I'll have to make it.
I'll find a little cabin by the lake.
Have some animals.
Goats, chickens.
A cat that prowls around.
And a dog that lays down.
I'll have a little gym set-up.
Free weights and places to hang.
There'll be a fishing pole.
With a box of lures.
Every evening I'll pull out
that box.
And pour over it a while.
Loot at all the lures and
dream of enticing new fish.
Then choose the same one as yesterday.
And yesterday's yesterday.

There'll be a little dock.
That's where I'll have my lawn chair.
And a fishing pole holder.
So I can write when I'm not watching
that bobber bob.

I don't know what I'll have to write about.
Everything will be okay.
It'll be a beautiful life.
Lived on a beautiful day.
That's setting.
Bringing a beautiful,
quiet, night.

Maybe, if I can't write,
I'll stumble off the dock
and check on my lure.
Give it a tug so my fishing pole
thinks there are still fish out here.

I'll hold my breath.
And appreciate this other place
that's mine.
The light rumble of windward waves.
The silence of everything living there.
And how like them I'm quiet too.

Not silent. Even in my dreams
my head is full of the trouble
I'm wading through now.
But maybe,
When I'm finally there.
My head will be empty.

Sinking slowly
Then shooting up.
All without a thought
to make a sound.
And spoil the beautiful,
underwater quiet.

Had to stop. The color outside
Drew me.
The air smelled like a lake's.
And I begged for the water again.
That's gotta be the next step.
Find water. Float under it.
I gotta see it. And smell it.
The dying light of the rain.
It makes me feel like
Dust floating.
A million different pieces.
Thinking for themselves.
Held together. Happy like that.
The water makes me see lines.
Connections between things.
I wrote about that in my little pocket book.
Flowers thrashed in the wind.
Didn't care.
Wanted to.
Maybe I can. Floating.
Looking at the water.
Maybe paradise is a the shore.
Atlantis. Happy. Underwater. By water.
I can see it.
Lawn chair. This book. Me.
Smiling or
Too happy to move my face.
Just laying there. Sun. Orange with the evening.
Sunglasses. My granddad's.
He can see it. I can see it.
Found it.
Paradise.
Fresh water. I'll fish in it.
I can run down and swim.
Far. Or float.
Not feel nasty when I walk out.
Let the sun bake the water away.
While I figure myself out. In here.
Paradise I'll go.

That is a horrible pen name.
I'm not a Frank.
I'm all thin, and gangly, and erratic.
I came up with that when I was
signing up for this website.
I couldn't put my real name.
I'm not a writer.
In a few years the people I work with
At my real career, won't understand
all this.
I'll keep these months to myself.
Burn this journal. Delete this account.
Put up a bunch of terrible peices.
Get offensive. Trash talk the
Couple of people that followed me.
So in the totally off the wall chance
anybody cared about what I put on here.
They won't look for me.
If anybody asks they won't answer.
Eventually, I'll have to Be as much of a
secret as the ones I keep.

Maybe that's over the top.
This is all about learning about myself.
But from what I know so far I wouldn't
push people away.
Or hide myself.
If somebody finds it.
Asks me, "Holy hell were you crazy?"
"Yeah but I'm better now."
They might not understand it,
But I think that sounds so strong.
If you've totally snapped in half
And you can recover.
Knowing how to put yourself back.
If you did it once,
If you're capable of it
...
I want to say "you can take anything."
End it there.
But that isn't true.
I couldn't take killing a bunch of people.
Or selling out someone I love.
I don't think I could handle prison.
Or staying out of school.
Or not doing something that makes me feel
like my paradise is following me around
Hovering like a cloud.
I have to know my limits.

If you know what went wrong.
And if you know what made it feel so awful.

Wait.

I need to use "I" instead of "You."

You didn't do it.
I did. I did it and if I do one
**** thing differently it's to think
and admit in the first person.
I need to hear the echo in my ears
of my own voice
making the excuses.
I want to start seeing those memories
- Of silencing the alarms
- Skipping classes
- Ignoring textbooks
- Stumbling around drunk.

I want to start seeing them myself.
I write this and I'm starting to.
I'm not living them like I need to.
But there's a lot to come to terms with
Before that.

All these goals and I can't write under
my real name yet.
This isn't finished. I know there's something missing in it.
Like the message isn't complete.
But it's not to anyone.
It's for me.
I feel like after all this rambling I'm
Still not understanding what I wanted to.
I have to end it.
I'm burned out and I'm done for now.

...
To myself as I walk out,
"Yeah,
Her son the waiter."

I think I could handle being without her.
Even in the middle of all this.

I'm standing on a road.
It's late evening, no middle afternoon.
But it's dark.
There's a thick white fog.
There's a little oval,
Of visibility.
Dark green grass on either side.
It could lead to woods, but the fog is
So thick I can't see any trees.
Just, maybe?
A mixing of shadows that turns the fog gray.
It has to be Ireland. I keep telling her we should go.

I'm standing there
With a warped face like I'm dying.
There's a heavy
                 rusty chain.
Wrapped around the tubes on top of my heart.
There's no one pulling it.
But I'm afraid they will.
And the weak tubes will melt
                                            rip apart.
Still.
Nobody's pulling.
But the weight is constant.
I'll get used to it.
Then I move wrongly
                       abruptly
And it swings.
And it aches.
And I remember
The pain of
What's killing me.

I'm standing on this road.
And I don't know what I'm gonna do.
I could walk.
With that swinging chain.
Or wait for a car to come.
I want to tell you that I want it to
Stop. Have someone rush out full of
concern and scoop me up lovingly.
Save me.
But the fog is awful thick.
I know it is,
And I'm standing here waiting.

The City. It wants you.
It was this, unrequited love.
But then you're a transient.
With all these dreams
Nobody around you wants as
Much as you do.
Then from somewhere
In the black of the theatre
New York shoots into your head.
You can't shake it.
The City wants you.
Like Jesus on the cross
It says come to me I'll save you.
These people want what you wants.
Come to me I love you.
For all your faults.
For all your hate and
Your cutthroat attitude
I forgive you.
I love you.
Let me help You,
Help You.

I can write the tired away.
I can out write the anxiety.
I can put down the words faster than my
head can put together, crazy, non-sensical,
yet nonetheless horrifically painful
possible scenarios.
I can beat it.
And be happy.
In the throws of my madness
AC's right
Insanity is painful
But it hurts to fight it.
But you can write it back.
I can put down all the horribleness
So it can't grow and **** me.

Save me.