You never really know what people are thinking... Most people keep their thoughts so hidden away that some times even they dismiss them as false.
"You think anyone tells the truth? I mean the whole truth. I think most people try to tell the whole truth but they come up short. Holding on to this small secret. The secret could be small like, 'I woke up at 10 this morning.' When deep down you know you really woke up at 11. Other times it could be huge like saying an I love you when you don't mean it." From time to time I ramble; digress. Of course I'm sitting in my bedroom.  Alone. Not a soul is listening but myself. I'm still my favourite person to talk to.
Personally I don't think it's that bad. In fact, I'm almost certain that most people would be better off if they talked to themselves more.
I'm almost certain whiskey makes people better writers but then again I could be wrongfully mistaken. I just know that it works for me. I feel confident. Some could say wiser. Others could easily say that it dulls the sense but what do I know.
I light up another cigarette while five thoughts race through my head too quick to capture.
"Do you ever wonder? And when I say this I speak very vaguely. In general do you wonder? All the things that a person can wonder. I'm rambling again; but you're listening aren't you?"
I really can't stop talking to myself. I'm such a great listener. Or it could be my ego. The bright star in the night. My temple.
"God I need another pull. Maybe even a oneie. Anything to keep this going. This slowed down thought process. Just so I can capture things at a pace my fingers can keep up with."
I'm still alone. I prefer it that way. In a sense I've always been this hermit who locks themselves away. I'm not looking for pity either. God, that's the last thing I crave.
Who am I kidding? I'd take any amount of attention. Pity. Gratitude. Love. I'd take it in any form. Just give it to me.
The whiskey is going down smoother and smoother with each drink. And I've finally lit that oneie. I slip into a deeper state of consciousness. This is when things get real.


Work in progress.

His hands were soft and gentle. It was one of those memories that I keep trying to get back. They were so soft; they are because he washes his hands so much. I know these stupid things. I notice them. It's kind of why I'm so interested in him. His soft hands are my favourite. They are so much  bigger than mine. It's weird. Weird how much I notice a similarity in how men's hands describe some much of who they are. His describe him perfect. I'll never be able to deny the feeling he's always given me. Whether he's looking at me in that way I can't ever describe. Or when he waits for me to finish my cigarette while everyone else wanders back inside. He's that rare best friend that I'll always need. And I'll never be able to get that twisted feeling in my guts that his stupid soft hands give me. He waited too long to figure me out.

I'm constantly thinking and talking. My stories jump back and forth between decades.
        "Oh! Did I tell you about that time..? " I'd tell him.
        "Yeah, probably a hundred times." He'd say.
         We were just sitting there. In the bedroom; getting ******. We'd smoke until we were so ****** up we could barely talk.
         I looked at him and he was staring at his phone. His eyes looked closed. He needs ******* glasses.
         Once he looks at that dinosaur of a phone he's quite for at least twenty minutes. This is normally the time when my brain branches out. I'm losing more ideas than I am remembering. I wish there was a device that could organize and extract ideas and thoughts so you could review them.
           "I should be an inventor." I said this out loud. He didn't look up when he said, "Yeah?"
           "Yeah, I could do it." My self-esteem was incredibly high lately. I look good. I feel good. Most aspects of my life are over all incredibly good.




Too be continued...

i'm confused.
i'm scared.
i don't know what you want.
i'm lost.
i'm alone.
i don't know where you went.

We held each other.
Just like we had almost every night before.
But it was different this time.
This time I knew....
I knew you were leaving.
The way your arms fell around mine....
that's how I knew.
The way you hugged me in the morning;
long and silent.
I spent all day at work in a haze.
You never left my thoughts that day.
I thought of you on the road heading down to a nightmare.
A nightmare that you accepted as your fate.
I knew you were being noble.
Doing what you knew was right.
What I knew was right.
My day was slow.
But my night was slower without you.
I cried myself into a coma that lasted 24 hours.
Only to wake the next days with swollen eyes to turn to where you used to be....
hoping maybe you'd be there by some miracle.
I always believed in false hope because of the way you made me feel.
I think back to that lonely night often.
And when you told me you came back but the door was locked.
I was unresponsive from exhaustion.
I never locked my door after that night hoping maybe you'd walk through again.
With that same gleam in your eye I saw before.
But things are forever changed and you've broken my heart too many times since.
So can someone tell me why tonight I sit and wish....
Wish I could go back and keep my door unlocked so things would be different.
And I still had a chance to show you how much you mean.

