Odysseus needs a job he calls pima community college art department chairperson sends her his resume she does not respond after a week he catches her on phone she says he lacks proper credentials laughs to himself his whole life never worked lucrative or reputable position gets job working at thrift store wacky group of coworkers customers store frequently smells like public latrine job expires after 7 weeks he gets better paying job working at record exchange Odysseus always loved music everyday he learns new artist or band his coworkers are at least half his age they pester him about being slow on keyboard he never learned to type neither he nor his generation could have foreseen future would revolve around keyboard he plods on register keys people smile politely kids he works with fly fast making many keyboard mistakes November 29 2001 george harrison dies of cancer he is 58 years old Odysseus recognizes he is from past world different era of contrasting standards ‘80’s behavior is totally unbefitting let alone ‘60’s beliefs it is 2002 and one badly chosen word is sure to send someone flying off the handle he watches his language carefully co-workers mostly born in 1980’s grew up in 1990’s they live indifferent to hopelessness he struggles to bear none of them believe in higher power music is their religion he wonders what their visions concerns for humanity are? they seem addicted to consumption as if it is end in itself he questions what is hidden at root of their absorption? loneliness? despair? apathy? absence of vision? where is their rage against social conversion current administration? he warns them about homeland security act privacy infringement increased government secrecy power they shrug their shoulders why aren’t they looking for answers? why don’t they dissent? do they care where world is going? he realizes they will have to learn for themselves few coworkers read literature or know painters philosophy their passions are video games marijuana “star wars” most of them are extremely bright more informed than he often Odysseus needs to ask questions they know answers to right off the bat he is like winsome uncle who puts up with their unremitting teasing “hey you old hippie punk rocker get you fiber in today? stools looking a little loose! peace out old man” in peculiar way he finds enough belonging he so desperately needs they tell him stories about their friends *** addictions eating disorders futile deaths he is bowled over by how young they are to know such stuff job includes health insurance which is something he has not had since Dad was alive having some cash flowing in he buys laptop computer with high-speed connection cell phone trades in toyota for truck opens crate of writings he abandoned in ‘80’s begins to rewrite story sits blurry eyed in front of computer screen his motivation has always been to tell truth as he knows it he wonders what ramifications his labor will bring positive or negative results? he guesses his story will sound like children’s fable in stark brutality of distant future october 2002 3 week ****** spree terrorizes maryland virginia  district of columbia 10 people killed 3 critically wounded police believe white van responsible october 24 man and 17-year-old boy arrested in blue chevy caprice juvenile is shooter assailants linked to string of random murders including unsolved shooting of man at golf course in tucson Odysseus mentions incident at work speaks of prevailing terror madness in america co-workers kid tell him he is crazy “did you see a white van parked outside the store Odys?” they seem desensitized to increasing national atmosphere of anger panic or perhaps they are overwhelmed by weight trauma of modern life lie after lie prevailing  havoc slaughter make for dull numbness in world they know suicide is compelling option december 22nd 2002 joe strummer dies from heart failure at age 50 Odysseus’s eyes wet he adored the clash everything they stood for loved joe strummer and mescaleros he plays “global a go-go” over and over listens sings along with first track “johnny appleseed” march 2003 president bush launches attack against iraq united states seems drunk with “shock and awe” zealous blind patriotism many people politicians countries around globe question unproven line of reasoning saddam hussein possesses “weapons of mass destruction” Odysseus gripes “not another **** vietnam” record company allows employees to check out take home used product Odysseus stopped watching movies in 1980’s he has lots of catching up to do particularly likes “natural born killers” “american history x” “american ******” “fight club” “way of the gun” “******” “king of new york” “basquiat” “frida” “*******” “before night falls” “quills” “requiem for a dream” “vanilla sky” “boys don’t cry” “being john malkovich” “adaptation” “kids” “lost in translation” “25th hour” “28 days later” “monster” “city of god” “gangs of new york” “**** bill” list goes on perfect circle becomes his favorite band followed by tool lacuna coil my morning jacket brian jonestown massacre flaming lips dredg drive-by truckers dropkick murphys flogging mollies nofx stereophonics eels weakerthans centro-matic califone godspeed you black emperor magnetic fields fiery furnaces dresden dolls smog granddaddy calexico howie gelb sufjan stevens warren haynes dax riggs john vanderslice alejandro escovedo sean paul elephant man bjork p. j. harvey ani difranco aimee mann cat power sophie b. hawkins kathleen edwards mia doi todd kimya dawson regina spektor carina round neko case fiona apple nina nastasia beth gibbons mirah rasputina dr. dre talib kweli immortal technique murs slug atmosphere trick daddy eazy-e tricky list goes on october 21 2003 elliott smith commits suicide stabbing 2 wounds into his chest Odysseus thinks about music when jimi hendrix stood up at woodstock deconstructing national anthem on guitar it took courage when punk emerged with ugly screechy sounds attempting to divorce itself from melodious harmonies of 1970s complacent crosby stills nash  the dead kennedys and *** pistol did not pander to conventional commercial success what they performed were desperate gutsy songs trying to reclaim music rock’n’roll is no longer about inventing instead it imitates its glorious past hip-hop and rap come nearest to risking rebellion but are caught in gangsterism infantile self-adulation no longer does music offer vision of what is or could be instead it conjures looping escapism from hopelessness of modern life he continues working at record shop for several years store contains every genre of music cinema he grows weary of retail sales weary of higher-ups constantly changing rules dictating what to do head manager is manipulative drama queen thrives on crisis once in private admits stealing from company Odysseus nods not knowing what to say head manager works Odysseus hard keeps him down atmosphere of conspiracy betrayal hang at start of each day assistant manager routinely taunts berates bullies teases regularly calls Odysseus “dumb-****” or “****-up” other times laughs after goading Odysseus to flinch eventually bully backs off and they become friends retail pushes Odysseus to brink of misanthropy corporation requires all employees to exercise overt courteousness while serving a public of disrespectful gang bangers demanding “show me black market brotha lynch mac dre why ya godda keep dat **** behind da counter? dat’s ****** up hey old man i ain’t got all day” it always amazes him when shoplifter is caught with product stuffed down his pants thief blatantly states “i didn’t do it i don’t know how that got there” thanksgiving through christmas to new years is most swarming stressful he feels like automaton greeting customer scanning product looking at screen to see if price agrees with product typing money amount counting money into drawer counting money out handing change to customer handing customer product receipt next customer cockroach capitalism packs of masses line up in endless stream of needs stupid remarks job also involves trade appraising condition value resale probability of cds dvds video games tapes vhs vinyl news of  iraq war gets dismal mounting civilian casualties suicide bombers hostages beheadings beginning of 2004 reports of torture ****** psychological abuse **** ****** ****** of prisoners at abu ghraib prison guantanamo bay white house cover-ups denials growing insurgency increasing u.s. body count other costs he thinks about men and women who are so much braver than him then comes re-election and lavish republican parties parades cheney rumsfeld tom delay and whole regime smirk portentously on tv none of it makes sense anymore “we the people of the united states” what does it mean? the dreams and aspirations of his generation have long since faded away he is citizen of forgotten past current world is barbaric place he barely recognizes there are real pirates with machetes rocket launchers on the seas big drug corporations hiding harmful findings kidnapped children abandoned children crooked politicians corruption at every level of society horrifying stories daily ******* priests slave markets extreme heinous cruelties abruptly everyone is acknowledging society is worsening life is not the same he does not understand people and certainly does not understand america or the world he remembers when all could be so good modern existence has turned everything into madness what happened to lessons of history? it is as if Odysseus fell asleep and when he woke everything is changed he is mistaken about what he thinks he knows feels pity for people america pity disgust sorrow he misses his dog

Janie pushes the metal book cart back into its parking space in the Document Delivery Department of the St. Louis Public Library and hangs the last sticky note for October 30, 2012 on the wall by the head of the department’s closed door. She retightens her brown scarf under her chin, tucking the wispy hairs above her ears back into hiding. Having your hair begin to prematurely gray as a teenager has dramatic effects on a person. Her mother wore scarves around her wrists when Janie was growing up and when Janie begin to wear scarves to conceal her salt-and-pepper hair, her mother just smiled. The clock hanging on the wall above the children’s section reads 11:28pm.
Two more minutes.
She reorganized the pens and books on her desk and set the box reading NOTES onto the right corner or her desk with three blue pens and a stack of note cards. Her coworkers learned fast that Janie does not like to talk. She does not like eye contact. She loves the silence, and never ever to ask her about her hair. Her manager gave her the NOTES box after about a month of horrible miscommunication and everyday it fills with requests for books or tasks that Janie has to complete. She completes the tasks one by one, alone, in her back office in the Reference Department and hangs the completed sticky notes on the wall by her manager’s door. She works the night shift and locks the library up every night. When she’s alone she can talk out loud to herself and those are the only voices she cares to hear.
“Goodnight, books. Good night, rooms.” Janie shut the heavy wooden door to the library, placed the color-coded keys in the front right pocket of her jacket, and began her walk to the bus stop one corner away. She avoids the main road, taking her first right onto a side street that she knows would spit her out right beside the bus stop.
“Goodnight Taco Bell Sign. Goodnight Rite-Aide. Goodnight Westside Apartments. Goodnight Jack-o-Lantern smile.” She stopped in the middle of the alley and peered up at the Jack-o-Lantern grinning down at her from the third story window above. “Mother wouldn’t’ve liked your smirk, Jack. She would’ve slapped that **** right off your face.” Janie, satisfied the pumpkin was put in its rightful place, smiled as she trotted on.
“Mother carved smiles into her arms and that’s why Daddy left, it is, it is.” She kicked at a crushed Mountain Dew can as she remembered that night from years ago.

“Mommy?” Janie pushed opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and saw the moving-boxes torn open and all their contents scattered across the floor. She tiptoed through piles of scarves and silverware and corkscrews until she reached the bathroom in her mom’s room.
“Come to us like rain, oh lord, come and stay and sting a while more, oh lord…” her mother’s voice was slipping off the tiled bathroom walls. Janie pushed open the door and saw the blood for the first time pouring from her mother’s wrist. Her mother was naked and perched on the bathroom sink, singing to a red razor blade.
“Mommy?”
“GET OUT!” Her mother jumped from the counter and perched on all fours on the floor. She began to growl and speak in a voice too deep to be coming from her own throat.
“Mommy! It’s Janie!” She began to cry as her mother, still naked and bleeding, twisted and writhed onto her back and began to crawl towards the door that Janie hid behind.


