Dear Journal
I am haunted by many things in my life. There are scar that wrap around my body, old broken bones and bruises that never really healed up. There were words of hatred that people spewed at me. Still none of those ghosts compare to the dead that haunt heart an constantly reappear in my dreams.
I remember two little furballs, not far apart in age. My fluffy darlings, both mutt females, from different parents. However, they treated each other like sisters. Playful and protective of each other, but suspicious of strangers. I would walk them both, when I came to visit. Up so early in the morning just to spend time with both of my pups, Laura and Snuggles.  How surprised when I came home to visit one week. I can’t say how long it had been. It seems like years has passed since my last visit. My first instinct was to see my little girl. Even though in dog years they were old ladies.  I made it there ready to play. Only to find an empty doghouse and vacant leash. My poor snuggles lost to the ravages of age. No one had bothered to tell me. Had I been so long gone that they had forgotten or was I to blame? I spent the next few hours with my other pup. Then I disappeared again of into the vapors of my life. I managed to return a few more times to see her, Laura, who had been my very first pet. Still like everything else she passed away. In my absence I was uninformed once again. Once in a while I find myself teared up. When I see a little puppy playing in the field or an old dog sitting lazily in the sun. I feel a tinge of guilt for not being there, when I should.
Many years before that, there was a little blonde haired boy; we were friends off and on. It was during one of those off times, when a bus he was on crashed. He was thrown from his seat, through the glass window. They say his last words where spent in asking if everyone else was okay. He didn’t even make it to his teens. I was lazy and selfish, and chose to not go to his funeral, now I wish I had because every once and while he walks in my dreams.
But the ghost who haunts my dream most frequently is an old man. I knew him all of my life. He payed for my birth. In a house full of women he was a quiet fixture, who would tickle me every time I went for a hug. Looking back I can tell for a fact he was haunted by specters of his own. Still, when I visited there was always a smile for me, and when I needed it there were words of encouragement. He never told me he was disappointed me and seldom raised his voice to me. If I was bad there was a quick swat of a flyswatter, but then it was over. We watched the rain together; we sat and stared at the stars together. We were truly kindred spirits, me and my grandpa. I wish I could say he died swift and in his sleep. But his life was taken away in bits in pieces. First he got diabetes, then he ended up in a home, such a proud animal now locked in a cage but he never complained. Then he had to lose a leg. For eighty years he had been strong and independent man. Now he was reduced to only weekly visits to his own home. Still, he never complained. The last day he was alive I saw him in the hospital the doctor said he was getting better. I kissed him on the forehead and told him I loved him. He said thank you. I felt ashamed. I must have failed him in some way for him to be grateful for that one pronouncement of love. Had I kept my feeling for him to myself or forgotten to remind him enough. I let it pass I was certain I would see him again, then I would tell him again, and each time after I would do the same.
When we left the hospital, my grandma said he would die today. I argued with her. The doctor had told us he was getting better. I failed to convince her. The next day I got the call. I ran a hot shower and sat in the tub and cried. I did not go to see my family. I was selfish.
Now more often then naught I see him again and again. He has both of his legs.

The beatings were never super brutal. They were just the rough thud of her working out her frustration. The real pain came when I resisted or when I expected something better. The moment I forgot who and where I was she would remind with the belt, a ***, a boot, a wooden paddle, the broom handle, or whatever implement. The only way I could come out a winner was to illustrate my anguish. I tried being strong but the stronger I was the more enraged she became. So, instead I gave her a way to feel more powerful, enough whines, whimpers, and tears to satisfy her rage but leave me less scarred then I might have been.

