Description: Sam's not at all who people think he is. He might be quiet, he might be shy, but he also was diagnosed with cancer. When Briar moves to town, she catches Sam's eye. What will happen once the two get closer? Will Briar light a spark in Sam's heart?

-

Distant Memory

Dedicated to my cousin, Blake, who is currently fighting a horrific battle of Lymphoma.



You're probably thinking this is just some clichè love story, one about a girl having a crush on her best friend's brother, or how two people fall madly in love, but it's anything but. This is my story, with a twist unlike any other.

~

It all started in our Junior year of high school. You were new to Wakefield High, just moving here the previous year from New York City. On the first day of school, you were so unsure of yourself, not knowing what to do or where to go. I watched as you made your way through the halls, nudging your way through the crowded bodies as students made their way to class. Even though the halls were tremendously over-crowded, you were easy to spot. Your blonde hair and strikingly blue eyes stood out by the school's bland beige walls. You were more radiant, more powerful and glowing, than anything or anyone in the whole school.

Eventually, you made friends in all the clubs you'd joined - culinary club, photography club, and ASL. I don't know what made you stand out from all the other girls at Wakefield High, but whatever it was, it was strong. I felt drawn to you, like we shared a connection deeper than either of us knew. And it was then when I made it my goal to get to know you.

For the first few weeks, I'd tried bulking up the courage to speak to you. I had planned it all out in my mind. I would talk to you at lunch, right as you gathered your food and headed off to the library like you do every day. That was my chance, and I was determined to stick with it.

On that day, I was behind you in the lunch line. Once you got up there, you ordered a chicken empanada, then headed off to the library in the West wing. I quickly grabbed my lunch, a light Cesar salad, and trailed behind you.

You were walking faster than expected, and I was just too weak. I stopped, holding my knees as I gasped for breath. That was my chance to talk to you, to finally hear your beautiful voice, and I blew it.

It wasn't because of what you think. I couldn't keep up because I was lazy or out of shape, because I was neither of those.

I was diagnosed with Leukemia last October, and after tons of treatment, my doctor said I could try going back to school. I decided it would probably be best for me to live a normal life - as much as normal can get for a boy with cancer. Knowing that I was going to die soon - my doctor predicted I would only last for another year, tops - made me want to get to know you more.

After many wasted days of trying - but failing - to get your attention, I gave up. You were too wrapped up in your new life to even acknowledge my existence. Too busy maintaining your new found reputation, too busy dating a new guy every week. I always thought you were a ***** because of it, that you took advantage of different guys and then left them to crumble to pieces, but all of that changed on that faithful day.

I had gotten dropped off late to school because I had to get tests run at the hospital that morning. I tried to get to class on time, running as fast as I could. Only that didn't work because before you knew it, I was out of breath once again.

I headed over to the restroom, hoping a cool splash of water on my face would do the trick, when I heard wailing in the girls bathroom. I looked over my shoulder before entering, just to be safe. As I closed the door, I locked it behind me.

You were leaning against the wall, knees drawn to your chest as you cried. Noticing a presence, you looked up at me, thick black mascara running down your rosy cheeks. Your eyes were puffy, and I could tell you'd been crying for quite a while.

I didn't know what to say or do at that point, so I did what my heart told me I should do. I held you.

I sat next to you and wrapped my arms around you. Your body seemed small and weak, heaving in my arms. You cradled your head into my neck as tears fell from your bright blue eyes. I didn't bother asking what was wrong. Figured I would at a better time.

Just then, you looked up at me, face flushed and blotchy, and grabbed my hand. It seemed to fit perfectly within yours, our frail fingers intertwined in each others.

I tucked a few of your light blonde strands behind your ears as your cries dwindled. Even after you'd finished crying, you sat with me.

"What's your name?" Your eyes shone with curiosity.

"Sam."

"I'm Briar."

Briar. What a beautiful name. I smiled in your tangled hair. I never in a million years thought I would ever talk to you, and even if I had, I never would have expected it to be quite like this.

"You like Ed Sheeran too?" You asked, your eyes widening in delight as you scanned my shirt. I watched a smile creep to your face, lighting up your gorgeous eyes.

"Yeah, he's my favorite singer," I smile shyly. I can feel the heat rushing to my cheeks, and I feel embarrassed for acting this way.

Ever since then, we began talking. The more we talked, the more I knew how wrong I was about you. You weren't a ***** at all; all the guys you've dated broke up with you, but blamed it on you every time. That's how you got the title as biggest ***** of the school. I felt bad because you were one of the sweetest people I'd ever met, portraying someone you weren't.

I felt like that Ed Sheeran shirt brought me luck. It was the start to our budding friendship.

After a while, you completely changed. You stopped hanging out with the populars, claiming they were never into you anyway. And I found you enjoyed yourself more. I ended up joining the photography club later that year. Whenever we would go out on weekends, I was always taking pictures of you, catching the memories within a moment of time.

You always loved my pictures. As we sat in my bedroom, I'd let you pick out your favorites for you to keep, writing little notes on the back of each picture. Your absolute favorite one was that one of the two of us.

We were in a huge field, smiling as I held you in my arms wedding style. Your blonde hair flew around in all different directions and your eyes held happiness and joy. That was my favorite one too.

I had always had feelings for you, ever since that day in the bathroom, but I'd never have the chance to show you how I really feel. Even if I did, why would you love me back? I have no hair anymore since going through chemotherapy. My body's frail and weak, barely able to stand up on my own.

I had went to the doctors two days ago for more tests, and the doctor found that the tumor in my brain was growing more and more rapidly by the second. Therefore, I would be dying sooner than expected. I only had four days left. My mother held me in her arms as she cried, her wet tears staning my t-shirt.

That night, I called you and told you the news. You cried into the phone, and I wish I was there to hold you, tell you that everything would be okay, that I would be better soon. It was a lie, but I didn't want to hear you sad. I felt bad for being the cause of it.

The next day, I was rushed to the hospital after my mother found my collapsed in my room.

It was then I knew my life was coming to a close. I grabbed a pen and piece of paper, and wrote you a letter.