“Thirty-Three percent, dear. Just a thirty-three percent chance.” She shivered trying to clear the last memory of her mother with the words that all the shrinks had echoed to her over the years. “Schizophrenia is directly related to genetics, little is known about the type of Schizophrenia mother was diagnosed with except that it is definitely passed on genetically. But, there is only a thirty-three percent chance you could have it, dear. Thirty-three percent.” The sound of the bus stop ahead reminds her it is time to be silent again.
“Disorganized Schizophrenia.” She mouthed to herself as she stepped back out onto the busy street from her alleyway. She tightened her scarf and saw the bus pull into the pickup spot. She walked forward to the bus, again immersed in her self-imposed silence.
Stepping out of the February cold, Janie removes her wool scarf as the bus doors close behind her.
“Where to baby?” The driver smiles a sticky smile. Her nametag reads, “Shannon” and has a decaying Hello-Kitty sticker in the bottom left corner.
“The Clinton Street drop.” She hands the driver her $2.50 fare and avoids the woman’s questioning eyes. The night drivers are always more talkative, curious.
“Your ticket hon.” She tears Janie a ticket stub. “Everything is pretty dead this late, I’ll have you there in ten minutes top.”
Janie begins to shuffle towards the seats, ignoring the woman.
“You mind if I crank up the music?” The bus driver asks, purple fingernails scratching in her thick blonde hair. “I need to keep my eyes open and blood flowing and music is my fire of choice you know?”
“Sure.” Janie shrugs her bag onto her shoulder and walks on before the woman can say anything else.
“Route E-2, homebound.” Shannon’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker.
She shuffles down the bus towards her usual seat; second from the back right side.  Shannon starts the bus rolling before she reaches her seat and Janie can hear her singing along to “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. The bus floor, today, is sticky because of the morning rain. Two years of riding public transportation has taught Janie that staring at the floor as she walks to her seat is better than the risk of making eye contact. The bus is usually empty this late but if there ever happens to be anyone else on, it’s better not to converse. Safer that way.
She plops into her seat filling the indention that ghosts of past passengers left. The seat is still warm and Janie squirms around until the stranger heat is forgotten. She tightens her scarf and sighs. The brown pleather seatback in front of her is peeling towards the top. Janie leans forward and idly picks at the scab-like dangles of brown as she watches the sodden city canvas roll past her out the foggy window. As she picks, the hole grows. She twists and digs her unpainted nails into the seat until her hands feel wet, warm. Looking down, they are covered in blood and mud.
“What. The. Actual. ****.” she whispers, wiping her hands on her pants leg. She cautiously picks off another piece of pleather and a trickle of deep red begins to run from the seat back, clumps of mud now falling onto her knees. A puddle of blood and mire splatter down her legs and pool around her feet as she picks at the seat. Her white tights are definitely beyond saving now, so she digs faster until her thumbnail catches on something, bends back, and cracks. She gasps and withdraws her shaking hand, watching her own blood mix with the clotting muck in the seat, half of her thumbnail completely stripped off.
Looking around, all else seems normal. The driver is now muttering along to some banter by Kanye West, completely unaware of Janie’s predicament. She closes her eyes.
This is a dream, this is a dream, wake the **** up.
She opens her eyes to see the pool of filth around her feet trickling towards the front of the bus. Panic sets in with a whisper, They’re going to think it was you, your fault, you’ll be thrown in jail.
“But I didn’t do this.” She lashes out to herself. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Next stop, E-2. Shannon blares on the intercom.
“It’s just a dream, get your **** together, Janie.” She laughs at herself, manic.
Prove it! Her subconscious screams.
Convinced to end this moment she has to continue; Janie plunges her hand into the pleather grave one more time. Frantic and confused she laughs as she digs, spittle of muck splashing on her bus window.
Faster, faster, faster.
Deeper, deeper, deeper.
Realer, realer, real.
Wake up, now!
Then, as the bus slows, one last chuck of mud splatters to the floor and Janie sees a pink piece of her thumbnail stabbed into the white of a bone in the bottom of the seatback pit. Her white Ked’s were becoming so red they were almost black. She pulls her knees up to her chest and begins to rock back and forth. Clenching shut her eyes she begins to hum. Janie’s sweet soprano harmonizes with the buses deep droning purr, their wet melody interweaving with the driver’s alto and Lil Wayne’s screech made her feel dizzy as the bus turned right.
She take my money when I'm in need
Yeah she's a trifling friend indeed
Oh she's a gold digger way over town
That dig's on me
The bus slows to a stop and the bass is shaking. Janie is cold. She slowly peeks out of her right eye, expecting to be instantly immersed into the same dismal scene. The seatback is whole again. Releasing her knees, her feet fall back to the floor and her shaking fingers stroke the solid pleather.

“Ma’am? We’re at the Clinton Drop.”
Janie hurriedly picks up her bag and flees down the aisle to the bus doors.
“Everything alright, dear?” The bus driver asks, smiling.
“Fine, just fine.”
“You be safe out there tonight. The night is dark and only ghouls stroll the streets this late.”  Shannon laughed as Janie’s jaw dropped. “Happy Halloween, dear. It’s midnight, today is October 31st.”
The bus doors opened and a cold wind ****** the warm bot-air surrounding Janie into the streets. She begrudgingly followed, her mind spinning as she stepped onto the pavement. The doors slammed behind her and she turned to see Shannon pull out a tube of lipstick and smear it, red, across her cracked lips. Shannon made a duck-face in the mirror and reached down to crank up the music as loud as it would go. The bus exhaled and rolled forward, leaving Janie behind as it splashed through the potholes.
She surveys the surrounding midnight gloom and the street is quiet and dark. Even the stars are hidden behind swirling clouds. She begins to hum, hands in her pocket, and shuffle towards her apartment.
“Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, street.”
As she approaches her single-bedroom apartment, digging through her coat pocket for her keys, her thumb pulsates. She grasps the keys and pulls them out as she steps up to the apartment. Sticking the cold, silver key in the lock she looks down at her thumb and in the shadows of the porch sees half of the nail completely missing. She laughs as she pushes the door open to her bare apartment, light flooding out. Without any hesitation she closes the door behind her, sheds her clothes, and slips onto the mattress in the corner of the room gripping her thumb tight. She reaches out for the glass of milk on the floor beside her bed from the morning and it’s still cold. Nursing the milk, surrounded by blankets and solitude, she reminds herself,  “Only a thirty-three percent chance. A nice, small, round number. Small.”  
She sets down the empty glass and curls into the fetal position under the heavy blankets, pointer finger tracing circles on her thumb. Only when she has heated her blanket cocoon enough to feel safe does she remove her scarf and allow her thick white hair to fall around her face.
“Goodnight, room. Goodnight, mother,”

it's not that I don't
want to die anymore.
I still do some days.

I am still not okay,
but that's okay.

the way that I stay alive
when I want to disappear

is that I look for one good thing
in every day of my life.



this morning, I made
some pancakes with
blueberries in the batter.
I really like pancakes.

yesterday, the sunset
was gorgeous. it's usually
not so pretty this time of year.
I love watching sunsets.



I could hate every part
of my life, and honestly,
sometimes I still do.

and yes, there are still
bad things and scary moments
and breakdowns and pain.

and yes, sometimes there's
more bad than good,



but if I wasn't here,
I wouldn't have eaten
those pancakes this morning.

I wouldn't have seen that
beautiful sunset last night.

I would never have gone
on that impromptu road trip
to the city where I grew up in.

I would never have gone
to college, or even graduated
from my old high school.

I would never have learned
to speak Mandarin, or how
to play chess, or the way that
the gears look inside of those
antique grandfather clocks.

I would never have met
the love of my life.

I would never have realized
how amazing love can feel,
or that I am deserving of it.

I would never have seen
my friend's baby daughter.

he'd be telling her all about
how much I would've loved her,
and he would be right.

but I would never have
loved her, because we
would never have met.



there are so many things
that I still haven't done

and so many places
that I still haven't seen

and so many people
that I still haven't met

and so many memories
that I still haven't made.



and yes, maybe the truth
is that at the end of it all,
I will still hate it.

maybe ten years from now,
I'll still want to die some days.

maybe there will always
be more bad than good,

but there will always be good.



the reality is that I don't have
an endless amount of time.

the clock is ticking.
one day, I will die,
just like everyone else.
I can't change that.
none of us can.

when those thoughts
come creeping back in,
and I don't see the point in
anything anymore, I pause.

I remind myself that
it's not logical for me
to end my life any earlier
than it's meant to end.

death is inevitable.
eventually, it will
be my time to die.
but today is not that day.



so if I die, and one day I will,
it won't be at my own hands.

life is too short, and
I don't want to leave
depressed and crying.
I want to go out laughing.

I want to die with
some good memories,
not just bad ones.



so I stay alive for
all of the good things.
I stay alive for pancakes.
I stay alive for sunsets.

I stay alive for those moments
where I laugh so hard that
my stomach starts to hurt.

I stay alive for the sound
of raindrops hitting our roof.

I stay alive for all good things.
even if they're little, even if
most people would
find them insignificant.

and that's okay.



if you've ever felt
the way that I feel,

I'm not here to tell you
that life gets better.

I don't know anything
about your life, or
about the battles that
you are fighting inside.

I don't know you.
I can't promise you that
your life will get better.

but I can promise you
that if you look closer,
there will be good things.



stay alive because you
need to feed your cat.
stay alive to see the beach.
stay alive to find your
new favorite movie.
stay alive to read that
book that you keep
saying you'll read.
stay alive for the
warmth of your clothes
fresh out of the dryer.
stay alive because
the cactus on your
windowsill will die
without you there.
stay alive to see clouds
shaped like funny animals.
stay alive to find a
four-leaf clover.
stay alive because you
haven't beat your
high score yet in
that video game.

stay alive for yourself.
stay alive for your family.
stay alive for your friends.
stay alive for your pets.
stay alive for your children,
or your future children.
stay alive for your coworkers.
stay alive for the homeless man
who you give a dollar to when
you pass him every day.
stay alive for the people who
secretly rely on you, who
read your poetry and listen
to your songs and feel
changed by you, even
if you'll never meet them.



and if you have no one,
then stay alive for me.

I care about you.
I don't have to know you
to be inspired by you.

it takes strength to
stay alive when you
don't want to live,

and for that, you are braver
than you will ever know.



so stay alive because
you still have a life.

stay alive for whatever
you'd miss if you weren't.

stay alive because maybe
it's true. maybe you're right.
maybe things won't get better,

but you won't know that
if you aren't here to see it.

Air

  "I'll tell you what I've told everyone else.  The lake doesn't usually freeze because the air isn't usually so cold.  It was frigid that day.  Or more so, that week.  That year.  It wasn't a good one for Amie, she told me that.  And while the lake consistently stayed warm throughout the coldest of times, even it gave up that day, as had she.  It gave up and froze, the warmth taking Amie with it, lost under the icy surface. I know you know this."

  "Well, you have gotten us off to a good start.  I'm going to ask you some questions. What was Amie like at school that day?"
  
  "As far as I can remember, she wasn't acting in any unusual way.  They all ask me if I saw her smiling or laughing; pouting or crying.  School certainly isn't anything to cherish, nor anything to dread.  Amie wasn't some sort of intellect, she didn't want to be.  Or maybe she did.  She woke up at the outrageous time, walked the gloomy halls and did the infinite amount of meticulous homework-"

"But did you hear her complain?"

" No.  In fact, Amie was so monotonous in everything she did, it was hard to tell if she was truly alive.  She didn't talk, she listened, and to more than just voices.  All it took for people, including you and your coworkers, to become aware of this 'boring' life she lead was, ironically enough, her death."

"Don't say that. We were all aware of her existence in one way or another, and if not, you surely were.  You and her were good friends, is this correct?

"Amie was my best friend.  Not in the way your best friend is yours.  She was my best friend in knowing that I could sit in the same room as her for hours in utter silence.  I didn't even cry that day.  We weren't even close.  Our friendship was exclusive--the only person I wanted to be around was her because she was as human as everyone else but yet she served as my escape from everything human.  Do you know what I mean?  I know why she didn't hesitate the moment she fell through the ice.  And I'm the only one who understands because I am the only one who understood her."

"You said she listened to more than just voices.  What exactly are you implying?"