There is no one speaking. Time is a sparkling atom placed perfectly on the pinpoint of pain. I am precisely nowhere. I cannot see, or move. All that I have is me. Whiteness is everywhere. Sometimes I hear voices. They are like distant thunder rumbling, but never coherent. I scream but I don’t think any one hears me.
I am certain that I am not dead; certainly not dead; deadly certain. Sometimes I lose the train I call my thoughts, then a flood of random happenings happen to me. I see bits and pieces of whatever. A brown crumbling leaf crunching under my feet. The green bench with paint chipping off the sides. A short old man with false teeth wearing suspenders, jean shorts, sun glasses, and no shirt who I know is dead. Then it is whiteness again, a blank canvas with no heat or cold.
I can’t walk so I project myself farther and farther into the white infinity. I hear another rumble of thunder. I swear it sounds like wake up. I try to focus on the words. Blurry faces face me. I push past the blur trying to focus. I raise my arm but it never moves, it’s not there.  
Again a thunder voice sounds saying, “Wake up.” The blurs lose their fuzziness. I see a little face. What a sweet little baby face; a little boy stumbling around dragging a pink fuzzy teddy bear that is almost as big as him. Then I see the same little baby with a cute cowboy hat smiling adorably while he tries to take it off; the thin elastic band keeps snapping it back on his head.
I hear myself laughing, at least how I use to sound laughing. The voice thunders again. The little boy is slightly older now. I see the presents under the tree. He opens up the silver suited Buzz Lightyear. He loves it.
We go to the park and I push him on the swings. I take him trick-or-treating. There is a painful sadness in my stomach. At least I think it’s my stomach. I cannot tell where any part of me is. I feel a flush a fresh warm air crossing my essence. I think the warm air is me.  Sadness permeates my being. The sadness tingles like sleeping limbs and stinks of regrets. I wish I could go back to those days.
Am I dying? No I am not dying. Something sharp takes a bite out of me. I see a ******* dog pulling on my pant leg. I feel a sense of panic. He is dragging me one way when I know I have to go another. I’m going to be late but I can’t say what for. I feel the skin on my ankle rip, as he tares through the jeans pulling me to the ground repeatedly.
Wait, I am not wearing any jeans. I try to pinch myself. I try so hard, but I cannot find the skin. I cannot even find the origin of my intention. Again the thunder calls to me. Water is falling fast and cold on my skin, but there is no water.
I can feel my bare feet squishing through a muddy puddle. I run. I play. I laugh. I wonder what is wrong with me. Owe, the white water drop drips of red crimson dots and they slip and slide expanding into long lines. There is a horn, someone plays the trumpet. I feel the pressure of blowing in the trumpet and it hurts the sides of my neck. Man I hated that brass piece of crap. There is a rhythmic pulsing pounding like a drum set. I should have stuck with the drums instead.
I feel dizzy the redness expands further, then comes shades of fuzzy light brown. The thunder sounds again. I know it’s raining I can feel the water trickling down my skin. Someone is touching me. I struggle to pull away. The harder I fight the harder it pulls me.
No, no, no, I scream. There is the sound of a baby crying. I see my brother’s little brown slimy face. It is the first picture I have ever seen of him. He will be home soon. Something jerks me forward. The thunder starts to sound less like thunder and more like a voice.  “Get up.”
“Get up!”
My brother is on the back of my bike as we roll to the store.
“Get up!”
My brother is playing video games at my new apartment.
“Get up!”
My brother is crying.
“Get up!”
My brother is laughing.
“Get up!”
My brother is coming slowly into to focus as a grown man.
“Get up!”
My brother is yelling at me to get up. The blurry edges of reality are slowly coming into to focus. I shake my head, and it hurts. I hear something big rolling this way. A shadow rises filling up the wet road ahead.  A hand pulls me up. I stumble off of the road onto the side and slip into a small ditch
It hurts so much. I check my wrinkled flesh. Yep, I still have all my fingers, and they work. Yep, all those age spots are still there. I see my younger brother, he is saying something. Man he looks old as ****. Now sound is perfectly restored. I hear him clearly for the first time. Are you ok? He says with a toothy old man smile.
I smile back. “I think I lost my teeth.”
Behind me is a horrible mess.  One small car crushed in the front with a semi truck not even five feet away and other vehicles are just breezing on by.

It is a game of uncertain variables. Tears cool my heated cheeks. Years of pain are distilled into a moment of anxiety.
A hug could hold a mirror to loves last affection. This may be the last good bye. One friend only makes it on holiday weekend, one friend makes it more often, one little brother, comes weekly, father remains behind.
The sounds of a strange city, holds no friends or family for me. They are hundreds of miles away. I am scared. It is the fear of the unknown, the fear of the phone call that says,

“We are sorry for your loss.”

