Skip to main content

In a Mood

I knew you had the blade when I turned my back on you
the straight razor with the pearl handle, stolen from your grandfather's old shaving kit
I knew you were behind me, knew you were not going to let me walk out
and when I felt the cold steel whisper on my throat,
I knew this was the way it had to be:
your breath, hot in my ear, saying
I love you.

So I'm in a mood.  I am filled with anger, and when I am, this is what comes out.

In the white room, there is silence, solitude 
When I cut my wrists, words pour out, black and white, seething, choking
filling the space, building a new world, 
one in which I am not welcome

I live a good life.  Solid, responsible. Why, then, this fire inside? Why is my head filled with these terrible images?

I feed the pages to the flames, one by one, 
the lives I created burning to ash,
I can hear them cry out
page after page, burning cities consumed by fire
I will never be free, will never be empty
I will never be alone

I have insurance.  I have a reasonable mortgage.  I have a station wagon that I drive, every morning, on a very reasonable commute.  I have a loving family and a stable relationship.

When the ghosts come, they tear me to pieces,
take everything, leaving only empty memories,
a husk that can walk and say the right things
They return to the darkness, laughing
The hollow vessel walks into the future

I have done everything right, have achieved everything I have ever dreamed, received every gift, had every prayer answered, and somehow this has filled me with rage. 

Stability is a chain.  A blessing.  A curse.

Still Writing,

RP

4-22-16


It has been a long time since I have written anything interesting, and I have been feeling bottled up.  I decided to purge some words and this is what I got.  I don't know what it is or what it means, but it isn't boring, so there's that.

I'm fine by the way.  Really.  It might say something about my writing that I have to constantly reassure people that I am OK, and not considering something unthinkable, but I promise you I am fine.  Maybe out there is someone that isn't, though, and maybe they will read this and feel less alone.  Maybe.

Cheers. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

One of the Best of Us

In the stifling heat my breath comes fast and heavy. What the fuck am I even doing here? What the fuck am I trying to accomplish? I'm sitting on the mat, maybe dying, a forty something dad playacting at being a fighter. This is my mid-life crisis, this is so, so stupid. This has to be the end for me, assuming I can get my heartbeat under control, assuming I don't just peg out here on the mat.  I can't do this anymore. "It's okay man, it's okay, you just need to breathe through it. You're fine, you're okay." The voice of my training partner, gentle and kind. My partner, the maniac that drove me to such a state, that I think I might die, he sits next to me and shows me how to breathe, how to calm my body. He teaches and guides me through it, and in a few minutes I actually am okay, the panic settles down, and maybe this isn't my last class after all. "You're alright?  Okay. Now lets get back to work."  And back to work we go. There

The Dance of the Sand Hill Crane

 It is Saturday morning in Feburary and here in Michigan it is clear and cold.  The sun has risen a while ago but there are still streaks of red in the sky, lighting up the clouds, high and wispy.  I am standing by my car after completing some chore, cleaning something or retrieving something and I am slow breathing, trying to calm my heart. It has been a difficult week. My son has a fight tonight, full contact MMA, his first, and I am full of conflict and anxiety about it. Not because I don't believe he will do well, because I know he is as prepared as anyone can be for such a thing, but because I am a father and I feel like I should be protecting him from the violence of the world. Even though he turns nineteen in a few weeks and is stronger both physically and mentally than I could ever hope to be, he is still my boy, and I am scared for him. My other son is fifteen and this week was embroiled in some stupid conflict at school, a misunderstanding that had led to meetings with th

A Soap Bubble Nothing

I built a table, out of wood.  I made a thing that wasn't there before.  I cut and sanded the wood, I drilled in screws, and now we have a table where we didn't have one before. It is real and solid and you can touch it, you can feel where I cut poorly, see the rough edges where I didn't join the wood correctly, you can lift it, feel its weight.  It is a real thing that I made.  I made a table. This is not a table, this is a nothing, a series of random thoughts that I had in the shower, which is where thoughts come from. What if our souls are soap bubbles, what if we spread ourselves too thin, stretched out and flattened? What happens when it pops, would you even notice, would you even care? What if we are meant for something more? I am already behind schedule this year I've got work to do, I have things to accomplish, friends ask me questions ask for favors and all I say is yes yes yes and- What is this?  What am I hoping to do here writhing I meant to write "writ