"I'm saying she could hear the earth breathe.  And you could too, if you tried.  It's all she did and it's all she ever wanted to do.  She was more than in love with nature and its simplicity; she believed that it was everywhere, alive and thriving.  I honestly don't think any person could ever make her feel the way she felt when she sat in an empty classroom.  Or when she laid on her driveway at night.  Or, the most relevant scenario, when she ran her fingers through the water of the lake in her backyard.  Amie may have been my best friend, but that lake was hers."  

"So this lake was clearly very important to her.  How often did she go outside to visit it?"

"Oh, every day.  More often than that on days she was home.  I spent a lot of time there at her house, and most of the time I would only watch as she went.  I think the lake gave her the same kind of escape that she gave me.  It was a beautiful thing and I wouldn't take that lake away from her even if it meant she would still be here today.  You just have to see things in the light that Amie saw them before you try to comprehend exactly what happened that day."

"Listen to me.  Do you know why you're here?"

"I'm here because you think Amie drowned herself.  And listen to me when I say that that's not what happened.  She let the lake drown her.  Willingly, yes, but this is a completely different situation.  You didn't know Amie, none of you did.  Even I may not have known who she was, but I knew her.  And I know that there is no other way she would've wanted to die."

"You're here because a girl is dead, presumably from a suicide.  It was you who, in fact, reported the incident a few moments too long after you witnessed from a window the disappointment in her face when her fingers touched the ice, which cracked beneath her feet at the center of the lake .  You watched and felt the indifference run through her body as the water enveloped her lungs, and this girl drowned.  She lived alone in a house with a backyard lake, and every other person we have brought in here sits down exactly where you're sitting and draws a blank after that.  Nobody knew Amie."

"I know what you're going to say and I've heard it countless times.  She was not depressed!  Haven't you been taking in what I've been telling you?  Despite her lack of interest in everything every human considered interesting, Amie was happier than you or I could ever be.  This is because, unlike us and everyone else in the world, she didn't need people to be happy.  I am like her in many ways except that because I needed her.  Shes gone but i'm ok because i still find her in the littlest things i see or hear, and she taught me how to do that.  She was and still is everything good in my life and subconsciously in yours, too."

"I don't think you have been taking in what I'm telling you.  Please listen to me.  You might not think so right now, but Amie was sad.  she was helpless and broken and without words, no one could hear her cry.  Amie, this girl who loved nature, this girl who didn't need people, who passed all of her classes in school but barely spoke, who lived in a perfect house with her beloved backyard lake, who no one really knew about, this girl is you.  And you're still alive."

"Wait, stop.  What are you talking about? I told you she was my best friend-"

"I know you love this lake and I know you have no one to live for but you have to believe that whether or not you need people, people need you.  You said it yourself.  YOU need you."

"No, I'm fine, I'm here in this room and I'm alive and-"

"You need to swim.  Swim towards the surface."

"I-"

"Amie, you need to press your hands against the ice.  Press it and push up.  Push!"


And suddenly, there was air.

I once struck a man in anger, with a small statuette.
I dropped it to the floor as he fell, too, and watched the blood flow from his head.
Though as I gazed at the pool of crimson and began to realize what I had done,
I felt a snap and saw a vision:

I saw every drop of his blood.
It was inside his body, flowing, coursing, full of life and giving life.
He grew to raise a family, love his wife, and love his kids.
He helped his coworkers and encouraged them.
He donated to charities, and those charities helped many.
Some of those many improved their lives and helped many more.
As his sons, daughters, wife, and coworkers also were given life by him and gave life,
I saw his blood flow into their veins and spread, infecting countless others with love.
Houses filled with light and laughter
Streets were peopled by happy beings.
A woman comforted a girl in the loss of a friend, holding the sobbing face to her caring chest.
A poor man gave his only coat to a cold orphan boy on the curb, smiling through weathered lips.
I saw all this life,
And it was an ocean.

A flash of light and sound, and I saw another vision:

I saw every drop of his blood.
It was outside his body, flowing, coursing, void of life and stealing life.
As it touched me, I joined it as blood, boiling and bubbling with hate.
As our blood ran down the busy metropolis street of life, it would touch people it came across.
When it did so, they would melt also into a mass of red, splashing outward, and infecting others.
Everyone touched would gasp and turn to scarlet, turning the shop-lined street into a river of blood.
Countless lives were consumed in this manner.
At one point, I finally pooled at the bottom of the street, and stared back from where I came.
The street was now dark and desolate, the bustling life gone.
The shops empty, the skies grey, the ground littered.
A finch plucked strands from a red-stained straw hat, to make a bed of death.
A mangy alley dog lapped up the blood that still coated the street, becoming only more hideous.
And all was quiet, and I was utterly alone, but for the screams of their blood in my ears.
I saw all this death,
And it was an ocean.

A jolt, and I opened my eyes.
I found myself staring at the blood running from the man’s head in front of me.
A few seconds later and I realized again what I had done.
But I realized something else as well.
I tore my shirt and tightly wrapped his head in the cloth.
I lifted him up and took him to the hospital.
There I sat and awaited my punishment.
And took joy in life.

There's an autistic guy
sitting in the booth next to me,
he works in a different zone,
but they keep piling loads
of meticulous **** on him
& he does it lickity split
with a smile on his face.
Who knew he'd be
so proficient.

Funny, it's no joke
how the rest of my
coworkers whine
when they don't
get their smoke break
with so much
of their work
left to do.

Each sorrow is the child of a happiness
you thought would never end;
Every happiness is a sadness
I may not survive—
a brilliant October day
lying back in dock hammock suspended
quoting bits of Rilke and starlight anthems
the shadows cast by buildings and frogs
ink drawings made on August nights
by our beautiful chain-smoking artistette
admiring a giant spider friend who’d
spun her majestic web and vanished
while we were swimming
backdrop of bay and boys and cherries
creaky boardwalks under bare feet
and stickiest pine and sand darkness
photos over wing clouds below
creepy call to prayer from ancient Mosque
at twilight punctuating strange dreams
perfect reconciliation on hotel balcony
McDonald’s after soaring from Black Sea
to Bosporus Straight, edge of Asia
visible on the horizon and all of life
a nightmare from which I can’t get woke
terrorized by ***** donor bonesaws
homophobic maternal afternoon rejection
peace that passeth no understanding
when you’re a ******* genius or just
a few points lower sorry never enough
compassion leaking through pores
drawn out by steam more darkness
Eucalyptus perfumed
another flaccid experience on a stranger’s
bed recalling Hippocrates on the drive
away after more bad ***
shots of sauces and grilled roasted
poached lentils bespoke chickens finery
malodorous wafts limestone smoothed
by centuries of acidity oily tourist touches
but they’re in Mexico Australia India
we’re back at home twins calling
each day an error of time rounded off
the incorrigible quark refusing
to cooperate with Einstein choosing its
own entangled path and lighting fools
what beautiful skyline
what amazing celebrity capture
what nostalgic group assemblage
what **** cute puppy who’s no more pup
what swanky tailored look
what smiles what smiles what seriousness
the soft and supple features curves lines
practiced looks and wayward hairs
a simple flourishing according to the lens
so much that skin conceals and eyes
beer garden sidewalk orations
wedding after party for April fools
we were who dance grabbing rings
swinging wildly discussing the vulgarities
of gastronomy and digestion
tumbling into diners midnight offices
brick lined streets magical talks
demonstrations and ideas unbounded
carving pumpkins into likable politicians
we think are statesmen and wailing
when she loses winning a trophy case
buckling under weight of moral victory
the thought of skyscrapers lit
shining under heaven unsubtle insinuation
we’re better than all this nonsense
and stronger having raised this glass
and steel by our own hands, our parents
rather now maybe that’s confusion
erecting higher stairwells to escape
encroaching seas and bums below
all memory all happy every laugh
each rumination on the hours
kisses cocktails cuddles laughter
that perfect vest completed outfit
those thrift store jeans that shirt
that secondhand one speed bike
those lunches with the priest
those brunches with the students
those happy hours with the coworkers
those dinners with the beard
all interchangeable parts in show
theater of recollection one subway car
one taxi ride one bus to NY or DC
one flight to Seattle or Vegas
or some Floridian seascape, mansion
each cog or bit like paper currency
imbued with no value but buying
the totality of lived experience
from which to draw upon in sad elsewhere
—but they cut deep, well meaning though
whenever was now isn’t and can is blind
to what day will ever be when I can say
in truth now sadness isn’t.

We all live our lives
Hidden behind the masks we switch out based on who we're around:
Fake smiles for friends and family;
Painful, quiet thoughtfulness for coworkers, employers, and educators;
Horrible secrets we keep from everyone we meet;
From everyone we love

And sometimes, these masks are gorgeous,
Like those you'd see at a masquerade.
Masks that mimic what's really there,
Yet hide it from sight as well.
And everyone who wears these masks
Will look and a mirror and think to themselves:
"Who am I? Why don't I recognize this person reflected back at me?"
It's the mask.

We wear the mask.
We hide behind it.
But when did the mask become us?
When did it become everything we are?
When did these masks start taking control?
Will we let this continue?

When does it stop?