So tonight, I will wait for work to start. My heart will race rapidly with all the anxiety my mind can muster. Even then, if and when I find slumbers silent rest, I know I will still wake with that same ache in my chest. Till, I come home again, off the road for a couple of days.

The couch creaked in rhythmic fashion. Darkness permeated everything. There was music, as my mother bounced back and forth in an autistic fashion. The stress of the day working itself out in her movements.

I played with my tiny figurines. GI Joes battled at my feet. I could not see them but I felt them. How could I understand the level of her sickness. Her pain would evolve adapting and developing into darker reactions. The playful tickling mother would become a spirit of vengeance.

During the daytime we shared the music, dancing and playing. My thoughts were not straying. It would take many years for me to evolve as well. It would take many more than that to find a semblance of peace.

I cannot fault her heart. She did not have the tools to understand. She only had god and work. I had books and tv shows to show me love and truth. I had dreams of something greater. I saved them all for later while she lost bits of her soul. I am certain she swallowed her own sorrows to save me from starvation.

I am sure she struggled to protect me from life’s cold hard reality, until she became the darkness herself. I am sure that a better me could forgive her, and maybe given enough time I will feel strong enough and deep enough to do it.

But for now I am seeking the truth and strength I do not have. Plucking painful and pleasant chords; There is still music here and I will play it again.

Screams permeate this infernal mist. I am surrounded by quaffs of smoke so thick that they could be volcanic spew. My lungs are scorched from the flames rising on either side of me, while lashes of fire are biting and stinging my painfully dry skin. Thick black billows of fiery smoke rush to my face, burning my skin and killing my sense of smell. Still I have no choice. If I want to survive I must struggle on. I drop to the floor to half crawl half shuffle under the smoke. Broken glass is strewn across the floor. Thank goodness I managed to get my shoes on before the bomb went off. My neighbor Bob ran away barefoot and as I followed his footstep I can barely see and but clearly feel the slippery smears of blood from his feet painting the floor.  To my right I hear the wails of a woman burning and to the left the shrieks of a baby crying. I turn left and pray that someone will come for the lady, or that she dies soon. The dark clouds of ash are so thick that I can’t keep my eyes open for more than a second because they keep watering up.  I stumble through the hall into a bedroom, following the now ragged sobs of the infant.  Almost as soon as I reach the child the screaming stops. I reach for him, her, it. It is limp. I cradle the soft body against my chest. Maybe just maybe if I can get out here I will have a chance. Please let me have a chance. Someone grabs me from behind. I struggle for a few second, panicking until he yells in my ear
“this way, follow me out.”
Within seconds I find myself passing under the archway and out into daylight. Behind me the building moans and shudders. Then for a few seconds I can hear nothing but a whoosh as the building collapses. I am struck by the moment, then by a shard of glass which pierces the back of my neck. The EMT is yelling at me. I don’t know why. A police officer comes over and tries to pry my hands from my chest. Then I remember the baby. I let go of the body and I see the horror on the face of the EMT. I try to sit down slowly, but I collapse while the world around me becomes a black fog.
I awake to terrible pain. My lungs ache but my hands and neck hurt worse. They are covered in bandages so I cannot see the real damage; which is good I don’t want to know. In the days that follow I have several visitors. Some call me a victim of a horrible tragedy. Others try to label me a hero.