~

Dear Briar,

If you're reading this, I'm probably gone by now. I just woke up to the dimly lit lights flooding into my room, tubes and needles inside of me. My heart monitor is beeping weakly next to me, and I feel very frail. Cold, frail, and in tremendous pain. You're alseep on the couch right next to my bed and I watch you, take in your beauty for the last time. Your blonde hair is flowing around your head like a halo, your lips look like delicate red rosebuds. Even though I am weak, getting skinnier by the second, I make my way over to your side, kissing you lightly on the forehead.

I never told you about my cancer, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for causing you the pain of me leaving you. I never meant for it to be this way. All I wanted was to live a normal life, and you showed me that there's happiness even in the smallest of places.

When you miss me, look at the pictures of us, pinned to a board on your bedrooom wall. Remember the memories we've had together. Remember the way you always made me smile, the dozens of laughs you filled me with. You showed me how to enjoy life, Briar. And I could never ask for anything more.

You filled my gloomy days with so much laughter I could barely contain myself. Remember me like that, Briar. Remember me happy.

I never realized it before, but I've fallen in love with you; your glowing smile, eyes the color of the raging ocean. I'd never known what love felt like, but I found it with you.

I love you so much, Briar. Never forget that. And remember I'll always be with you.

Love forever and always,

Sam

~

Briar's POV

I woke up to Sam's heart monitor, constantly beeping.Looking at the monitor, I noticed his breaths were slowing.

I made my way over to his bedside, rubbing my thumb gently across his cheek. His eyes were closed as his chest rose every so often.

"If only you knew how much I love you, Sam," I whispered, a single tear falling from my eyes. I watched him smile as he dwindled away.

"Sam? Sam?" My eyes filled with panic as I shook him lightly. "Sam?" My voice rose as I looked at the monitor, seeing the thin red line.

"Help! Somebody help!" I cried. As soon as those words escaped my lips, his hospital room flooded with doctors and nurses. They surrounded him, pushing me away to see what had happened. But they didn't need to. I already knew.

A doctor with black curly hair came rushing over to me. "I'm sorry, but he's gone.."

He's gone... He's gone... He's gone...

Those words rung in my ears, filling my head. I ran over to your bedside, crying my eyes out and practically screaming your name, hoping you'd come back to me.

I lay my head on your unmoving chest, letting my tears soak into your shirt. I noticed a small white envelope on the table next to you, To my sweet love, Briar, was written on it in your handwriting. I stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans before heading out of the hospital, feeling numb and empty.

I reread the letter over and over, tears staining the white lined paper.

"I love you, Sammy," I said, looking up at the bright blue sky. Even though the world seemed empty without you, I know I had to be strong. For you.

On days where I feel I can't bear your absence, I look at the pictures you took, just like you'd asked. I never knew you would change my life in such a drastic way.

here’s kind of a funny story.

they knew i had hearing loss when i was eight. what followed was doctors and operations and more doctors and the funny thing is that they still don’t know why i can’t hear out of my right ear. what’s not quite as funny is how i treated it. how i thought that this was something to be ashamed of and hidden, how i thought that it was weak, somehow, to not be able to hear.

it’s hard in class, sometimes. if we’ve got some kind of discussion going and people all over the room are talking and i’ve got to turn my head, whipping around from person to person, trying to get my left ear pointed in their direction. i never make it every time so it’s always a cut, disjointed thing, the tail end of a sentence that i don’t have the context for. sometimes there’s background noise and that makes it worse. loud air conditioning or people whispering and i can’t focus, can’t hear, even when it’s just the teacher talking and i’ve gotten my left ear set up in their direction. i’d love to tell them to shut up but i’m pretty sure they think i’m aloof because sometimes when they talk to me i don’t hear them.

asking teachers for closed captions is hard. going up to them and pretty much telling them hey, i can’t hear, change your class for me, is something i don’t think i’ll ever be good at. and sometimes they don’t know what i’m talking about. sometimes they ask the class to fix it and oh god that’s embarrassing because i know it’s nothing to be ashamed of but i still am. ashamed, that is.

there are these old movies from the eighties that we watch in history class. they don’t have captions. the ones about china are my favorite because it’s like, that’s me. that’s who i could’ve been. and the movies, they’ve got these interview segments. people speaking in Chinese, their first language, and us listening. they turn down the volume on the Chinese and lay over it English translations of whatever it is they’re saying and maybe for other people that’s a good thing but for me it’s not. for me it means that the Chinese that i don’t really know but can guess at fades into this muddle of sound, English and Chinese and cheesy background music all mushed together in something that i can’t hear.

i still don’t know what they say on the school announcements and i’m done caring.

sometimes i’m sitting in the audience of the auditorium and i don’t really know what’s going on. school assemblies are the worst. rapping and fuzzy mikes and so much background noise that even if i wanted to hear the stage i wouldn’t be able to. all i can do is cover my left ear and try to ignore the faded feedback from the right. because it’s not rude if you’re not covering both ears, right?

(i can’t stand not knowing so it’s better to cut that off at the beginning. to make sure i know that i won’t be able to hear them with three-fourths of my hearing gone. it’s less disappointing, that way.)

i can hear the people i need to. it takes a while but if i know someone’s voice well enough, if i care enough to learn it, it’s easier to understand, even if i only catch an intonation of a syllable instead of a word. and they know. they know i can’t hear so they walk on my left side and i love them for it. if someone won’t walk on my left side when i ask them to i know that i won’t learn their voice.

someone tell me why it’s the twenty-first century and people still think “deaf and dumb” is a definition instead of an outdated relic. someone tell me why it’s the twenty-first century and audism runs rampant through people who would rather label us than know us. someone tell me why it’s the twenty-first century and there are still people who think deafness is an illness. that my hearing is something that should be cured. that it’s stupid, ridiculous, to be proud of a “defect.”

someone tell me why my ASL teacher didn’t stop to ask the class if someone had trouble hearing. wait, no, you don’t need to tell me. i know why. it’s because you assume hearing until you’re wrong and that’s so strange to me, because i haven’t been hearing in years and it’s not like i’m trying that hard to hide it. you’d think that someone who knows ASL would realize if one of her students had no idea what was going on.

the first thing someone asks me when they learn i’ve got hearing loss is whether i read lips. i don’t read lips. take away the sound and have me stare at a silent video and i’m helpless. but i can supplement. i can take what i’ve heard and match it up with the movement of the lips, the throat. is that an R? yeah, it is. did they say elephant? yeah, they did.

it took me a long time to tell myself that this was okay. that not all communication is verbal and how, exactly, is this an exception? maybe people think i’m strange for staring at their mouths when they speak but if they don’t know why it’s not really their business to know.

someone tell me why it took my whole life to realize that i don’t care whether i can hear or not as long as i understand the world around me.

that’s why math is my favorite class, i think. no lectures or explanations necessary. just me and the numbers and mathematical notation.

math is a class that i don’t need to hear in. and i’m most comfortable with the silence.