The beaten path is hardest to go alone but it makes one stronger. One never wants to admit to oneself that misery is the predecessor to change, ushering it like the pilot ushers the plane down upon the runway.  This is a new destination you'd never have known. That is why we go up and then down, otherwise you wouldn't care for clouds. They'd be like stop signs posted on every street of every town you can't escape from. Don't you think whales like to take a dip in our atmosphere with the same exhilaration we dive down into their ocean? Marine life has it's trials, it all seems so buoyant and peacful, but its another jungle down there. Beautiful until you live it and predators lurk every corner and algae field. Everyone eating the next guy, if its your residence, it is no vacation. Its not so simple just cuz they've not got rent to pay and corrupt politics. Babies on the way while no financial burden make most species crazy. Try being a single mother just trying to keep your kids well enough hidden just to go off to find good eats for them. They have very emotional lives out there, full of pain and suffering. If whales could get drunk, mermaids would charge and set up breweries. But the ocean would dilute any profits, and two tons of blubber each would call demand too high and so whales throw themselves into our world just to escape. They could gulp the air so low key, surfacing like submarines, instead they splash mountains with their ferve, the same way we get down, tossing cares across dance floors. And we wonder why when  they take a breath, they reach for the sky, they just want to be free, where nothing of their world can touch them. And we wonder why when it's not enough, they just give up, just like us. Massive escapists desensitizing to the joys in the depths of their waters. We wonder why we find them so sad layed up on our beaches, you see it in their despondent eye. They just want to die in that memory of exhiliration. One. Last. Time. But they're not happy. Cuz they were always chasing a high that fleetingly springed them from all worry. They lay knowing its the last time and they wonder what's gonna become of them when its all over. They just figure what lays on the otherside, or even nothing has got to be better. Maybe they're right,  or maybe all the off kilter chemicals got the better of them. Full moons got them all emotional just like us, gravity pulling all their painful memories to the surface, pulling them up out of the ocean all hopeless. Shoot maybe some of them dont even mean it, they were just so tired of the krill or baby seal murda life, or sharks poaching their babies and needed longer and longer til oneday they got too sleepy and the tide snuck down too low. Like when I pass out in the shower when it's hot enough, I swear I was about to get out..then, ****. Maybe that's why they're so ******* sad. They didn't mean for it to be over, they just got caught up in that feeling. I bet the old ones though go on purpose, just to spite the sharks that took their babies out they'd rather rot in the sea breeze they loved. Or maybe they're so depressed at the loss of their child they just want it to be over. They carry their babies in their bellies just like us, I bet they get depressed like us or the smarter dogs. Being a whale, or any sober creature can be very hard, but at least if you're not running from it, you might see through the storm for the beauty of its strength, releasing fear to just stand in awe of it. You can learn to cope with pain in at least better measure to sprinting in laps, without intention, you're just on the track, even if its as vast as the pacific, adriatic, atlantic, doesnt matter all the waters you cross, they all just ran back into themselves. See, the whale can only cope, no emotional escape route, so no matter what comes, whale is miles wiser. Their calls sound a little sad but so hauntingly beautiful. Do not beach yourself humans, in your little ways everyday. Stop feeding this disbelief in yourself. You were given this brain to choose to overcome this pain, to communicate in new ways. If you get tired of something just cuz you're used to it, you've done fell off your rock, you slipped to drown in your own riptide, to get pummeled to death. Or as my Papa woulda said, you're not playing with a full deck. You drown in intoxicant, whatever your vice, liquor, uppers, downers, shopping, food, flirting, ******* to numb life's beating. You're running from sobriety, from reality, from those people you don't love anymore cuz they can't jive with your illusions. You'll look for every reason why your psyches not the problem. If you'd not only accept but seek the need to heal,  you wouldn't need constant change of scenery just to feel something, to feel snippets of sanity, mini vacations from your daily miseries. New people, places and substances are just so exhilarating, cuz you can't handle yourself. If you could, each listed above would be blessings of oneness, not necessity. Running is only blocking your life from mattering as much as it should. You squander potential wandering in circles inside yourself. I smoked **** habitually since I was twelve, it didn't really hurt me right, just my dump trucked loads of brain cells? Wrong! Sobriety is the hardest but most rewarding excursion so far. I delight everyday in the opportunities I can receive just cuz I can think so clearly. I have an occasional shot or glass of wine with coworkers and think God I feel good. Then go home and think and plot, how can I attain that joy without consuming a dollar, compromising my body?  How can I be so at home in my skin that I don't need that just to feel like this?  I'll let you know if I ever figure it out. It's the big ******* mystery, isn't it. I THINK my point is,  we would never know what's so good to be cherished if we always had it made. They call it a beautiful struggle, and i really think they're onto God with that one. Wherever your feet lay, next time you look down at them in dismay, remember your pain is the best teacher you never had to pay.  It makes you great, it makes you an epic ******* trilogy of the past present and future.  You'll get through this day, I promise you. Whatever it proves to be to you, I pray oneday you hold the kingdom. Oneday you'll praise yourself for holding on. Oneday you'll stop running. You'll just wake up and feel at home inside yourself how the wise whale makes peace with the ocean. Tempering the binges to the surface. As above so below. You just have to find the thrill within the hand you're dealt and make yourself better for it.

Be patient.
     His heart is guarded and he has built walls around himself to keep others out. He deflects with humor and light words, he deflects by always being “okay”, he deflects by comically dunking on you—but one day his dams will break and his walls will crumble. You need to be patient for the day that this will happen. You need to be patient for the day that he will truly let you in, let you peek at his raw emotions, let you marvel at his strengths and weaknesses. Maybe it will not happen all at once, maybe it will happen as slowly as a river carves a canyon out of rock. You must be patient with him.

Be kind.
     He needs kindness like we all need air to breathe. He might not always think so, but he needs kind words, encouraging messages, thoughtful gestures. He needs kindness, the world hasn’t shown him enough of it.

Be compassionate.
     He pretends he doesn’t need these kind, gentle touches and kind, gentle words but he does. He is a desert parched for soft rainfall—give it to him. Be compassionate when he opens up about his mental health, his deepest fears, his family, and those who he loves. He is a man who loves deeply, and you must love deeply too. He is a man who cares deeply, and you must care deeply too.

Be understanding.
     He carries a lot of pain and a lot of tragedy—he has been dealt bad hand after bad hand. But he is trying. He is growing. He is making progress. Be understanding of his needs and his journey, be understanding of him.

Be resilient.
     He will try to shut down his feelings and shut out the world—it’s his tried and true way of survival. Don’t leave him just because he needs to do a hard reset on his emotions. Don’t leave him just because he seems like he’s okay. Don’t leave him just because he’s quiet when it rains. Don’t leave him just because he tries to push you away in his silence. Be resilient and never ending in your reassurance of him. Remind him quietly, or loudly, that he is yours and you’re not leaving.

Be honest.
     You must continually be honest because he’s been lied to, too many times. You must be honest and forceful whenever he refuses to accept compliments, because his truth about himself is poisoned by the pain he’s carried around in his lifetime. You must be honest with what you’re feeling, he just wants to help you and he cannot read your mind. You must be honest in letting him in. You must trust him and be honest in return.

Be yourself.
     He has no tolerance for fake smiles, fake feelings, or fake people. He has no need or want for mistruths, half-spun lies, or false claims. He needs authenticity. He needs someone who is genuine. He needs someone who said what they said and did what they did...maybe someone with the ability to know if they were wrong but not lie about their missteps. He needs someone who will show him all of their highs and lows, someone who will be unafraid of who they are, someone who will proudly be who they are instead of who they think he wants.

Be strong.
     He has been strong for everyone else for far too long. He needs someone to lean on, someone to support his aching arms, someone strong enough to share the weight he carries. He needs someone that will allow him to feel as deeply as he needs to, to be as weak as he needs to be. Be strong and be bold—for he is strong and bold, and needs the same to thrive.

Be hungry.
     He has a hunger for life, for laughter, for enjoyment, for smiling, for telling stories, for eating at his favorite Mexican places, for playing his favorite games. He has a bottomless hunger for affection, for great hamburgers, for passion, for art, for beautiful words, for learning new things, for dogs & cats, for white chocolate mochas, for jokes. You must be hungry enough to keep up with his appetite.

Be protective.
     He has been hurt too many times and he needs shelter from the world. He still cares so readily, so openly, and still gets hurt time and time again. Be protective of his sweetness, his softness, of his gentle moments. Be protective of his weaknesses, his shortcomings, of his darkest moments. Keep them safe, hold them close to you and protect them. Keep him safe, hold him close to you and protect him.

Be ready. Of course be prepared, but also:
   Be ready to laugh. He is the funniest man I know. He uses humor to show those around him that he cares. He uses humor to show those around him that he’s okay. He wields humor like a knight wields a sword to protect himself and others. Be ready to laugh, but be ready to see through his humor.      
     Be ready to adventure. He needs adventure. He needs little adventures throughout the days and months in trying new things and going new places. He needs big adventures to draw him out of his comfort zone, to take him to new cuisines and maybe new countries.
     Be ready to love. You will fall in love with him and his ocher eyes and calloused hands and strong shoulders. You need to be ready, because whether that love happens all at once like summer storm-clouds pour rain on cornfields or whether it grows slowly from a seedling to a honeysuckle vine twining through your heart and squeezing it, you will fall in love with him and you must be ready.
     Be ready to wake up early. He is a morning person and he wants someone to fix him/help him fix/help him pick breakfast. He is a morning person that wants to roll around in the sheets and play with your hair and skim his hand up and down your arm while you’re half awake. He is a morning person who wants to listen to music to start his day even though he almost never sings in the shower. He is a morning person by necessity who has come to love it by nature; try to get up and see sunrises with him, try to get up and share the breakfast table with him, try to get up and see him first thing in the morning with sleep in the corner of his eyes and a deep rumble in his chest.
     Be ready to listen. He has so many stories in his mind, in his eyes, and on his tongue that need to be told. From the stories of his day, the jokes of his coworkers, the songs he loves, the recipes he watches, the feelings he shares, the games he loves, right down to the things he doesn’t say aloud...he needs someone ready to listen.

Be steadfast.
     He needs commitment. He needs a white picket fence and a dog and two or three children. He needs someone to always hold his hand and stand by his side. He needs someone unafraid of his darkness. He needs someone steadfast, brave, loyal, etc. He needs someone to call his home. He needs someone who will look a storm in the eye, adjust her sails, and drop her anchors where she stands.

Be good.
     Actually, be better than good. Be better than great. He only deserves the best this world has to offer. Too often he is Atlas carrying his pain, others expectations, his past, his deep desires, and the world on his shoulders. He deserves the best to stand beside him and remind him he doesn’t have to be alone. He deserves the best of women to hold him through his lows and soar with him on his highs. Be yourself, but be the best version you can be. Because he deserves only the best this world can give him.

i was told i could be anything,
so i chose to be a feminist
because
when i suggested my father help with the laundry,
my mother told me i was crazy.
because
meghan tranior's "all about that bass"
is telling bigger girls to be comfortable in their own skin
because skinny girls already do, right?
because
i'd like to make as much as my male coworkers.
because
i was laughed at for wanting to be a doctor instead of a housewife.
because
people look at me strange when i say i don't want kids.
because
when i gave a speech about feminism in my english class,
i was called a man-hater.
because
"my shoulders distract the boy's education".
because
my mom shouldn't have to worry
about what goes in my drink at concerts.

i will be a feminist until
i can tell my boyfriend
"no babe, i'd rather watch the movie"
and i am not told
"you're depriving him of his needs".
until
my body is my body.
until
i no longer have to carry pepper spray on a keychain.
until
women in foreign countries can vote and drive.
until
woman means human.
until
we understand **** culture
and feminism isn't just about women,
it's about humans.

I live on misery street
With misery homes
And misery rooms
And misery men
Making misery memories
With their misery mistresses
To forget their misery lives
And their misery jobs
With their misery bosses
And misery coworkers
Working to get their misery pay
So they can feed their misery kids
So they can focus at misery school
And get misery grades
So they can have misery lives of their own.
I live on misery street
Where misery isn't misery at all.
Misery is routine.

This PC is fixed.
I really wish I was too.
Dear God, let me die.

-Switz

We are on the outside
A collection of people
Friends, acquaintances, neighbors
Coworkers, family, strangers
  The more we have
    The more we are
  Wrong.
It is not what we do
Not who we are
   But who we will be
The void is the black hole
Of cyber space
The unimaginable pace
The place of no space
  In an ever ending race
The chase- friends, followers, views
  Likes, tweets- for what?

You tried to pull a gun on me.
I just pulled mine faster
But what you don't know is
Three days later
I put my gun to my head.
I couldn't live with the fact
That I almost pulled the trigger on you
That I was ready to stop your threat.
What you don't know is one month later
I still had nightmares
That I overdosed on pills
Hoping to never wake up.
Six months later
I still see your face
I still think of the what ifs
One year later
I still wake up screaming
Fighting your invisible threat.
One year and six months later
You voice still haunts me.
You were eager to **** be because I wore a badge and gun.

My coworkers ***** me.
Two against me.
What you two didnt see
The detectives interrogated me.
Told me I asked for it
I should have fought back
One day later the detective picks me up
I tried over dosing minutes before they came
They noticed the cuts but didn't notice
That I was falling fast
I couldn't keep my eyes open.
My speech was slurring
I walked like i was drunk
I made it through the **** kit
I got home and slept for three days straight
One month later i quit my job.
My body couldn't handle the stress
I kept dissociating.
Six months later
I still couldn't have ***.
I started learning jujitsu
I had bought a gun
One year later
I was more confident
But i still feared ***
I feared men
I still had nightmares
Two years later
I'm still managing to struggle
I still hear your voices
Still see your faces
Still feel you in my dreams
Two years and six months later
I'm more confident.
I still have difficulty with men.
But now I am well on my way to be a police officer
An EMT
I can't let you win!
Ever!

