simply a sequence of events, our understanding of how one moves and experiences existence, then her existence, in this hole, is infinite, immeasurable. Or is it?  This fact doesn't satiate her yearning for something.  A sign, even the faintest.  To know that it will come to an end.  To know that she will have the answer.  If she can just proceed a little further, down into the abyss.  She'll 

know why.  

She recalls, many moons ago now, it seems, the moment she understood how meaningless life could be.  Her fascination with the unknown depths of this space that she is now descending upon, grew stronger when it happened.  He didn't deserve to go, so young.  Older than she, certainly, but young in spirit and body still.  He was everything to her.  And yet, when he was gone, she realized that it meant nothing.  Their time together, was but another event, a passing occurrence in a cosmic realm, where there were mysteries of far greater import.  But why then, with such an epiphany, did she still ache at 

the memory?

She doesn't feel anything in this current state. Like her senses are at an extreme calm. She is not alarmed, only very aware of the feeling of...nothing.  And yet, everything. She knows she is falling, that her dress is fluttering ever so slightly with the movement, that air is passing along her skin as she falls faster. But is it really faster? She can see everything. She knows she is falling, but the images perceived are quite clear. And that her body feels nothing, feels not the moving dress or passing air. How is this possible?  Logic is not here.  In this place of possibilities unknown.  The quiet and 

deliberate death.

She knows not how to proceed. The black abyss below. So endless. She's gone this far. If she could just reach out, perhaps she could brace herself. What holds her back? If I reach out my hand, I'll touch a wall. I must, she says. Of course, what if she reaches out, only to discover she feels nothing? Not that it isn't there.  The wall exists, surly. How else are the shadows...?  They dance and laugh 

at her.  

In that moment she recalls the first time she had her finger pricked. The doctor said it would hurt a little. The blood oozed out in a tiny bubble of deep red.  He took her blood into a vile.  'Just running a few tests,' he'd said.  She pouted at the sensation of pain, but then, entranced by the blood on her finger, she felt agitated when the nurse wrapped it with a band-aid.  As soon as she was able to, she would rip off that band-aid and squeeze hard until more blood came.  Not much, of course, as the area had healed.  She stomped her foot and gave a grunt of disapproval.  Startled, she said, 

'Father.'  

When he saw her doing this, he didn't yell, not like her mother would have.  He only inquired about why she was doing it.  She told him, 'I want to make the blood run again.'  'But why,' he would ask.  She paused and bit her lip.  She shook her 

head, uncertain.  

Shortly after, he bought her a microscope and together they observed his blood; a quick prick of the finger and he placed a droplet on a glass slide.  He told her how it worked, blood.  How the body reacted to a wound in attempt to heal.  That it would coagulate, with platelets.  'This way,' he'd said, 'you wouldn't bleed to death.'  She asked him what death meant.  What happened after death?  Her nanna had gone to this place of death when she was just a babe.  She only remembered the cold stare of nanna in her casket.  'Is it like sleep?' she asked him.  'Yes,' he said, 'I suppose it is like a sleep.'  He told her of glorious sleep and the quiet black void 

of nothingness.   

The shadows suddenly disappear and there is a stillness.  She's hanging there.  Now is the time.  'Reach for the wall!' she shouts to herself.  She extends her left arm and braces for what might be or not be.  Nothing!  She can feel nothing!  Her hand keeps reaching, but there isn't anything to grasp.  And then her arms and legs are flailing about and panic strikes her thoughts.  I can't scream!  What would that do, they won't hear me.  I'm so far down!  Why did I go, she thinks.  Her lip pouts, but she won't cry.  She finally halts her moving limbs and closes her eyes.  A few deep breathes, stay calm.  'In the blackness, the great void, there is peace'.

His words.

'Father!' She weeps, remembering his eyes.  How cold they looked, unmoving.  The blood ran down his face and onto the floor.  There was so much blood.  She plead, and told him to coagulate.  But his body wouldn't listen.  Her mother came in soon after.  She looked dismayed, tears forming, whispered a soft and broken,

'no.'

When she opens them, her eyes peer downward.  It's dark, so dark she can't see anything.  In fact, she realizes, all trace of light is gone.  She wills herself to move, to keep moving.  Surly, there is an end.  What's holding her?  Could it be-?  No, that's impossible.  And then she is falling again.  Much faster, so fast that her dress flies nearly above her head, she flails about.
She screams!  

And then. A soft light in the distance, as Lily opens her eyes.  A surface beneath her.  Her hands brush the ground.  She looks up.  He is there.  Is it him?  It must be.  The silhouetted glow of a man she once knew.  So long she has waited to be here.  With him and to know for certainty.  She moves towards this figure.  In her heart she knows.  Without doubt. 

He's safe. 

Reflection

And the walls 

closing in

as she drowns

in her own vast sins

of the father, mother

sister, brother

do they judge her?

or is it her minds' reaction

to, the faction

of masses

how they exist

and she is fixed

on this idea

of self affliction.

Her wounded soul

contorted

based on feelings

uncontrollable

she lies in

a vacant state

at the screen

before her

it's there

stories of

all the others

to her life

she will compare

and sit 

in remorse

and self woe, strikes

to herself she is

the foe

'let it go!' she shouts

internally;

but the truth comes hard

to 

the lonely

minded

trapt in a 

transparent cage

like a maze

her thoughts stream

rapidly by

can she catch one?

no......

not this time.