Her small round face stares back at her
Blinking blue eyes in the bright blue light and
She looks around knowing it’s wrong but not daring to ask why
While chubby pale fingers type in the line
“Chat rooms for kids”

She know that she is not yet old enough to be here
She’s only nine but she checks the box to assure the website that, yes,
She is 18 years old or above and, yes,
She understands that there is adult content present inside of this room and, yes,
Child **** is not permitted beyond this door.

But to a nine year old these letters on the page are meaningless.
She doesn’t know what adult content is or even how to
Pronounce the word ******* precisely.
All she knows is that in a matter of clicks
She will mean something.
She will mean something, and she will have worth.
She will be loved and cared for and praised and called a
Good girl, a
Babygirl, a
Kitten, a
Beautiful
Stunning
Delicious looking darling.

She learns new vocabulary terms but instead of words like
C-C-Contrast or
T-T-Typical or
D-D-Difficult
She begins to ingrain in her brain new and exciting words like
C-C-**** or
T-T-**** or
D-D-****.
She even learns how to use these fancy adult-y adultery words in a sentence like
“How big is your C-C-****?” and
“I don’t have T-T-**** yet” and
“I want to touch your D-D-****”.
And with every letter her tiny hands typed out, more and more men
Flocked to her DMs, ready to give her all the love she could ever need if only
In exchange for a couple of things…
Will you do a dance for me?
Will you say this sentence for me?
Why don’t you take your shirt off for me?
Show me what such a big girl can do with that P-P-*****.

And she continues to learn new things such as that
ASL means age, ***, location and that anything above 7 inches is
A good and impressive and “wow” thing and that
If she does what these men on the screen ask her to then
She will make them happy, which makes her happy, which means that she has done good.
And she learns that certain ways she moves makes them happier
And certain poses she can do allows them to show her their magic trick.
She doesn’t know how the magic trick works but it doesn’t matter because
When they perform their magic trick they thank her
And praise her and say nice things to her and
That’s all she really wanted.

She found a home in that cream colored background of
Www . chatavenue . com and she knew that even when the world
Was against her sweet, innocent nine year old self that she could
Turn to that blinking cursor and type a few letters and be able to
Feel loved.
And that was all she really wanted.

Help
I might be broken

Help
I might be lost

Help
I might be a dreamer

Help
I might hate myself

I'm here to help
says no one.

at what point wasn't it a way to bypass
the editorial scrutiny...
to directly engage with a reading
public...
why did i think this might be: any good?
i guess i only thought:
i need this out and i can't stash it
like a corpse...
into some damp cellar... like a morally
relativistic monstrosity of a sociopaths'
analogy of: "feels"...
   well, no **** Sherlock!
how i made the following reply...
is beyond me:

- believe me... i had more to write but i felt a sense of restraint... i'd like to see what a terse reply would make you focus on... so i'm scrapping the concept of handicap: heads up... now it all depends what you'll be choosey about... or not... because there's plenty in you reply i could quip about... well... then again: is being witty synonymous with being satirical? i'm not for intelligent / condescending humour on my part... personally i love the dryness of sarcasm... but then again: what's to like about the bluntness of nail-heads? just my take on... what exactly not to like about schadenfreude (what's not to like about schadenfreude)... i'd much prefer a humiliation of a leather gimp suit... so it seems: honesty is the best joke in play... there are too many stereotypes in England too... the best one i heard was by my Glaswegian english teacher in school... ahem... how was copper wire invented? two Scots arguing over a penny... like the stereotypical arsenal of deciphering the Jewry run wild in the realm of the gentiles... with the Scots... being our prized asset of: reverse stereotyping... i guess because knowledge of poor Hebrews is either a mystery or taboo... worse still... a mythology... and here i promised myself restraint... yet i'm experiencing something of a writing block and i... most probably found the most surprising alternative outlet... the eroteme lady - ms. query... so there must be nothing concrete about you... well... i too remember being a teenager prior to 2000 on those hotmail chatrooms where the acronym ASL could get you... all hot & bothered... don't take this the wrong way but i've heard that most writers, poet (i'm a chicken scratching doodler at best) reverted to the medium of correspodence... lucky you, "lucky" that i'm testing the waters on you... but don't worry... i've tested the medium with other people and wondered about their stamina... you are starting to gravitate toward psychiatrist status...  it's so strange though... not writing on abstract... blank... rather: inform sender... it's to them... all that *******, romantic or not... about writing for that one person... sure... **** it... write 'em a letter... don't mind about that trippy-*** poem of yours... you know? apologies if you come across as something of a punching bag for sounds... i hope no typos... well typos can be excused... ah these ****** articles about... wait wait... momentary lucidity... i was going to use some of this in my way of combating my writing block... the troubles in the english language... spelling... "approximation" drop the vowels realise: that's how the Hebrews wrote all along... treating their vowels like diacritical markers... the ****?! i feel like i'm being robbed in plain sight... because Copernicus didn't ******* realise jack-****... they pile it up with their Pope and the execution of ******* Galileo...  ugh... it takes some ******* nerve for these days to allow for this ****-centred kindergarten of events in man's... non-evolving history to continue like some: no ******* dodo exctinction ever took place... (agreed... the following are all faux pas... "invigorations") honey? babe? ms. anonymous gender fluid pronoun neutral... what's the informal, best? ms. avatar ms. harleyquinn the world's stupid? what are american stereotypes of europeans? come to think of it... that cookies is too big to take a bite from... you can't exactly base stereotypes having only seen tourists... since a tourist is a stereotype per se... i'd have to go to california... to get a californian stereotype... to georgia for the georgian stereotype...  wait a minute... Costa Rica... "hint hint"? Latino? that wasn't exactly... it was a fork in the road... the Sephardi... you're working from an avatar canvas... you're making allusions to... what i look like and it's like i'm a mesmerising doppelganger of al pacino... is there a chicago accent? i heard a lot of the ****** diaspora was lodged in that *******... i was terrible at accents... almost always a chamaleon... people still ask me where i'm from... so like this one-stand-up comedian in Edinburgh said... when he was quizzed about the geography of his accent... 'you might recognise my accent... it's... educated'... now that's that... isn't it? i could fake you an indian accent if i wanted to... perhaps a german accent too... but i could fake it... by the way... in these parts... biligualism can be treated as schizophrenia... just saying... somehow integration is not fully deserving the status that: not integrating decides... because... not integrating is... "safety first"... the dodo project alliance...  least of all... i've been dying to by a baseball cap with the Cleveland Indians old logo with chief wahoo... so stereotyping americans... it's beyond hard... it's like stereotyping Russian that are not in the vicinity of Moscow... some are probably Mongol remnants... their own idiosyncratic solipsists to their own... i'll take up my bicycle tomorrow and this drunken tirade will most probably fizzle out... i truly couldn't make up giving a toss about what's internalized americana stereotyping... not that i don't care... i just don't know... the currency of the nation sends me years and years of Ed Gein reinterpretations... what am i supposed to "say"? tomorrow i'll be up early and bothered about my bicycle as if it were a horse... but i'll still want to retain gravity with leaving you with this frankness of a reply... lobster-red probably implies if not simply implores: ginger and freckles... i like to think of suntans as serpents shedding skin... i suntan i'm a copperneck... i like the german sound on this... plus... it's readily available as compounded: kupfernacken... what's better? auburn-tease? kastanienbraunecken? i like the joy you feel with what you already prescribed me with.. that i know so little about you... that while i'm prodding you withhold giving me concreteness.... concreteness would allow me... disadvantage me to focus on "things" that are absolutely not necessary... so: i can focus on whether i'm not being pedantic enough and: misspelling...so... what's the stereotype surrounding Alaskan gurls?!