The baby survived. We were two of three survivors out of a hundred or more. A hundred or more is what they tell me. That is supposed to be a conservative guess. They found the bodies of 72 adults, 36 children, and a dog. A dog, I was certain that having an animal in that building was against the rules. Whatever.
It has been three weeks. I’m free of the hospital and bandages, but not free of the dreams. Every time I sleep I see big and little bodies burnt to a crisp dragging themselves along the cemetery ground, following a funeral procession passes. As I walk by, one of the charred bodies reaches for my hand, begging for help in a dry and raspy voice. A smaller burnt figure struggles to reach me. I go to pick it up and the body crumbles to dust. More frightening forms rise from the ashen earth and now I am surrounded. Not just burnt bodies but bodies with bullet holes, bodies with lacerations. Each one asking for help each one deformed in its own way. The stench of rotted flesh makes me so nausea that I try to throw up my lunch instead burnt flesh and smoke fills my throat. The crowd of corpses continues piling on me faster and faster till I am drowning in a sea of corpses. Sometimes the dream ends there other times I am visited by more horror. One time it was a different nightmare. Corpses spewed from my voice into the daylight until they blotted out the sun. The earth grew barren.  Animals were devoured by the rotted corpses.  Plants shriveled falling to ground, and I stood alone among a sea of endless corpses the last living thing.
Another week or two later, I stop sleeping. Well, I stop sleeping with the exception of the occasional catnaps when my body just shuts down and even the caffeine and ephedrine can’t keep me awake. On the news I hear religious leaders and politicians railing against the terrorist. They say it is time to bring the fight to them.
For some reason I am invited to stand up and speak at one of those rallies so I do. I extol the virtues of our great nation. I cry for vengeance against those who murdered my family and friends. The leader of our local temple pats me on the shoulder and thanks me for my patriotism. I am honored by his words.
Now I have found some power, so I rise to the occasion more often. I speak of the evils of oppression and violence, while supporting other forms oppression and violence. I along with other orators yell and rant about the threats to our freedoms while my government takes away the freedom of others. We speak of sacrifices that must be made. However, when I stop and think about it the sacrifices being made are not by everyone. The poor families send their children of to fight for our safety while the rich and powerful remain safe. Oh well, it must be done.
A year passes. I watch my government target people of a certain race. They torture them and hide them in foreign prison. There are rumors of beatings and mutilations. I ignore them. Even if it is true it is necessary in the name of freedom. Our enemies would not show any kind of mercy. Then they come for another group of people. I understand this is what must be done. Therefore, I do not intercede on their behalf. Although others do start to stand up. They resist. We real patriots know the truth though. These people are traitors. In a time of crisis one cannot question the government. I watch these traitors get shunned and brutalized by their neighbors. They are ostracized for their beliefs. Good. In the end they too are taken away.
The government comes for another group of people and another and another. Till, now I am one of the few left. I start to question the state of the nation. Now I open my mouth, and speak out against the fascism. But now is too late because it is my turn to feel the wrath of a military state.
They come for me with angry dogs and rage in their heart. They come for me with intention to beat me down like an animal. They come for me with grim intentions and all I can think is I wished I had spoken up sooner.