This is the tale of a shy quiet lad who never went anywhere without his lucky coin.
When alone he would toss it in the air but never too high because he was afraid he might lose it.
And if he were to lose it; he'd lose it.
During holidays he kept it in the front pocket of his dress coat; so it was close to his heart.
In public it was always in his hand which was plunged deep in his pocket. He'd toss and turn it there making sure it never left.
When he slept he placed it in an envelope and stuffed it under his pillow. He knew that it would be there when he woke and would sleep soundly through the night.
This tale of a shy quiet lad continued into his adulthood.
He kept doing this same thing with the coin.
Tossing.
Front pocket.
Hand.
Envelope.
Tossing.
Front pocket.
Hand.
Envelope.
Tossing.
Front pocket....
The shy boy, now a man, had married.
They had a son who grew to be successful and greedy.
The shy boy got older and his wife grew weak and fragile. She past one night in December at only 60 years of age. He was broken.
His son had since married and had children.
Three girls.
And finally a son.
The shy boy, lonely and still very shy, watched as his granddaughters grew into beautiful women.
They were eager, smart, cunning, social, and talented.
There was something different about his grandson.
He was quiet and kept to himself.
The shy boy looked at him one day. He was sitting in the garden reading a book. Two young boys came up to him and asked him to play football. He politely declined and went back to his book.
The shy boy smiled and thought. . . . .
This is the tale of a shy quiet lad who never went anywhere without his lucky coin.
When alone he would toss it in the air but never too high because he was afraid he might lose it.
And if he were to lose it; he'd lose him
During holidays he kept it in the front pocket of his dress coat; so he was close to his heart.
In public it was always in his hand which was plunged deep in his pocket. He'd toss and turn it there making sure he was always with him.
When he slept he placed it in an envelope and stuffed it under his pillow. He knew that he was watching over him and would sleep soundly through the night.

I was looking up at the moon, not five minutes ago. I was talking to myself as I normally do; I wondered to myself aloud, “the moon seems so small and far away in such a vast universe of extreme possibility. It just sits there orbiting one planet for all its existence; so boring and meaningless. ” Then, I thought our life as we know it would be so different if we were without it. I had pondered right smack dab into a eureka moment. We are all important; every bit of star dust that we are. We all have purpose. We all matter.  No matter what we are. Moon, planet, air, humans, animals; we all have a destiny, a fate. If I never did the things I do or was involved with the people I was involved with their lives would be different. I would be different. I looked back to the moon, which was shone brightly. It lit up the dull cloudy sky, made the snow twinkle. I, then, thanked the moon. I thanked it because I don’t think anyone has.

"I love you. I always have and I always will." She whispered under her breath.
A part of her hoped someone would hear....anyone.
He laughed and joked with friends that surrounded them.
She chimed in making conversation trying to put the thought out of her head.
It was never any good because he sat there, a smug look pressed firmly on his face.
Sitting there he looked at her. She looked back hoping they were going to connect the way this stares always managed to do. That spark was gone. That lust. That longing. It was gone.
"I love you." The words weren't there any more.

sudden attack of overwhelming panic.
quickly followed by muffled sobs.
snot drips like a leaky faucet.
i want nothing more than to a child again.
just to hear the reassuring, "everything will be okay."
instead i sit locked up in my room.
still afraid to seek comfort.
still afraid to show what's brewing in my guts.
a consistent black hole that grows from broken pieces of myself.
i will always be alone.

i'm learning to let go.
let go of the way i feel.
constantly wondering what i could have done.
knowing i'll never get that second chance.
i miss you.
i want to erase you.
but i'd be so empty without the memories we shared.
though they weren't true.
and though they weren't long.
i cherish them.
i've stored them away.
i'll erase you from my mind.
but i'll never unlock you from my heart.

the darkness has me.
she whispered in his ear.
it has me and wont let me go.

you gotta look through the pain.
you gotta look through it all.