- thanks for being ascribed in getting my "mojo" back...for now...

- What do you mean? I'm surprised this is the shortest message you've sent. I was getting used to your drunk musings. [I say this with a smile but I know you don't like emojis or silly acronyms, and writing out "laugh out loud" sounds ridiculous... after all, you know how important sounds are to me].

- you just asked one of those questions that... is aligned with asking... 'what are you thinking'? the moral 'ought compass waved me a goodbye and if i haven't broken any laws to pursue the sort of freedom of though i currently enjoy... bypassing the need so stress a "freedom" of speech... writing is an extension of thought: not a prompt / invitation to speak... i'm surprised that you scrutinise the length of my replies... and were we to begin with? in the "easily offended" pile-up? well i'm still getting drunk... you're still an avatar mystery... but at least i'm waging a war on prosaic sobriety to boot... i guess i had to come clean at some point... i never write sober... i don't see the point of being: disengaged from the genuine (a longer version of a one word would have sufficed... but i'm lazy about the spelling... while at the same time... there's this critical theory approach done in some of the newspapers about english spelling... let's see if i get it right... dis-in-genius... for starters... disengenous.. horrid... aaah so terrible... dis-less-advantageous... disadvantageous... oh **** me... i wriggled into that one: all sound and proper...why ask me: what do i "mean"? - it's not that i don't like emojis (well, i don't) but... what the hell... there are better hieroglyphs to focus on than chiseled into pyramid stone: own... happy face... the Chinese were doing ******* x-ray gizmo **** at almost the same time... it's a focus loss... don't even get me started that *** = a Parisian hello with tendering the cheeks with... a labyrinth of smooches... my lips are my pouches blah blah blah... you seem to be enjoying my rants... i gather? i don't even know why to bother with an ask (question doesn't even do justice to how i'm framing this)...  you want to write as little as possible to properly excavate me... well no surprise... if light can't bend around corners... i'll have a look: none-the-less... emphasis on the hyphens... this poor down-trodden word could be helped with some "breathing space"; no? i "mean": 霜... shoo-aang... frost... i have dancing skeletons throwing toothpicks at chopsticks pilled up in an area of pine wood... look at this sort of *******... and here we are... cradling one of the old languages with "holes in letters"... to peer through... O now i see... B: otherwise: ha, ha ha ha... what's **** in Chinese? the Greek prized π... but what P & I look like for a farting, mandarin? hey presto: "@"... not even a western concern for "patriarchy" could have complicated: what's already too complicated... a billion people... a wall... that didn't keep out the Mongols from invading... yet a phonetic encoding system that... would topple each and every pyramid... from Giza to the cleaving of South America from Africa that can be staged at some Aztec "miracle"... i am writing (to) you like a bewildered person... because: why wouldn't i otherwise not be? so what do i mean? hmm... what's that holy trinity of statistical terms... mean... meridian... mode? i think i remember correctly... thank god i'm not going to apologise for being drunk... i've heard the stereotypes of drunkards with no future for thirst... the other thirst... the thirst for something beside their own handicap... i'd also duly convert to Islam too... i was cycling past a mosque and heard the most impossible sound of praise that will never escape me... but by the bottle i did: closer to the Jewry i am... contradictory how that is... don't want to stop drinking... uncircumcised... it's a really magical juggling act that's littered with self-deprecating humour interludes... aligned with norse mythologies... grr... **** me... now i'm attempting to "sell" you a makeshift tinder profile sketch... don't know... never will... never used: don't ask...  but i forgive you... for asking me: what does "it" all mean? it means we're for the thrill of it... it makes sense if we're still gagging for it... and we're not exposed to old-age closure cinematic scripts of solo cinema of memory... i like typing because i have itchy fingers... you'd probably like to hear me speak... no? it's exactly 20 minutes past midnight and i have a date with a bagel at 9am tomorrow morning... i still want another injection of truth in me before i do the  lady nox some justice and sleeping with her fiendish daughters... i mean... who does that... wake you up with a hard-on? never mind... i don't even know how to end this "convo": it can't be with a farewell... or an adieu... or a サヨナラ... oh wait... that's "goodbye, forever"... how does one end a half-way between a musing and a real person on the replying end of "things"... i guess like this: NARA... ナラ... short for narazie...  translated from my mutterzunge as: perhaps loosely... for the time being... for now... how else... to end my tirade?!