**** angles.
This house has got plenty of **** angles. Tom knows, I don't. Tom knows more about that kinda stuff because that's Tom's forte.
Old Cochrane.

I'm not sure what disabilities he suffers from, but to be honest it doesn't seem much like he suffers. He's just a dude with a loud set of brains fixated on a very Cochrane world, sort of like Plato I guess, beard and everything, looking at the angles and strange asymmetric dots with a feeling that there’s some preternatural 'other world' where all of Cochrane's expectations are met and this house as well as the world would do ******* well to abide by it if it knows what's good.

Old Cochrane loves Superman Returns. I once saw him watch Superman Returns 3 times in one sitting, to the point that it became Superman Returns Returns Returns and for Chrissake if Metropolis were real I doubt his ethics would be much appreciated anymore but hey, who am I to say? I'm no Clark Kent but I'm sure Cochrane thinks he is, and if he's damnwell Plato he can damnwell be Clark Kent just as well as the next Kryptonian sucker to crash-land on planet Earth, and it's damnwell possible Cochrane is from Krypton for all I know, he's got some miraculous will-power and push, that's for **** sure.

He's always yelling, 'ober-der! Ober-der!' like he's some sad German screaming at the **** Poles across the Oder-Neisse line as if it were there **** fault. It's either that or Krypton is ober-der and he just wants to go home, or maybe his face gets red because he knows damnwell where Lex Luthor is hiding and he just wants our ******* help finding him.

I think Old Cochrane has a crush on Kevin Spacey.

I wouldn't know, but I'm making that assumption *** Cochrane looks pretty spacey sometimes.
Okay, that was just a bad joke. I'm not too good at jokes.

I have two coworkers named Ryan. To avoid any confusion we all just call them by their last names, Soprovich and Danyluk, but most of the time we just call Soprovich Ryan Sop, and I'm not sure if he much appreciates the nickname. Our bosses name is Pam Wadden and in response to her calling him Ryan Sop he asked if he could call her Pam ***.
Pam didn't hear that of course, but I heard it. And it was at that moment I made the judgement that old Ryan Sop is good at jokes.

Anyways to slide back to my point, once I was working with both Danyluk and Soprovich and as I was leaving, to shave a few seconds before my bus, I said, 'Bye.. Ryan..s'
that made them both laugh a little so I quickly made the judgement that I'm sometimes good at jokes but I never mean to be which is kinda Zen I suppose. Buddhist effortless effort or whatever they damnwell call it.

I've always been somewhat of an intellect, but not usually of my own freewill. I read a lot, but I sort of read like a ****** addict shoots-up.. just one more line, just one more paragraph.. and before I know it I've finished a book that kinda scared me but good ******* the high was fine.

I guess it's not really like that at all, but I like to think of it like that sometimes, it kind of excites my stomach in the good way, makes me feel like some ******* rebel reading **** the government has probably already burned or recycled into the paper bags I shop with at Safeway..
shopping at Safeway.. livin' life the Safe Way.. gatherin all the grosh-rees, yeah, you ****** know me
I forgot to mention I'm somewhat of a part-time rapper and 40% of the time I have rap lyrics pulsing through my head as my own inner monologue. I dunno why but it's always kinda made me proud to think the way I do and ******* does life get high and low and if you understood you would know what I'm talking about, but I know you probably know what I know, I just like to be a little pretentious about that kinda stuff *** if I pretend I'm the only one it kinda manifests in my attitude and I get girls easier.

True story.

Maybe.

Probably not, but if ya see what I'm getting at that assertion is part of the pretention *** I'm a ******* hipster for Chrissake, writing like J.D. Salinger, reading like Kerouac without the squinty drunk eyes of infinite sadness.

Max didn't even want to be there.  His coworkers had invited him, and he hadn't had an excuse handy.  

In truth, Max's coworkers didn't want him to be there, either.  They had secretly hoped that he wouldn't come.  Everyone else was going, though, so they felt bad not asking.  Now they wished they hadn't

Here he was, though, sitting around a table in a seedy local pub, waiting for "The great Garbo: Magician and Hypnotist".  Probably just another hack who was filling time between kiddy birthday parties.  The show was supposed to have started ten minutes ago, but hadn't, and now Max was being forced to socialize with people who he spent a great deal of effort trying to avoid most of the time.  It was crap, and he wasn't happy about it.

In truth, Max was very unhappy in general, but in a way that his brain was unable to put into concrete words.  He'd been unhappy for so long, in fact, that he didn't even recognize that he was unhappy.  He had just long ago come to the conclusion that the world was unpleasant, and he was the only person who understood that.  Everyone else was a foolish prat who could barely keep from being distracted long enough by the next shiny toy to notice.

He regarded his mostly empty beer that he had been nursing.  He heard his co-workers talking about some new superhero movie when the lights finally dimmed and a man walked onto the beer-stained stage and threw his cape (the **** had a cape!) dramatically over his shoulder.  "Good evening, my fine ladies and gentlemen!  I, the Great Garbo, welcome you.  You may have seen so called 'magic' before, but I promise you that when you leave here tonight, you will be filled with awe and wonder!"

Max yawned, rather loudly, to glares from his co-workers, as Garbo continued his spiel.  He looked lazily around the room, hoping to catch the eye of the waiter for another drink.  If he was going to be forced to watch this swill, he was going to at least be liquored up.

By the time Max looked back towards the stage, Garbo had wrapped up, and was starting.  He began with a number of standard tricks with rings and never-ending handkerchiefs.  Each time, Max would mumble something under his breath.

"...Obviously had it up his sleeve"
"Trick ring, there's clearly some sort of mechanism there"
"...had that deck set up before"

Meanwhile, his co-workers shushed him as they attempted, in vain, to enjoy the show.

Soon, though, the magician got more creative, juggling a set of ***** that turned into doves, which then flew back into his hands as ***** again.  Then he turned his entire coat from dingy black to a brilliant  red with a wave of his hand.  Max remained steadfast in his desire to remain unimpressed.  Surely this was some sort of electronic trickery.  He stifled another yawn, then decided to go to the restroom.

He got up, and tapped one of his co-workers on the shoulder.  Was it Reed?  Or James.  His co-worker looked at him warily.  "Hey James, I need to take a ****.  Need to get through".  He looked annoyed.  Must've been Reed.  "Can't you wait until the act is over?".  Max rolled his eyes, and then mustered up as much sarcasm as he could (which was quite a lot). "I'm sure the 'Great Garbo' won't miss me.  I'll just be a minute".  Reed (yes, definitely Reed) sighed and got up to pull his chair back so Max could get out.  Max picked his way through the surprisingly large crowd towards the bathrooms, not apologizing on the way, when he heard a voice.  "You sir, you would like to volunteer, would you  not?"

Max turned, and Garbo was looking at him expectantly.  He hadn't heard what Garbo had been talking about. He recovered his wits and responded "Nah, I'm sure one of these simpletons would love to, though".  From the crowd where he had left he heard someone yell "Oh come on, Max, maybe he can hypnotize you into having a sense of ******* humor".  Max gave the finger in the general direction of the voice, earning him a few boos from the crowd.  Garbo put his hand up to calm the crowd.  "Come now...Max, is it?  Surely you've been impressed with some of the show tonight?".  Max scoffed.  "I'm impressed that you're able to make a living off of parlor tricks", he said, before turning back towards the bathroom.

"Max, I think you need to come up here"

Max suddenly stopped.  He felt like he had been going somewhere else...but that couldn't be the case, he was supposed to be going onto the stage.  He turned and amiably made his way up the few stairs

"Now Max seems to be unimpressed with the show.  Shall I show him some real magic?"

The crowd clapped

Max wondered how he'd gotten on stage.  He had been going towards the bathroom....he needed to...

"Max, you seem unhappy to be here.  I think I know what'll cheer you up, though."

Garbo reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small rubber ball.  

Max suddenly came back to himself.  "I don't know what drugs you gave me to convince me to get up here, but this show is over and I'm leaving.  I'll be sure to let the police know that your show relies on your audience being high"

Garbo grinned a toothy grin as Max walked away, and then spoke right before Max got down the first step, dragging each word out carefully.

"Who's...a...good....boy"

Max stopped and considered this.  I mean...he certainly wasn't bad.  There was certainly room for improvement, for sure, but he wasn't bad, so he must be good.  He slowly turned and stared at Garbo, and was surprised as his mouth started moving.

"I am."

Wait. What?  Max's mind reeled and his eyes widened in fear, but he did not run.  His legs didn't want to move.  His eyes seemed to be locked onto the ball.  That looked like a really nice ball.  He wanted it.

Garbo took a step forward.

"Who's a good boy"

This time Max answered more confidently.  "I am.  I'm a good boy"

The crowd clapped and whistled, though they weren't sure what they were seeing.

Garbo moved the ball back and forth, and Max watched it intently.  
He wished Garbo would throw the ball.

"Who's a good boy!"

"Me! I'm a good boy!"

"Whosagoodboy!"

"I am!  I am!  I'm a good boy!"

Max had fallen down on all fours at this point, though he barely noticed.  Everything seemed to be growing in size.

"Who's a good boy!"

I am!  

"Who's a good boy!"

(I am!)
Woof!

"Do you want the ball?!"

(Yes! Yes, throw the ball!)
(Oh god, what's happening?!)
Woof! Woof!

"Do you want it?!"

(Make it stop!)
(Yes! Throw it!)

Max could smell so many things, now.  He smelled the beer, he smelled Reed's aftershave.  He smelled the strangeness that Garbo reeked of.  Garbo scared him, but Garbo also had a ball.

Garbo finally relented and threw the ball, and a yellow streak flashed by him as an excitable Golden Retriever ran to intercept it.

Max picked up the ball in his mouth and stood proudly.  There was still something scratching at his brain, though, and he couldn't figure out what it w--what had happened?  Everything was wrong.  He couldn't stand up.  Max wanted to yell for help, but to do that he would need to drop the...

...ball!  He had the ball!  The man who threw it was calling for him.  He ran back towards the man, who pointed at the ball.  The man wanted the ball, but Max didn't want to give it back.  It was his ball.  Suddenly, the man had a treat.  Max dropped the ball and took the treat.  He heard a loud sound and he turned to see...

..the crowd.  The crowd was up on their feet cheering.  His mind filled with fear again as he realized that something was terribly wrong.  He felt wrong, everything looked and sounded and smelled wrong.  He was a....

"Good boy, Max.  Good boy!"

Max received a pat on the head, and the scratching at the back of his head faded a little.  "Crate, Max", said the man, pointing to a small crate at the edge of the stage that several people in the audience could have sworn wasn't there at the start of the show.  Max ran to the crate, where he found a bone and a squeak toy, which he bit into to hear the satisfying noise that it made.  Laughter echoed from the outside of the crate as the man closed the door.

"Everyone, a round of applause for my assistant Max!"

Suddenly Max resurfaced.  He was acutely aware now that he was in a cage.  Fear gripped him.  Surely his co-workers had noticed!  He strained to look through the bars of the crate.  He spotted them, and they were applauding excitedly.  He saw, with trepidation, that his coat was no longer on the chair where he'd left it.  He had been erased from their memories.  A guttural terror crept up through his stomach which became a frightened whimper as the sound was forced through his new snout.  No one seemed to hear him.