A thought on real love

It's nice to have someone, some body to see all your insecurities, take them in their hands and kiss them, softly.  To support them with their love and compassion.  Those little quirks that make you, you; often are trouble for most, challenging, annoying.  For the right kind of person, for the person, those things are special - sometimes mildly annoying - but they make you, you.  So that person loves you for all the rough edges, the squiggly lines, all imperfections and insecurities - the whole being that is you.

When you can do the same for that person.....that, my friend, is real, unconditional love.

So you wanna be a writer, eh?  You think you have what it takes?  The diligence to pursue a dream career that may never come to fruition, the drive to continue after endless rejections, the criticism and negative feedback, haunting blocks to the brain that cloud your desires, just to get those last few words out.  What are those words?  They're there, at the tip of your tongue, waiting to be written, spoken in a whisper, through your fingers as you type.  But it's hard to get them out sometimes, see, it's tough to find those words, it's tough to know what to say.  You're your own worst critic, they tell you.  So many of them, family and friends.  Reach for the stars, go for what you want, take your dreams and make them a reality.  You have too many dreams, maybe?  Too many ideas pop in and out all day.  It's like a fucking auction of thoughts, but it's being orated by a goldfish; nonsense, ramblings.  But they do make sense, to you...

So, begin.  Write your blog, like you're doing right now.  Create your story, fill the pages with tales of golden futures.  A place where all the good stuff happens.  The other universe sitting beside you, within you.  It's yours.  So take it.

Playing with stream of consciousness writing, or memories

This is very old, something from several years ago.

My earliest memory: Building a snowman with my sister and brother, my mother standing at the sliding glass door.  I also think I saw Uncle Keith there, but maybe not.  I don’t remember climbing stairs as a babe, but I can imagine what it must have been like.  Seated on my legs, I stair up at the flight of steps, were they covered with carpet, grayish blue maybe?  I put my tiny right hand on the first step, you can see my diaper under my long top, or maybe it’s a dress.  I can’t see myself climbing them beyond that first reach. 

I remember Mary Poppins and Lamb chops and playing with my magnets.  I used to build places and the little dots, the red and blue, were boys and girls.  I remember the boys would always chase the girls, and I always chose one of each to be the main characters.  I’m not sure how I kept them straight but it seems I almost always did.  I think sometimes I would mess them up when mom came by.  Like it was wrong of me to play such a game.  I got embarrassed.  I remember, I think, mine and Carl’s last bath together.  Maybe it was the chicken pox or something.  We had all our toys, well mostly his.  GI Jo and such.  I used to love playing GI Jo and trolls with him.  I always wanted to be like him.  Well, as far as I could.  I always looked up to him.  He was so smart and cool.  Emily had to play my mother, how could I look up to her.  I don’t remember when Dad left I just know he left.  My first memory of a phone conversation with him: I was maybe seven, or maybe it was just after he left.  I didn’t want to use the phone I just wanted to play.  I had just gotten my boots, the boyish kind, Timberlands or something.  I remember how excited I was.  I was trying to tie them maybe when he called and I had to talk to him.  Mom made me even though I said I didn’t feel like it.  It didn’t faze me then.  That my daddy had left.  I just thought how much this conversation had interfered with my playtime.  I remember the car ride with grandma and grandpa.  I fell asleep in grandmas’ lap in the back seat.  It sounds silly but that’s my fondest memory of her.  She was so caring then, she said, “If you’re sleepy just lay down here and go to sleep.” So I did, it was nice.  After that she became the crazy grandma.  My mother told me that she asked a doctor if I had been sexually abused.  I stuck my blanket up my nose; I just thought it felt nice.  Kids stick things up their nose.  I’m not sure it means anything except a strange fixation.  Freud would probably say its normal.  The only thing Freud was good for, he helped us understand child behaviors.  I remember having a crush on Lauren D.’s big brother.  I think he was the second oldest.  He was so cute, I guess.  I was only 8 or 9 so what did I know.  I remember when Lauren wanted to see me naked, or at least be in the room when I changed my clothes.  I thought she was a weirdo then, now I know she was just curious because I was older then her.  She was just curious.  Or maybe she was just kidding around.  I remember the dirt mounds.  We played on them and pretended to be on some kind of adventure.  We were always pretending.  I forget sometimes how imaginative I was.  My sister made me a Barbie extravaganza in our room once.  She took all my Barbie’s and hers and made little sections.  There was a house on our dresser and maybe a beach or something.  I don’t remember all of it, just that it covered our desk and dresser and the floor.  She always takes care of me.  I suppose I somewhat returned the favor with this trip, not sure I ever fully could though.  At some point you know you’re not like other families or that you’re not like other kids.  I thought about things a lot.  Just everyday things.  I seemed like such a quiet kid, people used to tell me.  On the inside it was never quiet.  My mind was always rolling from one subject to another or one idea to the next.  I used to dwell on things a lot.  I guess I still do. 

This is something I wrote back in June 2014.  It feels right, so I'm sharing.

Someone to save me, for a change.  Someone to love and accept me as me, wholeheartedly.  Someone that does not necessarily like all of my quirks, but accepts them as is; and that, when I do something stupid, they don’t roll their eyes and ridicule me.  Or if they do roll their eyes, they do it with a smile and give me a kiss - and I feel that love.  Someone that I can be myself around - my multitude of selves.  Someone that can mellow out my crazy, or meet it equally.  That is gentle and compassionate, and strong when in need.  When I need a shoulder they are open and comforting.  We can laugh together, and be quiet.  We can look into each other’s eyes for long periods of time - with or without laughter.  We can be creative together in whatever form.  I just want an honest love, a real love.