- So let me get this a bit straight (as straight as a stray arrow, that is): you only write when you're drunk (I'm the luckiest one to be at the listener - or reader in this case - end of your tirades as you call them... I call them musings); you have a fixation with words, even the ones that you don't know how to spell correctly (except maybe in a language I don't know so I can't really tell), you didn't answer why I'm ascribed to getting your mojo back (where did it go?), and you wake up with a hard-on. Got it!

- i've been lodged into a backlog: ******-town sort of: stalling... give me a few hours... although: ever wonder what: giggles sounds like... in the deafness of the night? i do... i want to reply you like so... like now... like this... maybe i will... maybe i will not... i'm gaging to buy one of those cleveland chiefs baseball caps...the grinning siouxsie chieftan....perhaps i want to relearn "how to": take the GRIN... a little bit more... seriously... no? **** it... i'm drinking as it is... i want to reply you in full throttle... straight arrows... and the welsh V of the longbow-men too to boot... chopsticks straighter... "straighter"... i tend to only write when i'm drunk... i abhor sober prosaic intimidation and... all the lies, subsequently...sober people don't get "drunk" on moral relativism of white lies? and i'm born yesterday, no? you openly venture into... a quest of question within the regards... of being... this only.... i almost wanted you to feel this sort of... an alienating increment... of... how i might pile on more detail... they are musings... i don't take them seriously... about as much relax as is a required: necessary.... i have a fixation with words... jurisprudence to me is merely a game of thesaurus ploy-tow... i spell i don't spell... i'm overtly pedantic... i also felt queasy when testing my eyes at an authentic testimony of the "law"  being "exaggerated"... "tested"... "proved"..i must have: lying eyes... no other eyes do see... no? i have a fixation with "things" beside the usage of ***** and strobe lighting...

you have my attention... don't you? you know... the last time i attempted having a conversation... i was too naive...too young... everything "everything" applied itself to being too predictable... i want to love again: but being in love is almost a weakness... i don't feel like being weak... i guess this is where the rekindling of my "mojo" ends... hello cul de sac...

new paragraph... ever hear(d) of the alpha and the omega "man"? i'm pretty sure you heardf of mr. beta... for all the worth of a totality of... man... i'm last... i'd forever be... last... i don't want to be first... i also don't want to be 2bd sniffing **** and crab-meat-... either...

give me the totality... i'll be satisfied with a "question" of
last... hence the expression: omega man...
didn't hey-zeus say?
i'm the alpha and the omega?

i don't write sober, i'n afraid i might lie...
you're not lucky,..
but you're also not... godzilla....

i "somehow" haven't ascribed you with the sort of details of: explanation that would allow you... to satiate yourself with answers... as to how... why... yllu managed to "mojo" probe me back to life? you.. the Faroe Islands to begin with? you know... they have this gimmick... on the Faroe Isles... it's not a gimmick... it's called// i don't know what's it called... skúvoy? but i'm happy to tease when the whales are slaughtered... the the blood comes a running: the lions also... apparently tease with a yawn... look at this word, though: grindadráp....

ever catch the giggle im der nacht? nein? too italian... no? ******* borrowed pollack: the self-depreciating... loan... not load... of bollocking...

don't believe yourself as being the sole recepient of a reply...

you're not lucky... you're just... available...

terribly botherome... isn't, it?

- i thought i'd make this a two tier reply... it would be a shame to reread what i wrote on one of my "escapades"... perhaps this... hanging-over... ha'h... more like hung, drawn & quartered some time to time... but believably sane, pleasantly morose - at evens with masochism... so reclining into a moral trip-up... i probably mentioned grindadráp - since i still have the window open on the phrase i'm familiar with... Sámal Joensen-Mikines... i most probably ended up giggling in the night... god... i'm just skim reading what i wrote... well good to know that i can only the best thing and sober up: simultaneously returning to a more rigid, conventional... formal use of language: that i might suppose i'm in a confessional booth... a welcome mirage for the time being... while i decide to wither away watching the old firm (a derby soccer match between celtic & rangers)... of note... i had this argument with the natives so time ago... the... Celts... but it's the Boston / Glasgow Çeltics... no? you're a girl that likes sounds... i've been following this current discussion that has reached the heights of printed newspapers... citation, sian griffths (gwif-if-if-ififs) education editor: new spelling ROOLS to make english more predictable for pupils... "we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the feelds..." see... i really admired Charlie Bukowski for a while... until he came out as a lazy slob who would require an editor to correct his spelling... there's dyslexia and there's just plain: hash-browns... for all my worth of idiosyncrasy that i wriggle in as i go along, most of which will not find common ground and a cosmopolitan outlet of users... for me, as someone who acquired this tong'u: i've grown fond of how aesthetically messy this toong can become and how readily available this messiness is... even London can become a ****-joke: Loon'dune... in my mutterzunge sounds are more distinct... apart from the graphemes sz, ch, cz, rz (ż) - i'd have to borrow from a Czech a caron to hide a letter or two: š (sz / the equivalent SHarp in english) and č (cz / CHatter respectively)... all these unique sounds... ą, ę, ć, ń, ó, ś, ź - Wombat ł... anyway... i just thought, sobering up... that you'd like to have a certain bulging volume of fudge to return to... before i take another dive into ms. amber and pass another night as w. h. auden wrote: only the hitlers of this world write at night... sure... herr auden... because the day is for watching football and / or cycling.

- à propos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-L5iefl2QtA

- If you share music can I? I'm sorry that I didn't reply sooner. It's been a **** last week and this week isn't any better yet. I like reading your messages, drunk and sober. When I write in my native language I use the accent over the vowels to emphasize the second-to-last vowel of a word. I love speaking, reading and writing in my native language, though I'm sure that I know much less than you would about languages. Shall we continue talking about sounds? How about sounds in my language? Of course, you have to guess if you haven't already.