Max lost track of time, but eventually the show ended and everyone left.  They wouldn't remember what happened, only that they were left with a feeling of awe and wonder upon leaving.  They wouldn't remember Max.  At this point, Max was curled up in the back corner of the crate, unwilling to move even as Garbo opened it, reached in, and started scratching his head.  

Suddenly, as if the final structural support of a dam had been breached, the endorphins from the scratch overwhelmed what remained of Max.  He was filled with the warmth of something he had been unable to feel his whole life.  His tongue lolled out of his mouth and he started panting excitedly.

Max was happy.

My room’s a disaster, and I am positive it is a reflection of the current state of my life.
But, I mean, what do I know?
My life is nothing short of scawompus.
And by golly, let the wild rumpus begin, I shout- to the heavens- instead of taking the time to clean a few things up. Instead I linger, just oh, so fed up.
What do I know?
I know for certain I am not the only one who would rather relinquish their life story to a stranger at coffee house than to their best pal on occasion. Truthfully, that’s probably a factor in humanity’s perpetually loneliness, makes me question the reality of godliness,
But that’s another talk for another day.
I know, oh boy, I know we’re all just lonely ******,
and darlin’ ain’t nobody's life more glamorous than yours,
just step out of your head for a moment.
Because it truly is gorgeous out here, there is every reason to fear, but also every reason to simply say **** it, and lie back and enjoy the view.
But what do I know?
I know it seems askew, but the beauty lies in the few who learn to appreciate the new.
Oh, what do I know?
Oh yes, I know I am **** crazy, and **** weird. I know this because I am reminded daily by my family, friends, and coworkers, but I am also **** happy for how depressed I am.
But then again, what do I know?
Let’s be honest,
I wear my whole life on my sleeve and still, nobody ******* knows me.
And I think I’m badass. Skanking at ska shows, waking with "oh no"s, what am I doing here?
In a strangers house after a night of fun and honest to god I am still bummed.
For whatever reason, whatever I may conjure up, and I am left here feeling like i’m still floating up,
Up, up I am drifting
I am a drifter
And I still don’t know what it feels like to feel
I am a ****** to life in so many senses
My senses are unfulfilled,
But I am scared senseless of what my future holds.
And what THE HELL do I know?
I am undeniably bewildered,
Nevertheless, aren’t we all?
In that, who really KNOWS anything these days…

didn't shower
sitting in the cubicle
for long hours
didn't shower
and blood
is still on hands
and feet are still riddled
with dirt
staining cheap
carpet floorprint
afraid to touch
anything
coworkers peer
over
their fabric palisades
eyes burning holes
through ripped shirt
and crooked tie
head down
don't exist
no one has to
know a thing

didn't shower
hair is manged and
disoriented
I can feel blood
drip off fingertips
pat - pat - pat
on bland slate
carpet design
can't concentrate
didn't shower
everyone stares
black eye
swollen and scabbed
everyone knows
have to
it's all puddling at feet
washing with the dirt
look away

******* look away!

head is severed
on the mahogany finish desk
black eye bulged
black and purple tennis ball
everyone gathers
whispers whispers
jaw opens
teeth fall out
pat - pat - pat
no one says anything
look away look away
look away
get up to leave
the head stays there
dark souvenir

quick drive
home
shower
hours melt away
infirmities recede
sink back below skin
didn't shower
everyone knew
what happened
last night
but now
no evidence
no witnesses
no one knows
the perfect crime
a cruel smile
emerges on
bare white teeth
as night sets in once again

The current day is May 1st, 2024. I believe I might have found Brianna. And she’s gone. . .

About eight years ago from this date, I would have my first encounter with this mysterious girl. With all of this having taken course over such a long amount of time, a lot of the details are blurry compared to how solidified they used to be to me. But, back to the first encounter, although encounter sounds more like a passive aggressive frightening experience, I’m not sure what other word I might use to describe it. Maybe it was a chance meeting or divine intervention, but encounter gets the meaning across a bit more fluently, as every time I would find this girl I would be in total shock, utter disarray, and my heart would beat so fast I’d feel as though a heart attack was right around the corner.

The first time I ever met her was through a dream. . .

I can’t remember what this particular dream was. I’m not exactly sure what happened in it, why I found it so profound, or how it even got me to begin thinking about this girl. All I know was that it got my attention and I began to pay attention to this idea, this one night miracle where I first met this mysterious woman.

The night I had that dream, I’m pretty sure I thought nothing of it. Who doesn’t have a dream every so often where they’ve met their true love, their other half, their once in a lifetime love of their life? I’ve always been a bit of a hopeless romantic and I’ve always known that this was one of my deeply ingrained character traits. From my first ever year in school in first grade, I had a very large crush on this girl, Ashley Amaya, and I remember wanting so badly to be her crush as well. I even remember a moment from school when I saw a spider crawling towards her and me while walking across a paved walkway to get to our next class, and I leapt towards it and crushed it, despite having a massive fear of the little demons at the time. But, I did it to impress her!

All that to say, the first dream wasn’t extraordinary, and instead it was just another more than usual somber morning when I woke up only to realize the beautiful woman I had just met was probably a mixture of something I ate and some tv show I’d probably seen the afternoon before. Time would go by, the memory of that first dream fading to the farthest recess of my mind with only a hint of any remote recognition still reminiscing in the deepest abyss of my head.

But, this is when what started out as a dream began to become a bit more substantial. This is when Brianna began to plague my mind.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I began to have recurring dreams of being in love with this mysterious woman. She began to become more familiar in a very inconvenient and unreliable way which was of course through the remembering of my dreams. In the beginning stages, I’d only ever catch glimpses of her face and the reset was usually a silhouette or a very rushed moment. The rushed moments were hard to describe but they were full of light, always this wonderful warm yellow light and though they were rushed, time also slowed down significantly in a perplexing way that I still can’t really understand to this day.

I’d see her dark brown hair flowing and filtering the light into these tiny and magnificent rays making a twinkling in what was usually a dark atmosphere. I’d catch the corner of her mouth turning ever so slightly into a warm beautiful smile as she looked away, something else in the vicinity stealing her attention for the moment. There were intense feelings of joy and tranquility and there was a warmth about the situation I could only hope to ever feel in the true cold and lightless world we all collectively call home. Something about her was so intensely special, and the fact that I even got to share a dream with her was the highest privilege I could’ve ever received.

As time would go on, I’d continue to have these dreams. She always stayed the same, with her long dark brownish red hair flowing ever so gracefully. It got to the point that when I would have these dreams, I would’ve preferred to not wake up, just so I could spend more time with her.

Over a year would go by. At this point in life I was still just in high school and still brand new to learning life in the real world compared to the sheltered view I used to have. I had just gotten a job at the local Home Depot as a cashier, literally a few weeks after I got my license since my parents were unwilling to pay for gas for me (as good parents should do!) I was still figuring out life with my friend groups and trying to balance the reality of starting to become more mature and take on more responsibilities while still trying to cling to my childhood of digging holes and bashing legos against the wall with my brothers! It was an odd time, which I guess many can easily familiarize themselves with the timeframe as we’ve all at one point been teenagers.

One of the biggest things in my life I remember being a bit troublesome though, was all my friends I had made and my groups of people I had become so entangled with. With going through these changes, I had some friends that were still absolute children at heart and some friends who were practically ready for college! I had loads of moments through those years where these friends I had grown up with would start to feel like strangers and I’d begin to not really feel as though I had a social place to call my own.

Work was a new outlet, and I actually used to love talking to people as a cashier, ringing up their items, and learning the social norm of small talk that would amount to nothing less than an afterthought. I made a lot of friends with people who were retired and with college kids who seemed to be the coolest bunch around, who knew how to live life and have fun doing it. It was such a variety of friends where I’d talk to Tina about her granddaughter or Jim about his retirement and stock options and then I’d go up to Isaiah and he’d tell me about all the dates he’d been on or all the party stories of him and his friends living life to the fullest. It was a pretty great time in my life though, because one thing especially it taught me was how to be social, though this process would still take years and years to fully develop until I was in my early 20’s to be fully confident in my ability to put it on and be charismatic if need be. The reason I mention so much about this job though, was there was still a deep  and unrecognized subconsciously aware desire in me to meet the one.

Home Depot of all places was the first time I saw her. In person. . .

I remember it was a day much like the rest of them. After having struck up some conversation with our customers and being a little groggy from waking up at the crack of dawn for the early shift, it was time for me to finally get some lunch. While taking my usually route from the front of the hardware store I stopped at my usual coworkers stations to say hi or make a passive joke as I strolled happily on my way.

I can’t exactly remember why, but I had the need to talk to one of my managers, and it was something I needed a response for by the end of the day, so I figured before I clocked out for lunch, I’d get that little task out of the way. But, on the way back to my manager’s office, which was this little 10 foot hallway with doors on either side, one leading to a bank of sorts, and the other side hosting two doorways to offices, I was stopped in my tracks. Right next to the old clock-in machine were two seats where you’d usually sit and wait if the manager’s doors were closed so you could catch them as they walked out. They were also the seats I had sat in when waiting to get an interview for this first job of mine, where I nervously and anxiously awaited the outcome so many years ago.

In one of those broken down, flat cushioned little seats was a girl so beautiful, I literally lost my breath at the sight of her. I knew immediately who she was. She was the girl from my dreams I had been having over the course of that past year or so. Recently through my dreams, I had learned a very crucial detail about her and that was that her name was Brianna, and there sitting right before me within a few steps walk was the girl.

I froze. I made eye contact. And I immediately turned around and walked away. How I wish beyond wishing I would’ve said hi now. . .

Seeing that my manager was currently in the process of onboarding her as a new employee, I decided to take up my little question with my manager a bit later and I went to lunch. While walking into our break room, I ran into one of my new co-workers who I had become pretty good friends with. His name was Brad Brad.

At this point in time, I had more of an idea and more of a recognition of the fact that these recurring dreams of mine were something special, though I hardly let anyone know because of how embarrassing and odd it was. I mean, who would go around blindly telling people about some chick that they’d been dreaming of that they were totally in love with?? (Definitely not me eight years late. . . ) But with Brad Brad, I trusted him and had told him about the story a few days prior to running into her.

Not knowing her name and only having seen her face, I walked up to my friend and asked him about the new possible employee. He immediately knew who I was referring to her as he had seen her just a bit ago and apparently gotten to know her slightly! I asked him if her name was Brianna, being almost definitively sure that that was her name, and just wanting to check to see if I was either certifiably insane, or possibly blessed with this odder than life knowledge.

Brad immediately confirmed her name was Brianna and asked if I had spoken with her, and this immediately had me out of breath, terrified of how the girl from my dreams was truly true and realer than life. I don’t remember exactly how the rest of the conversation went down, though I can safely assume I was blabbering like a lunatic and telling him every single detail of every single dream I had had of her before. I walked out to get lunch knowing that I’d finally become acquainted with Brianna over time in the work atmosphere which was a relief to me, knowing how social I was at work while in comparison to how introverted and quiet I was at school. Life was looking to good to be true.

Brianna, didn’t get the job.

A few days would go by and my excitement to go to work was through the roof. Never before had I had so eagerly gotten in my car, driven to work, and immediately clocked in in hopes of seeing this new girl around the work place. A week would go by and my thoughts of her were still as excited as ever, but I began to realize that there was still training, a full on hiring process, and that it would most likely take time for things to get in motion. A few weeks would go by and then a month and an unsettling worry began to haunt me as I started to wonder if she didn’t actually get the job.

