"What do you do all night?" She wanted to know.
I didn't understand the question.
"Can we watch Netflix or something?"
No, no, no my newfound friend, this is not the place to Netflix and Chill.
I need to teach you these things now.
I need to teach you because I need to spend one-third of my life with you.
After having vowed to never get married, never settle down, never
have kids or college degrees, never spend another night in jail,
never waste another night fretting over whether I should've call that
hand or returned that call.
After all this, I still stuck with you.
Confined to the quiet of an empty building.
I've seen the world, and world history unravel and unfold inside these walls.
I've walked through the remains of Chernobyl, looking over the charred
ashes and the shadows, and out into the vast empty parking lots that
stretch for miles.
I've held Geiger Counters in my hands and monitored for signs of life,
and pondered on how I managed to be the last one standing.
Gawking awkwardly at my sickly arms and wondering why they aren't
I've stalked ancient tribes through the recesses of my mind.
Truly, the only explorer of a people that never existed outside my own
A people with a passion for knowledge that exceeds the early incans.
They gather outside the palaces of Kings and Popes in order to hear
their poetry in the mornings.
They never take it serious, or cast aspersions, or build idols. They only
come to listen, and then....they dissipate.
They head to their jobs in the markets, or on the docks, or to the book
binderies in the center of the city, since reading and literature is
considered my peoples greatest currency.
And on the outskirts of town, there is a quiet army waiting.
Sometimes the building catches fire, or the flood rains come down, or
the sky opens up into a ****** storm of biblical proportions.
Sometimes there's a tear in whatever dimension it is that stops us from
being able to see the spirit world, and I stand up on the roof and see
hundreds of ghosts walking around.
Proving once and for all that the dead stay with us, even after their
We can feel their smiles in the car seat next to us, and we can feel their
disappointment when we don't understand why it all happened like
Sometimes I'm a hitman or a hacker, or a ghost myself.
I think about if I died here tragically and my soul was stuck in
this ill-fitting suit forever. Would I care? Or would I be ethereal so it
wouldn't even matter?
Would I wander the halls on a constant tour of the buildings?
Stuck in my rounds for eternity, I'd look out the windows to the park
across the street and know that I would never feel the dirt between
my toes again.
This is my idea of hell.
Would other people be able to see me?
Would other guards quit because of the ghost of the guard who died?
Sometimes I'm a ghost hunter, here to clear out a building over the long
weekend, before the workers come back on tuesday morning.
Sometimes I've sat in executive offices making decisions that affect life
I've hired and fired people who were going to change the world with
a new therapy or a medicine that would change the fates of millions.
I've interviewed people and yelled at people and told them that the
only way to truth is out that ******* window.
And it doesn't matter that we're on the sixth floor, you have to jump.
Everything that matters in this life is a leap of faith.
And they always do.
They saunter past my desk, and open the window, and stand on a chair
and casually step out.
Some of them smile.
Their eyes closed, just feeling the rush of the wind on their face.
Some of them soar.
They spread their arms, which the sun sets ablaze and burns away the
flesh to reveal their wings underneath.
They fly into the sun, and I try to watch them to figure out how it was
done so that I too can fly away.
But the sun is bright and before I can catch a glimpse, I blink.
And it's gone.
I had to train a new ******* an over-night security job in a corporate building. This was the inspiration for this poem.