- mind you: i had second thoughts about writing this reply... perhaps you can judge for yourself... i'm just not into having double-mystery encounters with an "avatar"... plus i made an emphasis on the point... what music were you not going to share?

sure... but first share your music... i have this thirst for Nick Hornby's high fidelity and being a teenager again... a teenager in love, again...i was probably the most happy-go-anywhere sort of person when i found a vinyl copy of Wardruna's kvitravn in my local HMV... which is: sunrise records and entertainment ltd trading as hmv & fopp.... given i already have the other chapters on cd - copied into mp3... (runaljod - yggdrasil & gap var ginnnunga)...  and given it's so rare to fnd a vinyl of this calibre... that some vinyls comes with an mp3 link... i thought: hell... i'll give this record the proper 3D aura treatment and not listen to it on headphones... or utilise it to "conquer" space... & just walking with it across a market sq. without a plastic bag to stash it in... i might as well have walked with a cat on my shoulder... because... who the hell still buys... well... invests in vinyl? now... coming to the language...second-to-last vowels of  word... you know... you can keep me interested without overplaying this "mystery" game... isn't the use of an avatar enough? i really can't comprehend a language that focuses on second to last vowels... without focusing on vowels: per se... just to reiterate... you didn't share a link to some music... you pitted yourself as American... i can continue being interest without having too many enigmas to sort... i have yet to find a language that only applies accents to, e.g. suppOsE... or maybe i'm just too ignorant to have come across a language that behaves in such a way: unless it's some idiosyncratic variation (of it)... you don't have to remain a complete mystery to me for me to keep engaging... there can be some sort of rooting in reality... otherwise i'll just return to my original purpose of writing: staging myself against a blank canvas and a barrage of sounds that i'll need to "un-spaghetti" into linear streaks.... i'm not going to guess: you'll either tell me or not... i'm currently listening to snake-pit poetry: einar selvik... any one can have a ****** week... for a while i was anticipating you testing whether or not i'd reply not getting a reply from you... and that, somehow, miraculously... i'd continue to creep-up to teasing you again... perhaps that's me dabbling in misnomers... no... you'll need to give me something concrete... i'm already starting to itch with a sensation that i better return to the canvas than keep this conversation... no offence... it's just draining me when something abstract could also be doing: likewise... but it wouldn't end up being a ****-tease... i could possibly create something out of it... not just so more: oh... oh? ** **: what's next?! i know when it becomes a brain-drain... a side project... it has to come with an excuse whereby you'll probably recoil with: but i had a ****** week... granted... but who hasn't...  you could have waited another week until participating in the timeframe of the passing of weeks started to feel good once more... if you only dropped a music suggestion... otherwise... thanks... but... no... this conversation is going nowhere... i think i'm just relocating my writing block elsewhere... all the best: in keeping an aura of mystery... within the realm of avatars and non-accountability... come to think of it... no... this is as fair as i could be.

this supposed "unique" specimen... not really...
i want to focus on what allows me to belong:
beside the unfathomable landmarks
of trees and mountains:
roaming stars that even my demented
grandfather corrected himself on...
satellites... no... roaming stars?!
well... i didn't conjure this **** out of my own
*** for pleasure, either...

back towards... falling asleep while listening
to the Hellraiser soundtrack:
hellbound...
because eerie is how:
i how how: "things"...
i'm so alone at times that it's beyond making
sense: it's about infringing on a god-stature...
status... this omniscient
contradiction that some Elijah bundled up
into... two crows croaked...
the tower of London can entertain 6:
so the king's ******* and the queen's
jewels are left intact...
for the successor to worry about...

we have these conversations but too bad
the girl is playing timid...
and i'm... gargantuan...
the length of a tongue that turns into an eel...
hands like octopus extension...
i could wrap her up in... bubblewrap
and start the puncture pinch-pinch ceremony
of not seeing the bubble float: up-up...

i have a sense of ego like...
a bad l.s.d. trip?!
****-guage-abuse? gauge? sort the ones
for the snoozing zero-toasts
and you have yourself
a new jersey smart: bite-off... not bit... though...

i could never have children:
not because i could never be a good father:
but i'd be a terrible husband...
how do i "know"?
i would never allow myself
to earn the amount:
she'd want to spend...
via solo: i'll spend on ms. cojack amber
and some ******* liquorice vinyl...
and a bicycle...
rubber-teasing: ****-teet-****....
when using the brakes...
when minding my ******* "luck"
on a roundabout with a massive twuck...

plus i'd love to **** more...
i'd love to **** as much more as
the thought-"taboos" discourage me
from doing... so it's a nice adventure: thinking
the next: moral antagonist, antithesis
of "could i"?
central theme? Lo-li-t'ah...
and i'm the second from third removed
uncle of the marquis de sade...
you want... you need... you have to orientate
yourself around the last taboo...
the one that's not associated with...
crispy clean antics of those *******
in their savvy leather gimp suits etc.

"power to the people": *******...
power to who owns what...
i'm starting to conjure up
profanities akin to:
but at least when they owned slaves...
they took care of their slaves...
they wouldn't want a slave to be rotten...
to be despondent...
trouble with freedom is...
my own, self-made... man...
if i were a slave...
i'd learn to bend the rules...
i'd entertain the fantasy of freedom...
while being constrained with...
all the benefactor securities...
i'd be owned but i'd also be:
obligated to a social contract of some sort...

so freely as to nothing be:
so averaging assumptions...
presumptions... so by nothing i unfree myself:
to... sort of quest to: "be"...
while the priestly class held back literacy...
within the timeframe of when
a new literacy emerged... of coding...
so double-up-on-surds... no?

herr gizmo l:)(}{
the realm of the three brackets... )}]...
one literacy replaced the old literacy
but in terms of retaining the old type...
the new type is... not exactly allowing
for movement of... hearts? is, it?
i still have to retain punctuation...
i still need need to perfect it...