I started going around asking all of my fellow co-workers if they knew her or if they had any ideas of if we were hiring anyone new. I became obsessed with what we called the, “war board,” which was a schedule of all cashiers’ schedules for the day, what departments they would work in and so forth so on. But, I never saw Brianna’s name pop up, and I began to realize that I might have missed my one and only chance of getting to talk to Brianna.

As time progressed I finally decided it was time to talk to Brad about this new girl since he had been the only one I had talked to about her, and this is when the strangest thing ever happened. Brad had absolutely no idea who I was talking about. He could tell I was obsessed with the idea though and he saw how persistent I was that I had had the conversation with him before, and he even sympathetically lied to me about knowing her just to appease my insanity by saying,

“Ohhhh yeahhhhhhhhh! I remember who you’re talking about!”

I was crushed that the only person who knew her didn’t remember her and at the time I’m unsure of why I didn’t ask my manager to see if they knew who I was talking about. Maybe it was embarrassment or the thought of not being able to see other potential employee’s information that scared me. Either way, I wish I had asked more and been more determined in finding information on what had happened to Brianna.

Months and months on end would go by and the fascination with work would disappear as I got older. I’d check the war board on a pretty consistent basis always hoping that by some miracle, Brianna would show up to work for the day! And even though we eventually would go on to hire an incredible Brianna that I’d become such dear friends with, she wasn’t the same one.

I remember how I used to day dream about Brianna walking into the store and how I would recognize her and how we’d instantly fall in love. Especially on those hot hot Summer days when I was stuck in the garden department with nothing but my thoughts and a dream. As life began to progress though, I realized I didn’t want to only dream about Brianna. . . but I wanted to find her! What good was all my wallowing around if I didn’t make any active attempts to find her!

Thus began, the searching for Brianna. What might just be an everlasting one. . .

I began to take a reality check on this recurring girl who haunted my every thought and when wondering on how I would find a girl from my literal dreams, I thought maybe the first best place to look would be there! Literally in my dreams. I took on an idea I had borrowed from the movie Inception where first thing in the morning, if you try to remember your dreams you’d have a better chance of seeing more details.

Doing more research into this line of thought, I read about dream journals and how some people keep entries of their nightly subconscious activities in order to become better at what’s called lucid dreaming, where basically, you have full and utter control of the dream and realize that you’re in it while still sleeping. My dream journal over time would start to slowly fill and fill with some pretty crazy stories and hilarious dreams. Actually, I wonder if I still have it. If I can find it, I’ll drought down one of my entries here for you to read. . . whoever “you” might be.

I won’t lie when I say I found it in about one minute. It was sitting on my desk right next to me. Oddly enough, my first journal entry is far further in this story than I thought as it was written on October 9th, 2022 (thank God I wrote down dates!) Here goes my first entry.

10-09-22 (#1)

My first dream, I remember being at Home Depot, working while pushing carts. I was very sick and delusional and the atmosphere was rainy and dark. All I could feel was gloom and sadness. There was no one to help me which added to the exhaustion. A customer managed to break 3 carts in half and I had to try and fix them, but I couldn’t. The feeling of wanting to go home was very strong.

10-09-22 (#2)

This time I was in a small class with two other men. It was our first day and our professor was already making us write books worth of homework. But, she soon assigned us Minecraft assignments and the rest of the class was devoted to playing Minecraft. A mixture of falling while playing the game repeatedly occurred and was frightening, yet exhilarating and fun.

Though my timeline of the dream journal and me beginning to write it might be skewed in this story I’ve been telling, as you can see from October 9th’s dreams of the year 2022, it was in fact something I started to do. There were quite a few pages from this journal missing and I can’t recall if they were pages of old homework from school and the notebook was one I self-recycled or not. But, I thought I had started writing these way earlier in my life. Maybe one day, I’ll write up all of these dreams into some sort of official funny document, but as of right now, they’ll all stay in that book. It might honestly be for the better!

Either way, it’s obviously apparent that I became obsessed with this idea of Brianna and I began to play my life events in my head over and over again, and this might have been harmful to me later on, but at the early stages of these occurrences, I was very much into reading. Being the introvert that I was in school, and having no access to a smart device, I used to read so so so many books all the time! My best friend in high school wasn’t any other student really but the faculty and staff, specifically our school librarian Mrs. Hogue.

Every time I’d walk into that library which was probably like twice a week, she’d see me and know it was time for me to become obsessed with a new story or spend the next however many months of my life engrossed in a series. I absolutely loved Mrs. Hogue and while she was very strict with all the other obnoxious kids, she loved me too. We used to talk about life and such and the day I graduated, she was one of the people I made sure of to talk to her and wish her a goodbye to.

Anyways, this obsession with writing and reading of mine was one that really flourished during high school due to these circumstances. It feels rather odd writing now when I haven’t gone about it aside from formal essays and school work since specifically 2018.

2018 was the year that I decided to run with a lot of these creative concepts my mind had created over Brianna and turn them into an actual book with full on character development, a family for Brianna, a place to live and friendships and occupations of all sorts! This is why I mentioned just earlier that this might’ve been more harmful to me, because, sometimes I can’t remember with Brianna what’s memories and what’s a figment of my imagination developed by a creative and passionate former younger writer of myself.

Either way, at this point in my life you could tell I was so devoted to the idea of Brianna being a real person, and this one specific idea plagued me like no other.

The idea was that Brianna was also dreaming of me and that we could only communicate through our collective dreams.

This idea for a young hopeless romantic was intensely alluring and from this idea became the now published and only book of mine, “The Fracture of Reality.” In this book, there’s two main characters named Ian and Brianna. Ian oddly enough matches almost identically all my physical and intellectual traits, some of the only differences being him having a place of his own, a pretty successful job and a bit more muscle, almost as though he were a version of myself I hope to one day be.

Brianna, well, she was and is the Brianna that I know.

The premise of this book was, well how should I put it? Better yet, I’ll just plug in the summary from the back of the book I wrote many years ago!

“Dreams and reality are relatively similar terms. Dreams describe and amplify events that occur in reality whereas reality can capture what little glimpses of the dreams remain. But, it never occurred to me that the two could blur together. Only when it was too late did I start to realize that reality was fracturing…”

Although this summary doesn’t really expound on what the book was about, only now do I find it so profound that I established this saying, this line of thought while I was still younger. I’ll write to you now that the basic premise of the story was a bit of a thriller! Ian begins to have these dreams where he meets and speaks to this mysterious tranquil and beautiful girl. He starts to fall in love with her as he slowly begins to realize that she is in fact real and having dreams of him also. But, with his dreams comes the slow beginning of his down fall where his dreams start to predict horrific events that will occur relatively soon. Along with the dreams comes the mental breaking down of his sanity with a deadly progression exponentially on it’s way to happen far too soon. Through the connecting of his dreams, he needs to find Brianna who he hopes when finding her, will stop the terrifying decline of his conscious nature.

In the end, and [insert spoiler warning here hehe], Ian finally meets up with Brianna only to have one of his dreams predict a horrible event of him and her being hunted by some men that Brianna had gotten in bad with during her youthfully naïve years. The story ends with Brianna and Ian in a cottage after Ian in real life has been shot. The story ends with Ian being unsure as to whether or not his dream reality is real life, or if his reality with the pain of the bullet in him is the truth. Brianna tells him that it doesn’t matter, and tries to convince him that the current peaceful reality that they’re currently in? That that moment and that present feeling is real, and that’s what really truly matters.

Look at me, doing a synopsis of my own books six years later! Writing this book and creating my dream journal and doing research was really the first phase of my obsession with Brianna. The older I’d get though, the more it’d become real to me. I’m unsure as to whether the past eight years of my life has made this idea so authentically real to me, but now I see this all as fact rather than speculation and a possible decline in my sanity that I used to be subconsciously aware of.

More years would progress in my life and would lead to the graduation of my high school and the starting up of college at my community college. There, I’d me one of my best friends which will most likely be my best friend for life KJ, but it was also a time of maturing and shying away from the ideas of Brianna as much. Rather than focusing on the idea of her, instead I got so busy with work at Home Depot, balancing friendships at community college, and still trying to socialize with my family that I hardly thought of her.

But, circumstances would change and even though I went a while without thinking about her, she was always there. When I began my first semester at Columbia State and accidentally sat next to this absolutely beautiful girl named, you guessed it, “Brianna,” I thought that she was her! Only to find out like literally two days into the semesters that she was married, whoops! But I still became friends with her and weird stuff like that would occur every so often, but at this point in time, life was changing so rapidly and my mind was always so distracted that Brianna began to fade.

I’d still have my occasional dreams and when those hit, it’d be more difficult than it used to be. The feeling of wanting to stay in those dreams was so strong and so hard to swallow when I woke up and realized it’d only been in my head.

With school starting though, my priorities changed a lot in life! My job was the least of my concerns at Home Depot and I’d more often than not skip all of my shifts as it always drained me of all my energy having to socialize with a bunch of people I didn’t care for or care about. All the small talk became irritating and whenever I was there, I guess I had come to associate that little hardware store with the idea of loss and gloom. I mean, if my dream journal didn’t speak enough for itself, I think it’s because I missed out on my one and only chance to actually talk to Brianna.

My new priorities were to make as many friends as possible and to turn this new page in life and that’s exactly what I did! I was incredibly social and went out of my way to introduce myself to total strangers just to try and escape the old Mike and pursue a new version of him.

It wouldn’t take long for Brianna to come back to me though.

Nobody that tells you how quickly life goes by can truly explain the depths of what that means and you sort of need to experience it yourself, and with the pandemic of Covid-19 happening around 2020, those two years at community school and the two years at MTSU would go by like a wisp of air. Like a breath, **** the time went by. Sure there was quite a bit of stuff that happened throughout that time, like me beginning to fall in love with creating content through YouTube about Minecraft, getting internships and freelance work for my degree as a Graphic Designer where I won competitions and published my art in many places and had the opportunities to be in a crazy high end internship.

But the amount of time, was just literally gone. I was too busy. Brianna became an afterthought.

That is, until fairly recently. To drop some dates for you, I created my first official youtube channel on September 18th, 2019 and published my first video four years ago a day after I made the channel. At first, my channel of Minecraft specific content was created both to prove to my brothers that I could create content as incredible as the youtubers we watched, but it was also just in hopes of turning it into an actual career since it was something I genuinely was okay at. Having had architecture for for years in high school Minecraft felt like a more creative and liberating way to express those abilities and live them out in an actual environment I had created. But also, Minecraft was an excuse for me to turn off my mind.

Covid and the pandemic was sort of the greatest thing to ever happen to me, because it gave me so much time to think and play this wonderful game. I know I mentioned above how I didn’t think about Brianna that much, and that part is true, but when I had those dry moments of playing Minecraft and grinding out some simple tasks of literally just breaking and placing blocks, my mind would wander to her. I used to choose the most essentially mind numbing tasks of mining for hours upon hours which only consisted of holding down a button and occasionally moving your character around to mine some more. But though the task was completely and utterly boring, my mind was active as ever thinking and wondering about Brianna.

Finding these quiet moments in life were far and few between, but I began to cherish them. All the moments from day dreaming while mowing the lawn and sweating to death in the 100 degree sun, to sitting in my car after a long first four hours at Home Depot while staring at a semi-vacant parking lot, to even just the long walks across my enormous campus at MTSU or the long walk from parking spots I chose purposefully to be super far away from my campus at Columbia State. These moments while rare, gave me a chance to keep Brianna at least in the back light of all the real life moments I was constantly distracted and thrown around with.