I am a coward. It is my weakness, and in knowing this I should be made stronger. However, my weakness perpetuates my weakness. My meekness and desire for peace makes me **** near gutless.

         I write to love. I write to dance. I write to feel.  I write to live.

I could have sat with the gangrenous, seeing the sawing teeth shred skin to cut further in. I could have held the hand of the dying; saying soft soothing words while they were vomiting blood. I could have joined the ranks of the foreign legion, became a non-religious missionary. I bet my writing would have been improved and all my other talents better used.

As I said before I am a coward. My heart breaks easily from poetry, movies, songs, photos, and tv shows. Imagine how quickly I would crumbled faced with the real reality. If I could see the seething rage, feel the ****** stumps, clean the bandages, while listening to their horror stories how easily I would break. Worse than Humpty Dumpty with smaller bits that crack and split permanently deformed, spiritually desolated.

I can watch the wicked human show from a distance. I can immerse myself in the darkness, but there must be a quick escape. I have to have a switch to click and make the nightmares go away. If I stayed, my thought would stray to the razor blades or pill bottle ways.

         I am a coward. I am sorry. So here the naked man is with all of his cowardice. I am sorry I could not be a better less bitter superman. All and all I am so terribly sorry for my weakness.

Bullets and bombs explode. Screams sear his tired ears. With every explosion the young man flinches. He is only twenty something but he wears the whole human history of pain. Every age line creasing to cover the scars on his face. Lines linked by years of abuse, which are mirrored by mental scars.
The voice in the back of his head says “bite a bullet, hell better make it two,”
The computer screen flickers with horrible YouTube videos. Each one marking some new or old tragedy.
“The trick is to turn away before you see too much.” He thinks.
Photos lay scattered across his desk. Little vignettes of human horrors. A homeless man here. An abused child there. Two war zone pics that depicts the tragedy of human ingenuity. Modern warfare swimming in gore and sorrow.
The voice in the back of his head says. “Make sure you double click.”
To the left lay a stack of stories stapled together. Some are fantastic works of fantasy. They portray a wondrous worlds.   Most are darker portraits that paint painful truths. There is a story about a lynching, a police beating, a dark society crumbling under the weight of fear and hatred. Tons of fictions that reflects this dark world, all his.
The voice chuckles, “don’t bother with a note, your writing says enough.”
“The trick is to find something to laugh about.” He says out loud.
A fake chortles spews from his lips, followed by a stupid sneer.
“Doesn’t work does it?” The voice laughs.
The young man bites his tongue. Smashing taste buds and drawing dark smears of blood. Merely a temporary distraction, but it feels good to him. Drips of warm crimson pool in his mouth. He swishes it around like some sick salt water gurgle. Then spits dark blood laced mucus into perfectly white porcelain sink. The red snot sinks slowly down till it disappears into the drain. Leaving only remnants of a terrible taste and slight pain in his mouth.
The voice cries” Blow your ******* brains out, you stupid ****.”
The man laughs, as a stream of stress related **** drains down his drawers.
“I can’t.” He cries.
“Why not?” the voice insists. “Just ******* do it. This world ain’t gonna get any better.”
Tears **** his worn out skin. Life has aged him harshly. Still, something new breaks. A crack cuts through the fuzzy haze. An awkward smile forces its way across his face.
He closes the Compaq computer killing the video, and bringing pure stillness to the room.
“You know for a voice in my head. You sure are ******* stupid. Which makes me stupid too I guess.”
“Why?” The Voice replies.
“Because” the smile widens becoming manic “I don’t own a ******* gun.” He laughs. “Hell I don’t even own my own marbles.”
He slumps down on the bed. Two hours of random racing thoughts keep him awake. Then the cool release of slumber finally hits. His sleep is interspersed with nightmares. Twelve hours later a calmer less worn man awakens. He sticks his tongue out and raspberries the desk.
“I am going for a walk” he says with a saner smile.
Somewhere behind him he hears a chilling voice say. “See you soon.”

This is winter. Low hanging leaves wear frozen dew droplets. Crystalline dots dangle precariously above the thin layer of snow. My boots sink slowly in to the soft slushy earth. Whiteness permeate the air, a cold but beautiful glare cascading across the infinite horizon. Across the flat field folds of snow sparkle like diamond dust but twice as precious for their impermanence. When I go inside, I know I will be blind, but it is better to be blinded for a bit and see such a spectacular view then to never see such a wondrous thing.
Off to my peripheral there is a giant ball of snow with bits gravel, grass, and mud checkered across its’ body and a trail of bare earth following behind it. Someone was either trying to make the biggest **** for a snowman, or just wanting to see how big they could roll a snowball. It reminds me of the old cartoons where some crazy character would roll a huge snow ball down a hill but the ball would bounce back and crush them.  
My feet finally sink the last inch in till they meet solid ground. The snow rolls over the top of my boots and then inside, melting through the socks, and sending a shiver of alertness through me. I crunch through the white expanse running franticly to free my frozen feet from cold and soggy socks.
A patch of ice loosens my tread and I slip slightly towards my front door. It feels almost like a carnival ride. I stumble struggling to catch myself, then fall back busting my ****, but it is ok. I brush some snow from my backside and laugh. The only damage done is to my pride and that will pass.
It has been a spectacular day. Deer darted across my landscape, stopping only long enough to chew on the bark of an old oak tree. The white specks on their brown fur dancing across their backs and sides. I love their black noses and wonder if it is wet like a dog’s nose.
Though I was distracted by my minor musings I still managed to see a snow owl swoop down just in time to catch a white rabbit. The earth spit up its cold dandruff from the impact. Bad luck for the rabbit despite its foot but an amazing thing to see on this end.  
Now the snow that stuck to my pants is soaking through straight into my underwear. I slip my black leather gloves off to pull out my house keys. Rummaging through each of my many pockets.
What a wonderful day. What a delightfully wonderful day.
Oh, ****. Where are my keys?