but this is not conversational linguinie,
is it?
i stand firm in, stressing:
writing is an extension of thought...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's hardly an invitation to speak...
the past centuries haven't taught us
that literacy is a constraining beast of priests'
fancy?
let me... detail my limbs for you
in stressing this point further:
what good came from the project
of literacy en masse?
graffiti scribbling on brick walls?
out of what beside desperation?

such constraints were employed as
to: the person exercised in completely body:
usage... wouldn't feel like
a ******* hamster of a ******* ferris wheel
when push came to shove...
somehow everything physical became
lesser class: demeaning...
somehow we all turned into *******
fluorescent
      telepathic / telekinetic Chernobyll
monkey sorts...
and the fat "stigmata" is a what?
                  
  this world is gagging for something tragic...
this world is gagging for a world war III...
but... it probably will not...
"advise" itself to experience such a disatrous take
on prospect...
nuance in language can go **** itself...
application of misnomers for added fluidity can:
go **** itself...
you ever come across a choir...
and a great wind...
see a ******* shrink...

don't look at me for inspiration:
perhaps some jokes...
i've been more honest these past two minutes than
i ever was in the passing of a decade...

death the limbo of "sanity"...
esp. when someone memorable has taken off...
who am i left with? "perspectivelly accountable"?
grey-matter fiddle-through middle-man
*******... no?
i'm not sifting through that, murk?
perhaps i'm sieving... sifting... sieving...
sifting... sieving... get a dog! she says, mother, dear...
i tell her: it's legal in Belgium...
her father already cited his complaints...
i'm tired of the ******* optimism...
i'm tired of this "adventure" some cling to when
deciphering "life"...
an overrated statement of too many facts:
that's life...
it's not a ******* frank sinatra:
come as we are... would be: mea culpa...

troublesome sufferings of a tired brain...
too many pop ref. points worth of closure...
i bought a vinyl today...
i walked it down a market place
like it was a puppy...
in a rucksack...

that there's a hope... my mother is crying
this silent agony of truth...
i tell her: it's sensibly legal in the Benelux...
England is ****** by all accounts...
a dog will save me?
i'm becoming rigid... brick-esque...
tide-prone...
moon is the mother of my skies...
i might might what?
fall in love: to fall in love is to allow
oneself to be weak; to be... dependent on
someone: the concept of "other"... no?
recurrrency is pricing on how many times
that's... sensible to try out?
before it fails?

i fall asleep listening to horror movie music...
i'm best coupled to a ******* hyena than
i am to a woman...
to live under a false sense of hope
is a: welcome bypass to otherwisse living
under a truancy of truth...
as the life around me shrinks...
the abounding shadow of me grows...
and not as a patriarch...

oh ****... "i simply, somehow...
just so it happens... fowgot to... encapsulate this
offload whiff a wyme".

The year began with another funeral.
**** and ASL. That was it. That was the future.
By now, extremely adept at finding excitement even through second hand experience
I didn't want to make this any harder for him than it already was.
Once my father made a decision,  there was no stopping him.
I swept back one side of my hair with a comb and pinned the white flower over my right ear.
I felt like I was trapped in one of those terrifying nightmares.
Life is bracing with all its peaks and valleys.
there just isn't a whole lot you can say while waiting to get mugged, so I kept my mouth shut.

I haven't spoken a word in almost a month.
I don't use notes or ASL or charades
to get my message across instead,
because I have nothing to say.
What bothers me the most is,
when I finally open my mouth,
they still won't be ready to listen.

loved sensitivity

embraced & accepted.

no apologies,

only for the wrong
for the right reasons.

october, since.

when will he be well? . . .

will my absence be the cure?...

my distance the anecdote...

("no one can..."
"only i can")

for now i only b r e a t h e . . .

simplify, life.

live. preoccupy.

be myself.
(by myself.)

i will be a stranger for you...
i will make you see
that i am strong enough.

christmas, i think of you.

new year, no you...

when will i wake from this comatose

scale 3

"i love you" in ASL
but you never notice...

words diminish truth. actuality.
leading to our very own fatality...

words, a bleak & silent mid-winter for now. . .

reduced.

anterograde amnesia.

...how i long for a different state
of consciousness...

if i felt fervent fondness, would you? . . .

no...i tell myself.

i preoccupy.

terrified of the outcome...
what is supposed to come of this?
i ask but receive only hate.

"*******...easy."
"you're right. i am good at walking away."

"i'm not going anywhere as long as you still want me here..."
i reach out into the dark but i can't find your hand there...

ghosts disguised as words
haunt me
waking
or
sleeping.

years will pass.
you will return to wellness.
i won't say a word.
i will listen to every word
that falls from the lips
i've longed to press softly
against mine...
only to hear
that they're saying that
they do not want my love after all...

will i want the comatose?. . .

yes...i tell myself.

if i will not have you, i will not have anyone.

i preoccupy;

puffy sleepy brown eyes read millions of pages, beige.
billions of words, carefully chosen.
my feet worn yet hungry for many trails unexplored.
paint strokes left out to dry in the warmth of the summer sun...

you are the reason
i sometimes write two dots instead of three..

i have forgotten the sound of your voice...
but still i remember your caramel hair.

i squeezed your hand tightly
as our lips remained
ever so slightly parted...
sleepy eyes closed..
those flushed cheeks...
i'd give everything to feel warm against mine
once more...

do you remember it the way i do?. . .

will you remember me? . . .

i sit patiently
impatiently.

the attic is dusty,

i have been dusting
year after year.

i will make room for you.

i will love you so hard..

or i will withhold it,
lest you look through the windows
you will know...
but will you feel it?
will you want to feel it?

surviving.
thriving.
surviving.

i hear your sighs...
one look into those
heathered baby blue eyes &
you never have to say a word...

some day,
i will fall out of
this siesta.

bright-eyed,
a euphoric covering yet sadness simultaneously lives beneath.
heated flush yet bones bitten with chill within.

right person, wrong time.

a day
not soon
i lie to myself...

take your time
but hurry . . .
and wake me
from this comatose sleep. . .

No,
I’m not saying I love you
In American Sign Language.
Obviously,
I'm pretending to be
Spiderman.