But, going back to Minecraft when I got into youtube, this changed everything.

I went from having at least some spare moments to having literally no moments at all. The only time I would rest was when I had experienced such bad burn out from trying to do everything everywhere all at once, and between that and the occasional sleep I would get, my mind had no time to think. I still can easily get into that workaholic mind set sometimes and it’s a dangerous one to be in, but I’ve gotten better as I’ve figured out why I believe I fell into that mindset in the first place.

The reason was to escape Brianna’s grasp.

As I went through school hanging out with friends and making new one’s internationally through the development of an ever expanding youtube channel, I had just about no time for anything. The only time I had to stop and think was my 10 minute drive to get food and even in those moments, I had no time to think, because I was too busy driving trying not to get killed by crazy drivers.

Three years of school went by before I finally said that enough was enough. With school being as difficult as it was, I decided to “retire” from my newfound love of youtube because in all honesty, it was driving me mad. My retirement video from Minecraft came out on December 5th, 2022. I stepped away from the never ending grind and set out to enjoy life and the little moments that life offered.

The only problem with this was that my mind began to ponder Brianna once again.

At this time in my life, after retiring I was actually working for a famous youtuber named PrestonPlayz. It was a random freelance job and for the past year or so I had been jumping from freelance to freelance work with little regards to cost and payments real life had always waiting around the corner for me.

This would make me end up ultimately getting a job back at Home Depot for a few months to pay off debts I had incurred from being financially stupid and buying stuff I didn’t really need. But, between all the financial problems and weird life situations I had so much more time to think about Brianna. The dreams of her still occurred every so often but the frequency at which they had started to occur was less and less. Maybe this was all due to me reaching a new level of maturity, but I’m still not entirely sure what caused it. Maybe it was the distraction of a busy workaholic life or the hopes to find someone, really anyone that was a girl that would love me that I could love back.

But, like I said my mind began to think about her more and more. I began to see her in my thoughts like I had years ago previously and it almost felt like I was back sliding into some weird territory I had just grown oblivious to with the amount of time that had passed. Either way, that was my life. A jumbled mess of thoughts and ideas all scattered in a brain far too busy to stop and breathe coming to the new age of silence and habit.

With my mind able to breathe, I thought of her again. . . and then I saw her again. . .

I can’t remember the exact day or time of year, but on one of these days of my “retirement” I was driving home after having just gotten some taco bell. (I was obsessed with the place back then) Driving up my street, I saw a girl with long dark curly hair and bright pink clothes, what might have even been pajama pants on her, walking up my street! I didn’t think much of it until I looked into my sider mirror and saw her face and saw that it was the one and only, Brianna.

Brianna was walking up my street right next to my house. In person. Alive and breathing.

I panicked and jumped out of my car with my taco bell nearly crashing to the ground as I roared into park in my driveway with my car. With bare feet, since I used to drive with no shoes when I went to fast food place, I dove onto an aggregate driveway and started running down it, knowing that there was no way on earth I was missing my chance to finally talk to her. I had nothing but time that day, and I was overly excited to finally introduce myself in person

But when I turned around, Brianna was gone. She’d simply vanished into thin air? I still don’t know how or why, but she was gone. . . possibly gone forever. . .

This experience drove my efforts to find her to another level of passion as I began to research through many google forums and sites and social media platforms praying to God that I’d be able to find her. It didn’t matter if I had to cross the entire ocean to get to her, I was going to find Brianna, no matter what.

I started to revisit old ground and went to the Home Depot I had worked at, asking the new manager there if he could search records and being able to find her that way. I found old coworkers I used to work with and asked around trying to find any trail or any lead and couldn’t find a single thing. I even managed to find Brad Brad’s Instagram and messaged him only for him to have literally no idea what I was talking about, go figure.

With nothing working and having literally no idea on what else I could do, I began to passionately work on a project called, “The Bri of My Dreams.” What this basically was was an ARG or alternate reality game which was a puzzle game I setup for my prior youtube community to solve and have fun with. But, it was more than that. It was the telling of the story of Brianna in a way that I could hopefully publicize and gain some popularity on so that maybe instead of me finding Brianna, she’d be able to rather find me! So, I started working on it behind the scenes unbeknownst to anyone in my community that I was going to use this new found passion project to hopefully find her, but also to bring me back to youtube content creation.

To this day, I’m still not sure why I wanted to go back to youtube. Well I know some underlying reasons, that being tied loosely to Brianna, but now many months later still being at it, I’m unsure as to the real reason why I still create stuff on there.

Either way, after creating an entire animated short film with a script and what I consider to be one of my greatest projects of all time, “The Bri of My Dreams” project was finalized and ready to publish. I put it out there hoping that it was only a matter of time before I finally heard from her.

Hardly anyone noticed I’d returned to youtube, let alone my project failing horribly as only close friends I knew even attempted the puzzles.

My final efforts produced literally no results, and well, this brings me to about right now, this moment that I’m actually writing this all down on May 1st 2024 at 4:21 p.m CDT. For the past few hours I’ve written down all of this while listening to The Caretaker album on youtube, a depressing soundtrack meant to represent the stages of alzheimer's.

This morning while sitting around doing nothing really, I looked up Brianna one last time, despite me telling myself I would be done with her after my ARG project. I found a girl, about the same age as me that matched the name and the description. Her father’s name was funnily enough the same as my own, Michael.

What I found about her and her father were obituary statements.

I’m unsure if it’s okay or morally right to even think that might’ve been her, but something I noticed when doing research about Brianna in my earlier days. . . For some odd reason there’s a lot of young beautiful Briannas who unfortunately die in their early 20’s. It’s an odd and horrifying fact I’ve come to know over the past few years through my odder than odd research.

But, this case I found today? Well the exact date this Brianna died on correlated almost exactly when my dreams stopped of her.

I don’t dream of Brianna anymore. I haven’t for years. . .

I think the reason I’m writing this, is my own way of finally saying goodbye. Wherever she is, I hope she’s okay. I hope she’s well. But as for me, life continues to go on and it’s finally time after these past eight years to finally say. . .

Goodbye Brianna. I’ll miss you. . .

2 years ago I wrote a poem about Cat Woman
2 years from then it still hurts to think about.
You see,
2 seconds
turned to 2 minutes
turned to 2 hours
turned to 2 days
turned to 2 months
and now it’s turned to 2 years.
They say it gets better
when you lose a loved one.
They say you can get over it.
How is that true though,
when on her birthday I can’t help but cry?
When on the anniversary I work with tears in my eyes
avoiding looks from my coworkers
just to keep my pain hidden inside?
Even just days like my birthday I think of her.
2 years will turn into 4 years
to 6 to 8 to 10 years and things will never change.
I listened to my grandmothers breathing
Cat Woman playing on the tv in the background
her breathing slowing.
On days like today I think of her
and I sit here
and I write this poem with tears in my eyes.
and it hurts so much when she’s on my mind.
I miss her everyday
and while there are days it is easier
There are also days where it’s difficult just to get out of my bed
get up without crying and hold myself together.
It still hurts to think about
Cat Woman from 2 years ago.

There is an old story that my father
Told me and my brother when we were children.
It is of the windbag
Who now haunts the ancient diamond mines.
It goes like this:

"Boys, have I ever told you of the old windbag?
How about the diamond mines that poisoned it?
Well, this windbag was a miner
Who wore his diving suit and large pickaxe with pride.
Indeed his suit was pride,
But the golden diamond mines were lust
Lust that the old miner paid no mind.
For every strike with his large pickaxe
Was every moment his mind left sanity.
He wanted more wanted more wanted more
Always always always dreaming of glittering diamonds
That shrank his soul to stone.
He left this world no longer a miner
But a windbag lingering the mines possessed by diamonds
With its diving suit and large pickaxe.
One dark morning the windbag was mining,
It was mining mining mining,
Yet it could not hear the diamond mines shatter, crumble.
Its coworkers heard, but it only heard diamonds.
The windbag stayed in the old diamond mines,
Trapped in its diving suit
Trapped in its large pickaxe
Trapped in its diamond mines.
It continues to clink and clank
As it lurks amongst the silent diamonds,
Making only physical contact."

This story my father told me and my brother,
Haunts me more than the clink and clank
I hear while walking by
The ancient diamond mines
That swallowed the windbag.

She wore black except the white heels and pearl earrings. Coughing would show weakness. She swigs her water. The subway-car slows to a stop, “STATION A-4” and Blythe glides out into the underground bustle. It’s routine now to be ignored. A laughing blonde on her pink iPhone bumps Blythe and gives a startled yelp. Blythe pierces the Barbie with a glare and starts up the stairs to the office. A clock reads 7:57.

Late.

Again.

She rounds the corner and sees the sign, “Cound Industries- over 100 years of family service.” Pushing in the wooden door and ignoring security she marches to the IV floor. Marketing. No one says hello or acknowledges her presence. She is phantom. Everyone knows its terminal and that she’s the last of the Cound family line. “Three months, max. It’s a very aggressive cancer.” The doctor told her that at Christmas and it’s now Valentine’s Day. She shut herself in her office. Blythe sighs for the first time. She took out her kerchief and coughed. Blood spots. The red blood was not the only red she planned to see this Valentine’s Day. Today, Blythe Cound decided to take her life and make it immortal.

Steeling herself with a ***** shot she tucked the ****** rag back into her coat, which she then removed to reveal a flowing white dress. “Maybe it will be Owen, he has ideas on how to fix this place. No more charity to start with.” The whispers of her “friends and coworkers” filled her mind as she observed herself in the mirror. Ninety pounds, hollow cheeks, and the wedding dress of her grandma baggy and yellowed. She coughed up blood again, this time on her hand. The urgency hit her. Re-dressing in her long coat she left the office for the last time. Ever. Twenty minutes later she entered the soup kitchen. She sat in the back observing the scene. She chose the young boy, maybe in his thirties. She approached him and grabbed his hand. “Come with me son.” Her voice was harsh now. He obeyed. They went left three blocks to the Courthouse. They entered the probate judges office, signed the papers, and “Cound Inc” officially had a new successor. She died two weeks later.

The boy she married was named Cyril. He abused his newfound power and eventually was deemed by those in black ties to be, “mentally insufficient for such a stress-inducing position.” But, Blythe’s plan worked. The news stations ate the story up. You should’ve seen the headlines. They say “Cound Inc” lasted only two more years before declaring bankruptcy. Some blame Blythe. Some blame Cyril. None blame the whispers.

Coworkers seeking chit chat
I've a long night at that
Smiling and nodding robotically
If I leave they will hate me

The office party is on
They usually drag on till dawn
I look around for a spot
Just to hide out from the lot

Raising my head I see you
Eyes bright and blue
You look in my direction
I smile to show affection

As you move near me
My heart begins it's plea
Your fragrance precedes
A temptation indeed

Inches from me you stand
I reach out my hand
You slip your fingers in mine
Pulling me close its divine

You whisper in my ear
Why are you trembling dear?
I answer with a gentle kiss
Your smile tells me you like this

My intention is to hold you close
And dance until we overdose
My hands enjoy your curves
Another kiss to calm your nerves

Our bodies move in unison
This night has just begun
Dance with me till daybreak
These feelings I can't fake