It took me a while to figure out why I am attracted to the darkness, human suffering speaks so deeply to me. It is because I am the light and light longs to evaporate the veils of sorrow that cloud human senses. It is because I am so deeply in love with humanity that I cannot abide it's pain. It took me thirty four years to realize and believe it. Now I know it is because I am a good person.

It is the end. I feel the fingers ****** my skin. Tight and itching, I tear the stitching, undoing years of anguish. Stuffing, full and fluffy, falls out red. Strangers stare, over there, unaware that the tare will expose me. I am ghostly, a ravished cloud, swirling in the troposphere. I am lonely wishing someone else was here. Lightening is my skin, searing, blinding, fierce, and then nothing. It hurts, a certain kind of liquid insanity, all red and furious. I would cry if I could remember how, but the paxil makes me an amnesiac. Not losing memories but forgetting how it felt to feel. My stuffing lay scattered a mad mess as if it never really mattered. I am a tiny teddy bear.  
Someone screams, and I laugh. Smirking as if I am in on some joke they know nothing about. Stupid people rushing about. My arms become heavy, I am trapped. Still, I laugh because soon I will have beaten the trap. A sick black liquid is forced down my throat. I throw up charcoal, is my blood now charcoal?
Tiny, tiny strings, sing jingling, leave me laughing. I won the race. I doubled down one razor blade and bottle of pills.

This is merely a memory, possibly the best one left you see. Time has stripped me of the others. What a wicked bother, however the photo restores the past. Sharp high heel shoes clicking rhythmically through the red brick road. The last true love that I used to know, our tongues intertwined tasting the last sips of the last drips of her cola. Her smell a mixture of musty books and mother nature.
            If I could go back I would rip her from those steps. Instead, I replay the last best kiss that I still miss, out in my head. I feel the warm softness of her moist lips as she pulls me passionately towards the steps. I remember her tightly toned waist. I retrace her hips with my fingers; making ghostly air shapes.
            This is the best and worst picture I have. That young man does not know what will happen yet. Life has not crushed his hope for love. Her eyes are still a deep celestial mass sparkling hazel, swimming with more grace than all of space has to offer.
            This is just my journal. That wet spot beneath the line where our tongues intertwined is just a salty drip. The last time I saw her my hands were sliding across the slick siding of the train as it rolled away. However, this is just my past, a memory that will fade as fast as I do.        
            I should have lept aboard. We should have danced on the train’s carpeted floor. We should have watched the towns pass by like our lives. The photo is black and white but I wish it was a colored, because I can’t recall if the parallel line on the side were black, blue, or a green hue.
            A distant whistle blows, as another metal monster rumbles through my memory. A few miles down the line metal crushes metal, glasses crunches, screams are muffled by the chaos in the distance.
            I rewind the memory back to the beginning, focusing on the last kiss.

With eyes of deep and beautiful intent she asked for language not just words. So I replied” What language would you have to elevate your soul and inspire that deep resonating force you call your creative mind. Are you looking for words imbued with force or more flowery and descriptive verse.”

There came no reply so I continued. “Say the word and I will dismember my already mutilated mind to find the right words. Find the perfect purple blossom, fold my soul into its tiny wrinkles and give it to you as a gift.”
Still silence reigned, taring at my deeply sorrow filled heart. For though I was full of affection she was not. Thus I ended” I would see the brown leaf, dried and crumbling, hear the strange music it makes, till fall winds carried the crumbled bits away, or they settled down to add another layer to this life. As a writer you remind me to look deeper into to everything, for that I thank you.”

Her reply was the quiet night. I let the truth settle. She saw no need to reply to me, I was but a broken petal. She was a blooming beauty full formed flower, an artist above my station. So I settled for my own company. A shadow sinking in the corner, with only lovely words to keep me company.