I guess that’s what love is-
Caring for someone.
I mean, really caring about someone
Caring about how their day was, caring about how they feel
Caring about what makes them happy and what makes them reel.
So yeah I love you.
But not in the romantic sense
But not really like you’re just my friend.
I love you in a different way, not like a sister or a mother, either.
Like a Best Friend, maybe.
But, like the best friend you could ever have.
A comrade?
I don’t know, but I love you
In some weird, strange, confusing, caring way,
I do.
And I want to be able to smile with you.
And cry with you
And just hang out with you.
I...
I...

I don’t love you, haha.
Can’t you tell?
I’m just using the ASL
That you taught me
To say that I’m spiderman,

But my own web had caught me.

i bite the skin hanging off of my thumb with ladybugs in my hair.

last year, my mom made a wreathe of green and pink hydrangeas that she grew on the side of the house. they're dried up now.

i promise i'll make up for all the years i was supposed to be kissing you instead of them.

my eyes glaze over with euphoria from knowing i will soon douse my whole self in childhood.

ten years ago my father's day gift to my father was moving 2,429 miles away...

the sea turned into lakes, and lost it's salt and starfish.

i sigh heavily as i weave through the cars, another seven hours ahead of myself, and hold my breath as i walk through his cloud of cigarette smoke as he says, "you just coming in?"...

california hasn't forgotten about me...it waits patiently for me knowing i would always return
|
return to it's dusty air and beige dry grass, shriveled in my palms after i picked them out from the cracked ant-infested dirt as i sat "criss-cross-applesauce".

it waits patiently...i wait impatiently...

the mountains watched over me through every black-top-scraped knee and monterey sticky-fingered ice cream cone.

the seals slept soundly on the sun-heated rock beneath the obnoxious seagulls, unbothered by the tide-splash.

SEQUOIA NATIONAL PARK
|
KINGS CANYON
|
DINKY CREEK
|
YOSEMITE

the redwoods and i are related by blood, but they never believe me when i tell them. i can scream it until i am black and blue.

my hair looks like night in the evening, chocolate in the day, and becomes fire in the sun.

dopamine limbs, serotonin mind, and oxytocin heart.

i was never impressed by blue eyes until mine met yours.

eye-contact is a language in and of itself. but few are fluent.

i arrive at you fully made up and exactly how i want to be...
|
wisp and bisk rub off onto your clothes and skin as you love me whole.
|
i leave as more myself, seen raw and authentically bashful.
and to my surprise, i leave feeling more beautiful than before...

this morning i had to look up the definition of "LONELY" because i forgot what it meant.

(a week later) this morning i remember what being lonely feels like.

medical supplies is becoming my unfortunate attributed aesthetic, i fear.

i have never been particularly athletic but i would swim across all fifty seas for you if you needed me.

walking with purpose but mindlessly, all others only blurs i didn't bother to distinguish, daydreaming of your black shirt scrunched into my fist-

i notice she was asking me a question ! begged to know what smelled of indulgence and unidentified nostalgia...
|
: vanilla, salted caramel, saigon cinnamon, heavy cream, sandalwood, orgeat, ice cream shop.
|
she told me it fits me perfectly...sweet but subtle...niche but noticed.

eleven minutes left and feeling very corporate as i look out the third-floor window. neighboring building's & office windows.

the sky was cobalt but my skin was pale.

and you don't say much in reciprocal anymore...are you tired, my love?...

i cried when you told me you loved me.

much-anticipated days of strawberry milk mustaches, laughing until our stomachs ache, and sun-slapped cheeks.

eye watery, pigeon-toed in ***** shoes on the pale checkered floor. she's a summer baby.

i tell him i have known him for four years now, in asl from across the market (in my head, over and over and over again)

i only half listen as she tells a story of a woman who was obsessed with saffron-colored fabric. the other woman argued that the thread wasn't saffron, but red. in which she then stood corrected as the other explained how the water turns orange when the thread was dipped into it.

i miss her and her purple hair. i only pay her a visit when my bangs poke my eyes every morning before i curl them.

a box of chapbooks sat upon his desk touching a ripped manila envelope full of printing press letters.
|
"S"

between debates about jam v. jelly and strawberry v. grape jam/jelly, we dance as friends and friends only this time..

i recall, last summer tasted of cookies too-sweet, but this time it'll be just right.

our star beams & casts shadows onto your sheets. your eyes ablaze and your hair afire. i won't kiss you gently when you look that beautiful.

they told me they'd teach me how to swim, then left me drowning in their pretentiousness.

you held me down but i was set free . . .
|
you're more gentle than i thought you were.
|
it actually hurts thinking of you kissing someone else.

"she used to wear that shirt a lot." my mother told me. she deserved a life full of joy.

BRUISE COUNT: 15

BRUISE ORIGINS: WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, SLEEPING, SLEEPING, ??, ??, ??, ??

_ _ _ _    _ _ _ _ COUNT: 5

_ _ _ _    _ _ _ _ COUNT ORIGINS: LOVE

they don't know the valley the way i do. but i hope they will.

i take up as much space as i possibly can to feel more comfortable.
i only end up feeling more vulnerable. retreat or proceed

tears of fear when eyes should be closed.

i watch her weeping with poor statues of woeful beautiful women
with nameless faces and bare ******* not-quite covered by chiseled cloth. modesty.

my cheeks are flushed as glitter mixes with salty tears, making my skin itchy, raw, bare...

i lean over the vintage sink, peering deeply into the mirror in a dimly lit bathroom of someone i only met once before...

when i was younger i always thought that it was impossible to die in a church. i thought that being inside of it made us
INVINSIBLE . . .

when i was younger, i never really thought about how
birthday cakes don't only have to be "birthday cake" flavored
|
meyer lemon-raspberry, chocolate-cinnamon, quadruple-chocolate, key lime-blueberry-strawberry, carrot, german chocolate, red velvet !

the cars in the review mirror made a total eclipse.

you are the softest color i have ever touched.
and...
you still know me better than most, even if you don't know my favorite ice cream flavor.

logopoeia of ellipses.

i will know the touch of the rays, the slimy backs of 𓆏 after the rain,
and the sting from stepping on chipped shells in the wading water . . . . .

we facetimed
and it was hilarious
lip reading and asl
to communicate
cause you had poor connection.