...tbc.

I can't remember a time when I was happy.
When I wanted to live. . .

I only remember the gut wrenching pain of being a disappointment.
a failure.
a loser.
nothing.

I looked to drugs.
I looked to alcohol.
I looked to the blood that dripped.

I wanted to feel nothing.
to no longer feel sorrow.
pain.
lost.
alone.

I just wanted hope.

Death looked welcoming.
So I tried jumping in.
but even death wouldn't take me.

I never wanted this.

the luminescent moonlight danced across his chest.
i paid attention to the pattern in his breathing.
the stress and heartache from the day was washed away by a soft dreamland.
he appeared calm; almost childlike.



to be continued. . . .

i'll never forget our first kiss.
friends with benefits.
an agreement.
a contract.

i'll never forget our last kiss.
friends in love.
an adventure.
a dream.

April-23-1995

I find myself growing weaker as he slowly slips away. The doctor told us he has six months left, maybe longer if he keeps as healthy as he can. Of course I don't blame him for leaving me so soon. I knew it would happen soon enough. I just didn't know it would be so soon.

Heart disease runs in his family.

I don't know how we are going to tell the children. One doesn't usually think about the day when they have to tell their own children that they wont make it to see their lives evolve.

Where are you God? When I need you most?

Sometimes I stare mindlessly out the window late at night, when I can't sleep (which is becoming more and more frequent) and I search for answers to impossible questions. Charlie doesn't hear me when I talk to God. I wont let him. I think he would be discouraged with the way I'm handling all of this. Most of the time I'm angry with God. Then, I become angry with myself for doubting the path he's created for me. I've believed in God as long as I could ever remember, but lately he's left me questioning him. How could something so cruel and heart wrenching be the least bit beneficial for anyone?





My Mother

I was seventeen when my mother died. No one still really knows what happened. She didn't leave behind much to describe why.

I was seventeen when my mother took her life.


I never really felt I had much in common with her. She was more of a romantic than anything, and i'm more of a realist. In fact the only thing we ever had in common was our height (which is rather short) and striking green eyes. When my father died I expected her to have a breakdown, seeing as how in love her and my father were and how much she thrived on such movies as Gone With the Wind and Casablanca. But the funny thing is, she kept living life as if dad was never in it. Which I thought was quite disrespectful to his memory. Then, I thought maybe this was a strange coping method that she was doing for the sake of us kids. I expected her to be staying in bed for weeks on end, never changing out of her ridiculous pajamas and refusing to go any where.
This was the opposite of what my mother did, three days after my fathers funeral she was back at work. She was a editor for the New York Times. She loved her job as far as I could tell. She always attended the Christmas and New Years parties, despite the fact that we are Jewish. She was always looking for a way to connect with her co-workers. She was a people person, I'll give her that. I've never been good with socializing, I'm like my father in that way.












Life is beautiful,
don't waste it.











The Discovery

Two months ago I was going threw my mothers old things that my brothers and I put in storage, until we found her will. That's when I found my mothers journal. I didn't really feel bad about taking it. I never really understood her that well and her death was the biggest mystery to me. I was hoping that in reading this I would have the smallest insight into my mothers way of life and what she meant by her suicide note.

already i wish i never knew you.
never looked at you.
never touched you.
never held you.
never kissed you.


already i wish i never showed you how much you mean.

i don't believe in love.
i believe there is a path to love.
but it's never reached.
love is confusing.
love is a lie.
i don't believe in love.
and i will tell myself this.
i will tell it so i don't get broken.